“Don’t do it” I remind myself as I hug her goodbye.

“Don’t do it” I assert as I catch up on Margot’s Got Money Troubles.

“Don’t do it” I nod as I take an everything shower, layer serums and SPF and squeeze on some activewear.

“Don’t do it” I repeat as I grab my phone, air pods and head out for a walk in the sunshine.

“Don’t do it” I utter under my breath as I throw together a garlicky broccoli pasta.

“Don’t do it” I urge as I add a pregnancy text to my online food shop.

“Don’t do it” I demand as I pull it out of the paper bag.

“Don’t do it” I whisper as I pull the test from the wrapper after three long minutes.

I did it. And on Mother’s Day of all days.

Despite only having a sand-sized speck of hope of seeing two lines for the first time, I thought there might be some kind of poetic justice in discovering I would enter my next chapter on this day. Some overdue deserved karma. An excellent Instagram caption for my announcement post.

My period — routinely 28 days, but IVF is a master saboteur — had entered day 37, without a symptom in sight. Where once upon a more innocent time a late period equalled pregnancy, now, it opens up a new wave of fears, including the dread that it might go MIA for the foreseeable future.

And a minute in pregnancy test waiting time is twice as slow as screening a call when you’re scrolling TikTok. Two minutes feels like an hour in the planking position. Three is a long-haul flight with dead headphones and nothing to read except the in-flight menu and safety instructions.

For all of the pricking, prodding, bloating and big emotions of IVF, the seemingly simple act of waiting is one of the hardest parts — because you don’t know whether it will be three minutes, three weeks, three years or never before you see your two lines.

The process feels like a race against time as you’re up against your biological clock, and yet time is something you have too much of. Too many months spent waiting on appointments which are then delayed as you wait nervously for them in fluorescently lit reception areas. Waiting for blood tests, scans, results. The excruciating two week wait before a BETA test. Waiting for your period to arrive.

But for me it gets easier. Not easy, never easy. Just less all-consuming.

As my three minute countdown on May 10 begins, my heart doesn’t race as it once did. My hands don’t shake, my breathing doesn’t quicken or stall.

If this had been a few years prior, I’d have struggled to scan the test through the self-checkout as it slipped from my sweaty hands on day 30, then pulled it out in the public toilet, too eager to make it home.

Perhaps I’m better at guarding my heart or I’ve learnt from past disappointments. Maybe, a silver lining of the whole sorry experience is that I’m a smidge more patient.

There is only one line on the test. I stare at it for only a few seconds, then a few against the window, and I only pull it from the bin once rather than the 10 times I would have in the past.

I waited for the tears to come, my stomach to flip flop. It had already been an emotional week — hormones at war while my mind reckoned with years spent on hold.

Neither came. It landed as a sigh, rather than a blow.

Instead I went back to putting my washing away, continued to avoid mother-and-children shrines on social media, and told my partner a few hours later as we made dinner that I’d done it — his reaction reflecting my own. Oh well, not our time — can you pass me that bowl?

I did it. And for the first time three minutes felt like three minutes.

Take this tablet. Stop eating this. Monitor this monthly. Have this removed. See this specialist, and this one too. Here’s your sick note.

Others tell you absolutely nothing, and unexplained infertility belongs firmly in this category.

When I first heard it in combination with my body, my hand clutching my partner’s under the desk, it felt like the kind of conclusive and clinical answer we’d been waiting for. In that moment I felt like I could breathe, the kind of glorious release that loosens the nerves that have gripped your chest for months.

Finally, a diagnosis.

But as time went on, and I waited for instructions and definitive answers, it has come to feel more like a shrug.

Our worlds are full of labels that we either accept, ignore or learn to live alongside.

I can now exist with being anxious, introverted, and an over-thinker after years of trying to mend them as I would my car or our leaky laundry tap. Yet similar to my old VW Golf, I’ve come to learn that they’re not fixable.

Then there are ones that demand immediate attention. For example, diabetes: you monitor, medicate, change your diet and manage. Or cancer: there is surgery, chemo, more monitoring.

Even when the path ahead is dark and difficult, it still exists — you’re told by experts what comes next.

Unexplained infertility — described as a diagnosis given when standard tests cannot identify a clear reason for a couple’s inability to conceive after 12 months or more of unprotected intercourse — is neither.

There is no clear course of action to follow across the board, or definitive label to accept or reject, rather just the knowledge that something obviously isn’t working — oh, but no one can tell you exactly why.

At first, it drove me mad.

The word infertile had always scared me because it felt so final.

Growing up I’d always thought once a doctor declared you infertile then your journey towards biological children would immediately change course towards an existence without them.

But now that I’m immersed in the supportive community of fellow IVF warriors (and worriers) I’ve come to realise it’s a stopgap label, because there are so many shared experiences of “infertile” women having babies.

Unexplained on the other hand felt wishy-washy, a bit lazy.

As if, with all the advances in medicine (and sending people to the moon?!) the official position on my body was: we dunno, soz.

That’s not a slight on all of the specialists I’ve sat across from (my current one least of all, I trust her completely), rather it’s frustration at the hazy wording of the diagnosis itself and that the woeful underfunding of women’s health research that means it can still, in 2026, be considered a complete answer.

Ahead of that first appointment with a sought-out specialist I assumed we’d stroll out — Nicole Kidman-esque post Tom Cruise divorce, dancing into the sunshine — lighter, and with answers. Perhaps with a prescription for some daily medication, or a request for more blood tests — that was, if there was any blood left after all the times I’d sat in the chair (sweetie knew nothing then of how much blood the human body contains). Surely something solvable that would get us on the right track.

Instead the pathway initially narrowed — IUI was ruled out and ICSI was presented as the only real option. No tablet, no extra testing, just the one big scary procedure I was positive I wouldn’t be able to endure. Then it expanded until I couldn’t see the boundaries anymore.

Along the way — four egg retrievals, a laparoscopy, 105 injections, over 27 blood tests, 18 internal scans and a hysterosalpingogram later — I’ve come to learn that some people view unexplained as a space that needs to be filled with opinions, theories and possibilities. And at first I welcomed it.

Well-meaning practitioners over the years have told me I could get pregnant naturally and I’d lap their promises up with renewed optimism. Now, I mostly ignore it. Not because it isn’t possible — my dwindling flicker of hope thinks maybe, perhaps, please — but it doesn’t actually mean anything because there is no structure around it, no evident plan.

And that’s the most annoying and disorientating part of it all.

In a court, having “unexplained” as part of your defence simply wouldn’t fly. If my boss asked me why I decided not to rock up to work one day, I can hardly use it as my reasoning.

In the medical world, though, it’s a common diagnosis.

One of my most frustrating conversations was with my private health fund who wouldn’t cover a procedure in the 12-month wait window because of, you guessed it, unexplained infertility. But how could they prove that I was infertile, and if they could, could they please share that information with me?!

I was reading this week about liminal spaces, in Greek liminality translates to threshold, reflecting a state of being on boundaries, or between rooms.

For quite a lovely word, it can be a shitty place to be.

It’s the awkward time before breaking up with someone, but knowing you have to. Grieving the life you had with a loved one before they’ve passed. Getting a diagnosis of unexplained fertility with a wobbly next step at best.

You exist in this liminal state because you’re not fully reassured, but you’re no longer completely guessing or procrastinating getting a diagnosis. You’re just waiting for answers that may or may not exist while going through a hugely invasive process as if they do.

Because riddle me this, if my problem is unexplained, then what exactly am I trying to fix???

Please feel free to share your own frustrations, liminal experience or vents with me anytime!

It’s one I’m struck by often.

“They” might be a Hollywood A-lister with a new smoother, tighter, hollower face on a red carpet. Or a friend of a friend, the kind of loose connection you made tipsily one night in 2020, yet still know what they had for dinner, that they’ve likely split with their partner and have lost a drastic amount of weight in a short amount of time. “They” might be a content creator whose get ready with me videos soothe you, or someone you pass in the hallway at work with a nod and smile.

Do I brain dump this into my group chat? Save it to spill to my partner on the couch after work? Keep it to myself and scroll on? Because why do I even feel the need to comment on a woman’s looks? Is it jealousy, curiosity, concern, the element of gossip, or all of the above?

While my little thought is lost in the volcano of ever-erupting hot takes heating up news articles, forums, Substacks or social media posts that dissect women’s faces and bodies — or talk about the importance of not talking about changing faces and bodies — it is quickly becoming a headline in my own life.

And it’s come at a time when my own face and body have never been more front of mind.

There is a sense of deja vu to current body and beauty ideals. The slight, hollow, smooth and fragile figures of the past have crept back in, stealing the spotlight from the strong and curvy bodies that had been taking centre stage.

GLP-1s and unregulated peptides are being discussed in comment sections with the casualness of a good retinol recommendation. Facelifts at 40 are no longer garnering raised eyebrows, but praise. Features that once looked like the generations that produced them are smoothed and plumped to reflect the filters available on TikTok.

I know the pressures of this world well. I paid the high price of renting there for too long (I wrote about it here). And if it weren’t for IVF, and treating my body like a temple for the first time in my life, I’m scared to think what I would partake in to similarly morph into the current ideal.

So you’d think with my new mindset the two would have nothing to do with each other?. LOL, no.

While one is about how you look, and the other is about whether your body will do the thing you’re (desperately, expensively) begging it to do, they’re constantly colliding.

IVF makes you conscious of your body in a way that can be difficult to explain unless you’ve gone through it.

I’m grabbing mounds of my stomach to inject, checking for bruises throughout the day. Stripping off from the waist down ahead of scans. Every time I go to the bathroom, there are my fading but not yet faded laparoscopy scars. I’m cruelly bloated to the size of a 12-week pregnancy following an egg collection. And throughout it all I’m advised not to do any high impact exercise at the risk of ovarian torsion — not that I feel like it anyway, the fatigue and nausea make sure of that. There is simply no escaping my physical body and its changing terrain.

And then there is my skin, which took my new medication as an invitation to regress and welcome back my adult acne. And with the sore and red guests and new scars came the self-consciousness I thought I’d conquered. The wanting to go out, feeling less professional at work, letting the clusters on my skin steal my hard-earned confidence once again.

For many, IVF begins in your thirties, during a time when ageing stops being something observed through your parents reading glasses but through your own eyes. The grey hairs, the superannuation reminders, the wrinkles on your forehead, mouth and chest, pillow indentations that take hours to disappear, three day hangovers. Your face and body begin to demand more attention, then IVF dials it up to full volume.

And the more I read from women who have shared the experience, the more I realise that I’m not the only one experiencing the little known side effect of IVF — vanity.

Shameless Media co-founder Michelle Andrews, who documented her own IVF journey in her podcast series Glass (which if you haven’t listened to, please do immediately) spoke about the self-scrutiny that snuck back in during her own treatment.

She shares that she would select tables based on people seeing her best angle, of crying to her husband that worrying, mid-cry, that he’d find her ugly for it. The sudden desire to get lip filler, to change her hair and judge each element of her face and body.

Andrews so vividly paints the picture of what happens when something destabilises your sense of self so drastically that your appearance becomes the thing you reach for because it’s the thing that feels like it could be fixed.

That same picture is sketched across my reality. So much of IVF is a practice in surrendering control, from outcomes to timelines and basically your whole body. So we reach for it in places that we still can: what we eat, our crows feet, jiggly arms, lumpy skin.

There was a moment, listening to another woman-led podcast, where the conversation turned to the idea that youth is culturally aligned with fertility. That as women age they are judged, consciously or not, as less capable of doing the thing their bodies are “designed” to do. And this is why more women are trying to look younger, to appear more fertile.

Their words were clunky — is this Gilead? In what world should a woman’s worth be associated with her fertility?! — I rage texted my friend about it. I could probably still bash out a whole Substack on it. I’m sure nobody meant harm, but it gutted me at the time. I suppose in the way that things gut you when they confirm a fear you’re harbouring about what society really thinks.

Because as we age we can only fix so much; the bits that sag or crease or the weight that sneaks in. There is a clinic, an injection, a medication for almost all of it and increasingly it feels like these things are no longer a last resort after you improve your diet, exercise, hydrate or purchase some new serums, but routine maintenance.

Yet none of it touches what is happening on the inside, the thing you actually want to change. The gap between what is fixable and what isn’t is where grief festers, and IVF forces you to sit uncomfortably with it.

And grief gets quite lonely there all by itself so it often brings in its close friend — guilt. Because if the end goal is a baby, shouldn’t that moral and wonderful outcome crowd out all of these vain concerns, and be the only thing that matters?

Maybe, but for me, it doesn’t.

And so there I am, in my fertility clinic, having a good ol’ sob about it.

I’m handed a tissue while I messily relay these thoughts to a fertility psychologist recently.

It feels so silly not to be crying about follicles, or the nausea that had underlined the last few weeks, or the day five call that will come later that afternoon.

But there’s kindness in her blue eyes, she’s seen and heard it all. And to my surprise doesn’t say it’s vain, or redirect me to the bigger picture.

Rather we talk about my worth, and whether it’s in my cystic acne or my actions, my words and the way I show up in the world. I know the answer.

Out loud I’m able to say that my worth isn’t in my swollen stomach or the dark scars on my cheeks, or whether my journey finishes with a baby or what could be an equally wonderful life of laughter and adventure with my partner, and my nieces and nephews who I sometimes wonder — when they rest a sticky hand in mine, or tell me they love me more — how I could possibly love a child more than I love them. And that the people who measure it that way aren’t worth my time.

Obviously I’m not fixed in this moment, in the couch in this small room. Vanity can sneak up on all of us at any time of our lives.

I’m just relearning that there’s more to me than what’s on the surface — even if I’m still checking it in the rear view mirror on my drive home.

It’s a trill that reverberates in my mind rent-free a decade on.

The first time I lived alone was in a one-bedroom apartment with a family of pigeons nesting on my tiny balcony. Without fail, they woke me at 5am every morning.

Coooo, cooooo, cooooo.

I was newly single after a 10-year relationship, and while small and dated, this apartment — with its itchy brown sofa, baby-blue tiled bathroom-slash-laundry-slash-toilet-slash-storage space, and a plain bedroom with an ominous stain on the ceiling — helped bring me back to life.

Within these four walls, I found comfort in watching The Office until the early hours of the morning, often opting for the sofa bed — turns out there are no rules when you live alone. I sipped natural wine with people who I thought were my soulmates (no sweetie, you were just day drunk), and attempted to fall back in love with myself after becoming someone I didn’t like very much.

Eventually, I called the landlord about my noisy roommates. The early coos and poos on every external surface got too much.

I thought about it recently when I read that vinyl and synthetic flooring could interfere with my fertility.

I didn’t immediately fact-check it, nor did I go down a Reddit rabbit hole to hop across passionate comments from passionate strangers.

Instead, I stared into space, wondering if the faux vinyl floorboards beneath my feet in that tiny apartment of my twenties was the reason I’m not pregnant.

In my career as a journalist I’m trained to be sceptical — to question sources, interrogate claims and separate evidence from opinion. And for the most part I do this with the weariness of a former cop turned private detective after one too many corrupt cases. Nothing gets past this ol’ girl.

Only instead of investigating murder I’m sifting through confident claims that this new skincare brand will not only make you glow, but it will boost your mood. Or discovering that a motivational speaker claims non-filtered water was the reason for their previous fertility issues.

And yet, when it comes to my own fertility, I find myself giving weight to things I would never allow more than a second thought at work. Claims I would quickly debunk, or at least contextualise, start to linger for longer than they should.

Flooring becomes my enemy.

Because despite being trained to decipher claims, the vulnerability that threatens to drown you in the depths of infertility means that you can still be pulled under by hope. Hope that comes in the form of new flooring, a $3000 IV treatment, a miracle supplement spruiked in Facebook ads, a diet overhaul.

The search for control

I’m not an expert, so I’m not saying the flooring stuff is nonsense. A surface-level dive suggests certain chemicals have been studied for possible endocrine-disrupting effects, but translating them into individual fertility outcomes is still murky at best.

With all the things in the ever-growing “nasty” list that anyone going through IVF has read, it doesn’t exist in isolation.

Risk doesn’t appear suddenly like a stranger with a knife down a dark alleyway, it’s your teenage years spent baking at the beach, slippery in coconut oil. It’s putting another Euro holiday on a credit card with repayments you already can’t cover.

It’s filling every free moment with TikTok, and wondering why it’s difficult to concentrate at work or sit through a film. It’s waking up to pigeons every morning in your twenties and wondering why you still feel annoyed every time you hear their call.

There is no changing our past behaviours — otherwise I would be slathering 16-year-old me in her fluro pink Roxy bikini she could barely fill out in SPF 50.

So instead, we try to control the now, which sees the mays and mights of our past begin to mutate into definitive yeses of our present.

To find answers to the unknowns — why didn’t this cycle work? Do I have endometriosis? Why aren’t I making embryos — many of us first expand our care team: acupuncturists, naturopaths, kinesiologists, dietitians, coaches, healers and counsellors.

I thought I’d finally found my silver bullet in the calm, rosé-toned office of a fertility naturopath who told me if I took these eight supplements twice a day, sipped this herbal drink, purchased this program (oh, and this extra one too) and made monthly appointments that I could become pregnant naturally.

This was well over 14 painful periods — and thousands of dollars — ago.

When I came up short there, I began asking and reading questions in forums, following people who have had success through IVF, ingesting their advice like gospel.

Soon alcohol and coffee were cut out. Chinese herbs were subbed in. Gluten, sugar and dairy were mostly banished. I dabble in acupuncture.

All because strangers told me it might help.

The increasingly grumpy and rational part of my brain questions all of the advice, but the stubborn little sliver of hope in the corner welcomes it.

But what the internet, social media — and sometimes alternative practitioners — don’t do is pause to explain the nuance that could give our whirring brains a moment of peace, clarity and most importantly: context. Something increasingly stripped away thanks to AI, algorithms, and wellness and optimisation culture.

The internet doesn’t do nuance

During IVF and infertility, the randomness of the final outcome — follicles, eggs, embryos, miscarriage and if you’re lucky, pregnancy and babies — means our uncertainty goes grasping for something to control. The quickest answers are found via good-old Google.

And it’s very happy, particularly the recently introduced AI summaries, to detonate anxiety, pushing information from dubious sources without providing any context or opposing views.

Recently, someone in my book club shared a movie poster that showcased an A-list cast for a novel we’d all read. Google’s AI summary confirmed its existence, and yet there was no studio announcement or reputable publications reporting on it. A quick dig later: the poster, and terrible AI trailer, was fake and Google was essentially agreeing with its own lies.

This is how fertility misinformation can circulate online: searching a symptom or someone’s advice in a moment of panic, reading the summary or top result, and stopping there — rather than digging into studies or evidence from experts.

But the real brain gymnastics of it all? What we find isn’t always misinformation, rather a single puzzle piece of the 1000-piece picture like the one my mum bought me for my birthday last year.

Did I finish it? No, half of it was blue sky.

Will most of us read the fine print? Also likely not.

The business of hope

During my two years in the fertility trenches, I’ve noticed a few things. The first: the loudest are often the luckiest. The second: your journey — no matter how heartbreakingly long it is — doesn’t make you an expert. But it does make you damn helpful.

I once swore I’d steer clear of Facebook groups and fertility Substacks, not wanting my IVF journey to steal more of my time or my identity than it already had. That resolve didn’t last long.

I’m now deeply embedded, and for the most part, grateful for that. There is so much power in hearing women’s stories — it’s the reason that I yap on here, treating this Substack as part therapy session, part distraction for others going through the same thing. I’m in awe of the vulnerability and perspective Katie Dunn shares in After Glow, and Cassie Silver’s Fiercely Infertile is an incredible resource for people navigating IVF.

Where I start to struggle is when personal experience morphs into direct and actionable advice, or worse, positions itself as an alternative to medical care.

Increasingly, I see complex medical questions posed to Facebook groups before nurses or specialists. I come across blogs and social accounts making bold fertility claims based on a single pregnancy, a practitioner anecdote, or a protocol that “worked for me”.

I’m bombarded with social media ads for miracle fertility supplements, promising no more wasted time and guaranteed results if I take it for just 90 days.

Peppered through much of the advice or copy is a familiar wellness and optimisation vocabulary: empowered, grounded, aligned, conscious, intentional, manifesting, restorative.

The language thrives in transitional spaces of girlhood and womanhood — puberty, pregnancy, infertility, perimenopause and menopause — moments when our bodies change and medicine doesn’t always offer the help we crave.

So wellness glides as something to believe in, a place to put our dwindling faith into new routines, supplements, products, rituals, programs. It’s a booming industry, and it isn’t inherently bad — a holistic approach can absolutely be supportive.

After having a GP deny further testing, then seeing a specialist who refused to change the protocol and told us the most we could hope for is that we’d be “luckier” next time (plot twist: turns out I had endometriosis and a new protocol with a new specialist produced far better results), I understand why wellness cosplaying as hope is so appealing.

But when lists of “things to avoid” start to include clothing, underwear, cookware, skincare, body care, shampoo and conditioner, mattresses, books, airport security scanners and planes themselves, product packaging, perfume, candles, microwaves, laptops. . . it begins to feel like the safest option is never leaving the house — and that’s only if you have floorboards.

I’ve often wondered if the stress of feeling like everything is out to get you — from the receipt handed to you at the checkout to the container you pack your leftovers in — outweighs whatever good you’re achieving by replacing your skincare or asking a loved one not to wear perfume around you.

And yet the more I read makes me feel like if I don’t try to rid myself of the toxicity around me, I’m irresponsible.

I’ve interviewed founders of a specialised women’s health clinic who say patients regularly arrive with tote bags of supplements sourced from Instagram ads or well-meaning recommendations. Many are under-dosed making them redundant, or are completely unsupported by evidence. They don’t do what the label promises — but they do drain wallets.

I don’t think most people in the fertility wellness space are trying to shame anyone. Still, intention doesn’t negate impact — platforming dubious information or people can speak louder than intent, just look at the recent Sydney Sweeney or Steven Bartlett headlines.

Language can imply that if you’re not doing more — eliminating this, buying that, becoming more mindful and less stressed, seeing another practitioner — then you’re not trying hard enough. And infertility already comes pre-loaded with the feeling that you’re failing, we certainly don’t need help reinforcing it.

There is a crucial difference between saying “this helped me” and implying “this will help you”. Sometimes falling pregnant is about timing, a protocol change, or additional support. And sometimes — uncomfortably, unfairly — it’s just luck. Or a miracle.

As someone who works in the media, I was always going to be sensitive to where personal storytelling slips into misinformation. As a woman labelled infertile, I was always going to search for answers wherever I could. And as a writer, perhaps I was always going to share my own experience.

Because experience is powerful, but it isn’t qualitative research or evidence. And when language becomes moralised — more effort, more intention, more optimisation — it sometimes stops being supportive, and begins to feel like judgement.

In a way, these lists and optimisation culture have become the pigeons of my past, waking me up in the early hours and shitting on whatever peace I had left. I’m not quite sure yet how to silence them, but I’m beginning to understand that not every noise requires a response.

My best friend watched on in disbelief as I masterfully mangled her colourfully illustrated rectangles, shuffling cards has never been my forte.

Picking three that resonated felt less like fate and more like a card trick performed by a cousin in their magician phase at Christmas — more sleight of hand rather than the universe powering my fingertips.

Because, I’ve never been a spiritual person. I don’t really manifest, and I don’t own any crystals.

Throughout my childhood and youth I went to church, spending the long hour every Sunday wishing I could feel something while also wanting to be anywhere else (namely, back in bed).

I’ve envied people who believed in a higher being, whatever their religion or spiritual inclinations, as the comfort of sharing the load — and not having your whole world weighing down your wobbly shoulders — appears quite appealing.

Not that I haven’t tried. I’ve been to a dozen massive Christian conferences — ones that feel more like a stadium pop concert than a religious event — and had leaders lay their hands on my shoulders as they prayed. I’ve read The Secret front to back, had amethyst and rose quartz clunking around my handbag, sometimes I listen to Jay Shetty, and I’ve given manifesting a red hot go in dire times.

But there is something about IVF that makes us superstitious. Even the most pragmatic women find themselves looking for signs: a particular time on the clock, the same shape that begins popping up everywhere, a recurring dream. Some seek out the signs more blatantly — in fertility groups psychic recommendation requests are common as women search for answers as they stumble through limbo without a map. For many, superstitions become necessary for survival.

My first tarot card was lovely, I went through hardship and became the person I was meant to be. Second card, also very nice. Third card, ominous. I was emotional and needed time to heal. We laughed, and I tried again. One, nice, two, fabulous, third, yuck. Okay okay, one third time lucky. No, third time unlucky.

We moved on with our sunny afternoon, taking our platter of cheese and crackers to the balcony where stern magpies perched on the railing to eye off the cheddar. But my mind was still on the third cards. Was the universe trying to tell me something? None of the cards really even spoke to me, I picked them willy nilly, was I not choosing them right? Should I sneak back inside for round four?

The next day — after an evening of delving into the deep, the frivolous and Kris Jenner’s impressive face lift — the same friend (who has been through the process herself) presented me with a fertility bracelet she wore during her own experience, one that resulted in the most gorgeous blue-eyed boy. I was touched by the gift, and it perfectly matched the new pale blue top I was wearing to lunch — a sign?!?! Wearing it gave me a sense of comfort, that was, until it caught on my bag the next day, the heavy crystal beads scattering audibly like marbles across the floor.

Despite having no real faith in the accuracy of tarot readings, or gems or crystals for that matter, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t leave me a little shaken, even now, a week later.

In an attempt to ease my mind I’ve sought out opinions from anyone who will listen — my partner, a psychologist friend, a gen z, a spiritually disposed friend — “you don’t really think it means anything, do you?!?!”. They have all kindly appeased my anxieties: “of course not”, before moving the conversation on, not knowing the unease still bubbles away in the pit of my stomach.

My logical brain knows I should be putting my trust in science and specialists. It reminds me that I’m in good hands, have made massive lifestyle changes, religiously taken all of my supplements and icky Chinese tea and recovered from a laparoscopy where they found endometriosis. And yet… the CARDS. The BRACELET.

The thing about IVF is that hope and anxiety, despite being two very different feelings, can begin to smear together until they’re indistinguishable from one another.

They’re both acts of our imagination, a place where our minds rehearse our future. It’s where we float when wincing during a needle or when staring at the ceiling at 3am because the medication hates sleep. Yet one pictures everything going right, the other completely wrong. The moment you dare to feel too hopeful, anxiety floods in to remind you not to get too comfy. Then when anxiety becomes overwhelming, you go searching for more hope.

The crossover continues as they constantly battle it out for control — hope, the fantasy of it, and anxiety, the illusion of it. IVF makes you crave control over something that refuses to be controlled, so you start grasping for meaning anywhere you can find it. But at the end of the day, no amount of either will change how much the needles hurt, how many follicles are collected, or whether an embryo will stick.

Just like no amount of tarot readings or beads will impact on whether my next round is successful or if a new specialist, protocol or giving up coffee (welp) won’t make a difference.

But, will I keep taking my supplements, my icky tea, buy new (heavy duty) elastic for the bracelet and maybe give the tarot deck one more spin? Yes. You know, just in case.

Despite the furrowed brow and downturned mouth, there was an innocence to her. I suppose wearing a shapeless striped hospital gown, socks and unflattering hairnet will do that to you.

It was also the white blanket curled around her, warm when handed to us by the smiling nurse, now wrapped around her body in the shape of a fragile egg. I wondered if, like me, she was ready to crack.

So much of my first IVF cycle feels like a blur, but the minutes ahead of my egg collection still replay vividly. The labyrinth of corridors. Compliments on my leopard print jeans — the only pants that fit my bloated belly. Struggling with the gown, my naked butt (and the dodgy tattoo I got the day I turned 18) peeking out. The heavy feeling of my overstimulated ovaries, making my strides more of a waddle. Being guided to a long waiting room filled with reclining seats separated by curtains, all empty bar one taken up by her.

Without a social crutch — my phone and book were tucked alongside my baggy clothes and underwear in a locker — I tried to focus on the morning program playing on the TV in front of me. It was too bright, too loud, too inconsequential for the moment I was in. My present was big and scary and real; the glossy presenters with their too-wide grins felt frivolous, fake.

But it also wasn’t the time to let my thoughts off the leash. If I did, they’d run wild with visions of the anaesthetic not working, waking up in excruciating pain, or not getting any eggs at all.

After weeks of sitting in the clinic’s silent waiting room where the only noise that rent the air was the name of whoever was next on the blood test list, I finally spoke.

“How are you feeling?”

The woman looked over, her egg unfurling a little. She told me she was okay. This wasn’t her first retrieval, and she wasn’t expecting an amazing result. She just needed one egg that could become one embryo.

We fell into conversation, and in those 20 minutes, my own fear lessened under the heaviness of her story.

We chatted away like two women might in a wine-bar bathroom — only we were stone cold sober, and not wearing underwear had nothing to do with avoiding VPL. The conversation wasn’t small or superficial. It was one of the realest I’ve had.

This incredible woman had endured more than most people could fathom — over 10 miscarriages, chronic health conditions, and the loss of one of her two sons. Pre-implantation Genetic Testing (PGT) was the only way forward, the only way she could try again without risking the same genetic condition that had taken her precious boy.

Despite the unimaginable, she still carried hope and gratitude. And after I brushed away my own infertility story, beyond humbled by hers, she said something I’ll never forget.

“My pain isn’t any more important than yours,” she told me gently. “We’re all on our own journey. You can’t compare yours to anyone else’s.”

I still think about her often. Not just her words, which I’ve reminded myself of many times since, but wondering, hoping that she got her one embryo. The one that became her baby.

She was whisked away for her surgery, and I was left alone with Karl and Ally.

From here the vividness of my memories becomes more blurry. The anaesthetist strode in, introducing herself and calmly walking me through her role, shortly followed by the surgeon, who did the same.

Before I knew it, I was waddling into the theatre, my nerves spiking at the sight of a sterile bed surrounded by a flurry of strangers in scrubs.

But now to the strangest part of my whole IVF experience: I adored the next 30 minutes. If you’d told the girl giving death stares to Australia’s favourite brekkie stars that she’d be having a great ol’ time moments later, she would’ve branded you the world’s biggest liar.

But it was stunning — stick with me.

Like the hushed waiting room at my clinic, the lead-up appointments to this moment had felt clinical: efficient, transactional, and stripped of niceties. As if the well-oiled machine didn’t have time for small talk or softness. I will come to learn that it doesn’t have to be like this after changing clinics (but this realisation comes much later).

I craved small talk. Or big talk. ANYTHING to distract me, even briefly, during such a heavy time.

The people in the theatre room understood that. Straight away they asked what I’d normally be doing at this time (clearing my inbox), what I did for work (journalist), who was the most interesting person I’d ever interviewed (Pamela Anderson). The anaesthetist was quick and gentle with the IV, then held my hand and told me what a good job I was doing. Even as adults, sometimes we need to be reminded and given a metaphorical gold star.

An oxygen mask was placed over my face for ten… nine… eight…

Suddenly, I was in a different room. It felt like three seconds had passed. In a warm haze I noticed the number drawn in blue text on the plastic covering of my IV port, some eggs were collected.

Gloriously groggy, I redressed, sat back on my chair with the safety blanket and sipped a milky tea and water — I was allowed to leave once I had done a wee (lucky it’s something my bladder excels at).

In no pain, except the slightly dull ache of period cramps, I soon moved slowly from the clinic on the arm of my partner gushing over how excellent I felt.

That feeling would soon dissipate, but for the rest of that day at least all I had to think about was the lovely anaesthesiologist, what delicious lunch I would eat and what terrible series I would watch.

By the next morning the anxiety was back, but for one glorious afternoon, IVF felt almost… nice? A sentence I never expected to write.

In my early twenties I spent mornings punishing it with early HIIT workouts in my pint-sized apartment, sweated through hundreds in expensive reformer Pilates classes, and allocated carbs to “Bread Day Sunday” for far too long.

And yet, even at its flattest, when it resembled the girls in bikinis I glorified on Instagram and my waist finally dipped in like a Victoria Secret model (my ultimate goal), it still never felt good enough. There were always more sit ups to be done, more pretending that I preferred zucchini noodles to real pasta, and a lingering fear a curve might peep through the cheap fabric of my dress on a Saturday night out.

While I excelled in obsessing over the smooth facade of my stomach, I was even better at ignoring what was hiding behind it. Heavy periods were managed with super tampons and liners, the constant pain during them and at ovulation was dulled with anti-inflammatories, and my “funny tummy” was passed off as a running joke that I needed to be within range of a bathroom at all times.

Then came the years I desperately wanted it bigger, rounder, spilling over the waist of my jeans as my baby grew inside it. My strict regime loosened, and my carbohydrate dictator was overthrown. Now every day is bread day — praise be!!

I’m still waiting for that version of my stomach to materialise.

Instead, two rounds of IVF softened it, made it bloated and tender, and for the first time I didn’t resent it. I simply purchased new work pants from Zara, or I unbuttoned the too tight ones at my desk without shame.

But then it became impossible to ignore what was happening inside it.

Endometriosis was a foreign term that was slowly becoming a part of my lexicon after a fertility specialist dropped it like a bomb during an appointment after a failed IVF cycle. The shock waves of her words remained until I finally stopped running from them and sought out an endometriosis specialist for more answers.

I vaguely knew what endo was, in the way you kind of know what jobs your friends do or sorta remember important birthdays without having to take a quick peek on Facebook.

After probing forums dedicated to the condition that one in seven Australian women have — and yet diagnosis takes six to eight years on average — I was expecting a hefty wait for my own diagnosis. Countless threads told of women waiting over six months for an appointment with a gynaecologist, often only to be offered additional pain medication or the pill for their symptoms.

Because despite the condition being completely debilitating for a huge number of women, the gold standard of diagnosis is still laparoscopic surgery — invasive keyholes through your stomach, a minimum of three incisions, just to be told what you already suspected.

But as I’ve found with all things women’s health — money talks. If you have private health insurance, of which I took out the highest level of cover a few years ago predicting I would soon be pregnant (lol), you’re more likely to be triaged to a more timely appointment and surgery date.

Within a month I had a consultation with a top specialist that lasted around 15 minutes, during which we briefly discussed my symptoms and failed IVF cycles before I was told I could have a laparoscopy the following week thanks to flu season leaving a trail of cancellations. As an expert procrastinator, I booked it in for a few months later to give myself plenty of time to stress about it at 3am.

It also gave me endless hours to spiral down rabbit holes about what to expect from surgery and recovery. For every story of a woman bedridden for five weeks, there was another of someone back at work within days. The piles of information were both helpful and alarming — I now knew exactly what to pack in my hospital bag, but I was also obsessing over whether I’d wake up with organ damage or a stoma bag (gotta love anxiety).

The day of the surgery was a blur of waiting rooms, first in my baggy clothes and too-big underwear (thank you new FB friends) and then lying in a bed sporting a hospital gown, compression socks and glorious hair net.

Everything felt strange yet familiar. I'd never been admitted to a hospital before (the egg retrievals are done in small day clinics), but I had stayed up late to watch a lot of All Saints and Grey’s Anatomy with my mum growing up.

And despite the kindness and professionalism of the nurses and doctors, my nerves poured out of me — literally — countless anxious wees were scurried to and bad jokes about adding in a facelift while I was under were word vomited to fill the silence.

My final destination was a cavernous theatre, its sheer size and the swarm of people bustling around startling me. Surely they weren’t all here for my stomach?

On my right, a gentle nurse fixed monitors to my head (finally my massive forehead came in handy for something) while the anaesthetist talked me through the IV. Somewhere in the background, Triple J’s Hottest 100 Australian songs counted down. My surgeon appeared, and — wait — so did my GP. No, I wasn’t hallucinating; she told me that she assists on my gynaecologist’s surgeries. Beyond that, more figures in scrubs drifted at the edges of my vision, a blur of bodies preparing to open me up.

Then, at long last, everything faded black and the lovely anaesthesia finally overpowered my nerves.

And today, two weeks post op (and facelift rejection), my stomach is no longer an enemy or potential ally.

Instead it feels like a stranger that I don’t recognise.

There are two incisions tainting my lower abdomen, one neat and healing, the other red and raised. My bellybutton — something I’d never really thought about, apart from desperately wanting it pierced as a teenager — still seeps slightly from the cut where the camera poked through.

In the early days, even a fleeting look at the cuts left me faint, reaching for the remote to pause the trashy series I’d been half-watching so I could focus on my dramatic crying session.

Now, even as I grow mentally and physically stronger, I still only clear the steam from the bathroom mirror where my face appears, leaving the rest clouded. Anything to avoid catching a glimpse of what resembles a map of pain I never anticipated.

Because for so long the struggle with my adversary was invisible — something only me and my mind knew about, then something we could keep a secret with a trusted psychologist. The weight of body dysmorphia and beauty standards. The quiet ache of infertility and IVF. The heavy periods concealed by black pants and pain medication in my handbag.

But now there is a visible record of it all. Not only the cuts, but within a folder of photos in my study I’m not sure I’ll ever look at.

They show the endometriosis that was excised during surgery and the adhesions cleared from my ovaries. They’re proof of what I’ve carried for years. Proof that what I see if I was to look down — two fresh scars and a sad belly button — is real.

I thought I’d feel something visceral after surgery: relief, gratitude, anger, maybe even pride? I feel nothing.

Perhaps over time, as the marks fade and the fatigue lifts, I’ll open that folder.

I know my stomach will never be sculpted again, though my hope for the bump lives on.

But after everything it has endured, that we’ve endured, maybe the best I can hope for is to see it not as an enemy or a stranger, but as a friend — one whose job I finally understand.

The couple on holiday, so gloriously relaxed sipping salty margaritas by the pool with nothing to do except get tipsy and have sleepy mid-afternoon sex. Or the ones who have decided to stop trying for and, then, poof — pregnant.

Couples who endure several rounds of IVF only to conceive their miracle baby the old fashioned way — a quickie before work.

There’s no shortage of good news stories, and they nearly always come with recommendations.

Do this, try that, ignore the cost, it’s a little strange but it worked for me.

Yet as hope swells and then falls each month, even after every box has been dutifully ticked, the stories start to feel less like inspiration and more like fairy tales.

My fertility naturopath said my new diet of supplements and herbal tonic could lead to a natural pregnancy between IVF cycles. So far, it’s only resulted in a major hole in my bank account and a dry-retch start to the morning.

There are women who swear that acupuncture was their silver bullet.

One specialist will tell you the trick is to try every second day in your fertile window, others twice a day ahead of ovulation.

More water! Eat brazil nuts! Pineapple! Including the core! Seeds! Pomegranate juice! More protein! More protein than that!

After an article online declared a HSG test ‘The free infertility cure that’s as successful as IVF’ I was sure the month after I had dye flushed through my fallopian tubes I’d finally be seeing the two blue lines. Negative.

Always wear socks, that one was easy.

Meditate. Manifest. Measure your basal temperature at the same time every morning.

Cut out chemicals. Don’t use a microwave, and don’t you dare eat or drink out of plastic, you monster!

Avoid touching receipts at all costs.

Put Epsom salts between your body and your computer, better yet, avoid computers all together.

Stop wearing your favourite perfume, and while you’re at it (because investigating your fertility isn’t expensive enough) replace all of your make-up and skincare to natural options. Oh, and say goodbye to your beloved retinol because apparently wrinkle-free skin and good quality eggs can’t coexist.

Read Before the Egg and follow it word. for. word.

Eat organic. Eat Mediterranean. Don’t eat processed foods, but do eat the Macca’s fries post transfer, an IVF IYKYK.

Run, but not too far. Exercise, but not too hard.

Cut out alcohol, and while you’re at it, coffee too. Actually, coffee isn’t too bad in small amounts. Scrap that, coffee is out.

Have you heard about this retreat in Bali that is getting women pregnant, and helping people with cancer?

A spiritually inclined massage therapist at a fancy spa once told me that she was getting messages about cooling down my womb during my treatment and that I should drink peppermint tea. Cue a daily peppy tea, who am I to ignore the day spa spirits?

If there was a fertility recommendation in existence you can bet I’d have tried it in the hope it would be the missing piece to make a pregnancy finally stick. So that my story would then go on to be the folktale women would tell a friend at breaking point: “well my friend Jade, see she was trying for years with no luck until she tried enter magical cure here”.

For awhile I was finding power in throwing myself emotionally, physically and financially (fertility is big business) into doing something — anything. If I was focusing my overthinking mind on things that were baby stepping me one step closer to pregnancy, it distracted my thoughts from the scary thoughts. The voices that said it might not happen, that I was wasting my time.

Some of them were simple enough; I didn’t love the taste of brazil nuts, but three a day were easy enough to manage. Pumpkin and sunflower seeds and a sprinkling of linseed on my yogurt was actually quite tasty with a dollop of peanut butter. Getting enough protein each day, though, is almost a full time job in itself.

My mum was always complaining about my ice-cold sock-less feet making her sad (her daughters being cold is her deepest fear) so it was nice to finally make her heart happy.

An expensive trip to the supermarket for natural cleaning and laundry products was expensive but fine, and other than my love of pasta, I didn’t eat too many processed foods.

You hear a lot about manifestation — placing a Christmas present under the tree for your baby or picturing your life with them already in tow — being a positive force during the process. Even some serious specialists had mentioned patients found it helpful. I’d always viewed it like playing make believe for adults, but if a little chat with my wished-for baby during yoga classes would help, I was up for the challenge.

So I began sharing little titbits here and there; that they were already so loved, how their dad was making the backyard special for them (my guy loves his lawn), how much fun they would have with their cheeky cousins and some of the places we’d go together — like walking to get an almond cap every single morning for the rest of their lives. Resting my hands on my belly in shavasana it felt like, just maybe, I was manifesting them to life.

Then there was acupuncture, something that once felt so exotic, but had become almost standard in fertility circles. It’s a hill many women will die on: they either swear by it or strongly advise against it. But I was willing to try anything and everything. So more needles it was.

My friend wondered if I felt similarly lovely and floaty after leaving my first appointment. Dear reader, I did not.

I’d spent my entire first session floating between demanding my body relax to practising breathing exercises then back to telling my petulant brain to shhhh. I finally understood a frazzled Charlotte York in the episode The Domino Effect when she was covered in needles, unable to silence the noises of the city and the barrage of well-meaning advice. Speaking of, should I be drinking the special Chinese tea that was getting all the women pregnant in SATC?!

Second-session Jade thought it would be a good idea to document the whole thing — snapping pictures and videos of my needle-covered terrain just in case I’d want to look back one day and laugh (or cry). In the process, I knocked out the two needles in my hands. Cool. I wasn’t entirely sure what the needles were doing, but now I was certain their mystical powers were no longer entering via my hands.

For the third session, I left my phone out of reach and instead spoke softly to my future baby — and sobbed my way through the whole thing. At least it went quickly.

The fourth time, I’d read a stressful email just before arriving and felt on edge the entire session.

The fifth? A needle left a deep and sore bruise on my leg, which caused me to faint in the waiting room while trying to tap my phone and pay.

I didn’t go back after that.

Month after month the micro changes weren’t resulting in the big result I was hoping for.

Manifesting was getting me nowhere.

Brazil nuts were doing zilch.

Staying on top of taking and remembering to order the supplements felt like a chore. My bank account was in a sorry state of affairs.

The only upside was my warm feet.

When you’re diagnosed with unexplained infertility, it leaves the door slightly ajar, just enough to let hope creep in. Every change I made felt like it edged that door open a little more.

In my most emotional moments — like wiping away a smear of blood after convincing myself that those all-too-familiar cramps were actually implantation — I almost wished for a clear diagnosis. Something concrete. Something that would let me off this emotional roller coaster that peaked, then crashed, month after month. The twists and turns were making me nauseous.

Hope had started to morph into something painful. Once, it was a full, overflowing bucket of something clean and pure that I could drink from when I needed comfort. Now, it was festering and dwindling each time I walked down the tampon aisle.

It was beginning to feel more like rage. Like resentment at the injustice of it all. I was getting jabbed with needles every week, choking down some disgusting herbal drink and still, nothing. Then I’d open Instagram and see that a girl from high school was pregnant with her fifth child.

WTAF, universe?

We’re taught to learn from our mistakes, so I was increasingly wondering if having hope, despite it laughing in my face time and time again, was a mistake.

But then another good news story would come across my desk; my favourite podcast host was pregnant via IVF despite only having one ovary and a partner with poor sperm results or a woman in a fertility group fell pregnant naturally after years of being told she would never conceive, and the hope would live on.

Because there is one thing any woman wants more of during fertility treatment, it’s control (followed by less needles and blood tests). And because control over the process and outcome is as much in the hands of the universe as it is your fertility specialist, diet and taking supplements is one of few ways to feel like you’re helping fate.

So we invest in the avalanche of advice — both expert and woo-woo — that circles us every second of the day.

Yet for every one of these recommendations, there’s someone who drank an energy drink every day and now holds a healthy baby. Women who smoked throughout IVF, others who enjoyed wine.

I’m not encouraging or condemning any of these choices, I hope to one day share the secrets to my own success, but it’s a reminder that every woman’s body and journey is completely unique.

Maybe one day I’ll look back and say it was the fluffy socks my mum bought me. Or the pineapple core. Maybe the acupuncture (should I be brave enough to go back). Or perhaps I’ll be one of the couples insisting it was the three margaritas.

But until then, for now, I’ll just pop the supplements, try new things (any recommendations?!?!) and try not to spill the remaining hope I have left.

The needles were always my greatest fear in the IVF process because as a formerly chronic fainter I’ve passed out in some. . . unique places.

Once, I even collapsed among a scattering of rotisserie chicken bones outside an IGA, my then-partner gently coaxing me to get up (while likely getting the ick) as I began mentally preparing for it to be my final resting place. RIP my dignity.

My fainting wasn’t picky, nor was it awfully hygienic.

Blood tests were the worst, vaccinations a close second and after one particularly vigorous, amateur Brazilian wax, the splodges of burnt skin and bruising sent me fainting into the back seat of my car.

So the thought of not only having tri-weekly blood tests but being trusted to inject my tummy with needles multiple times every day felt completely unfathomable. I’d more likely be on the next Blue Origin flight or supporting my new space bestie on her Lifetimes tour, than endure that.

But from somewhere very, VERY deep down — as low as my poor but, thankfully, healed vagina — came something that appeared a little like confidence, or at least the illusion of it.

Well, that’s a fib, my anxiety was still peaking. I’d go to bed thinking about needles and wake up daydreaming about them as one might Paul Mescal or Pedro Pascal but I also knew I could do it. There was no logic to it, just a gut knowing that my want was more powerful than my fear.

The plan had been for my sister to inject me, or at least the first few, because my partner rivalled my own needle phobia.

But as the day approached for the first injection, something shifted. The decision seemed to make itself, that I had to do it myself as my craving for control — during a time when I felt like I’d lost it all — had grown stronger than my decades-long medical anxiety. A silver-ish lining?

That’s not to say my newfound confidence didn’t immediately dissolve when I pulled out my first injection: a purple pen topped with a changeable needle (the kind diabetics use for life-saving medicine, or, in Hollywood, breakfast).

My full name was typed out in bold across the box, which had to be a mistake. I was still basically a teenager. Surely I couldn’t be trusted with medical equipment, I could barely remember to pay my car rego.

With shaking hands and Morgan Wallen’s Last Night cutting the tension in our bedroom (the unofficial anthem of our first IVF cycle) I picked it up and looked at my partner, instantly wishing I hadn’t.

His smile, like mine, didn’t reach his eyes. He mirrored my nerves, mustering a look that said you’ve got this.

But I didn’t have this.

Instead, I decided it was the perfect time to brush my hair in the bathroom and procrastinate for as long as possible.

Last Night, take two (with lovely, tangle-free locks) and I finally pushed the needle into the red blotch on the left side of my stomach (my under-eye ice pack working overtime).

The feeling of pride when I wiped away that tiny bead of blood was unlike any high I’ve ever felt.

Most days my partner would stand behind me, putting on Morgan Wallen, his audible sigh of relief more dramatic than my own. Sometimes we’d do a little dance after, other days I’d snuggle into the couch and try not to cry.

Side note: honestly, women are amazing. If men had to do IVF the injections they would’ve been replaced by lemonade-flavoured chewable tablets by now and there would be weeks of dedicated sick leave allocated for it.

But enough wild fantasies.

There were some days that if my partner was at the gym or snoozing I’d get the job done solo. Surrounding myself with the happiest voices I could think of — the Hamish and Andy podcast, obviously — I’d let their banter distract me from the clear liquid being pushed into my body by a thumb that would grow steadier each day.

There were days I wanted to give up, scream, or throw the whole box in the bin and jump on the next plane to Bali. Some needles were bent or blunt. Sometimes I’d have to slip one into my handbag next to my lip gloss so I could inject at someone else’s house. My best friend once had her trigger shot administered at a hen’s party — on a boat.

But other days, it was fine. Never great, you’d rather be doing nearly anything else, but it was tolerable. Each needle held a drop of hope, pushing you one step closer to a baby in your arms.

Alright, needle phobes — skip ahead to the last two sentences, because I’m about to reveal the answers to the questions that kept me up at night before the cycle began.

Do try this at home

If you’re similarly overthinking the injections, I see you and I promise you that you’ve got this (but feel free to brush your hair or pluck some rouge eyebrows first).

How much will it hurt?

Annoying answer first, it will depend on your pain threshold.

It’s a one compared to a Brazilian that sears the top layer of your skin, but a four compared to the feeling of a back massage. Some needles will hurt more than others, I found the pens with their fabulously thin needles sting a lot less than syringes (which were often quite blunt which is extremely rude).

If your nerves are unbearable, you can buy Emla numbing cream from the pharmacy (I got mine from Chemist Warehouse) as it takes the bite out of the piercing of your skin (though double check with your specialist). I used it a few times, but TBH, having to get up an hour earlier to put it on felt more painful than the injection itself.

For me, the trigger shots are the worst, a five to six for my threshold. I’ve usually had three in succession, but the fact they need to be done at such a precise time helps my anxious brain as there is limited time to spiral. It’s just three, two, one — go *expletives here*.

Overall it’s not overly enjoyable, but it’s bearable. Some days are quick and seamless; others feel tougher. Just take it one injection at a time.

WTF, how do I even do it?

After 55 needles, I’ve got this down to an art form.

First, grab one of those circular freezable eye patches (Kmart has them) and tuck it into the top of your underwear about 10–15 minutes before injecting. I swap sides daily, strangely only one side ever bruises. Then go make brekkie, put on a podcast, complain loudly to anyone who will listen — whatever gets you through.

When you’re ready, swipe the chilled spot with an alcohol wipe, pinch the skin, and inject right into the red circle. I found slow and steady hurts less as often it’s not the needle, but the liquid that stings. Hold the needle in for an extra five seconds just to be sure it’s all in.

I’ve done injections standing, sitting, I’ve also seen women do them lying down. No method is superior, it just depends how lazy I am that morning.

Wipe the blood, pop on a cute bandaid if needed, and reward yourself with a coffee or a sweet treat. You’ve well and truly earned it.

What if something goes wrong?

Each needle will come with an instruction booklet or there are helpful videos on YouTube. If a call with a nurse will ease your mind, do it.

The pharmacist should also be able to give you a demonstration when you pick up the medication too or your nurse will show you during your nurse appointment in the clinic.

Everyone will have a different viewpoint on this, but I would often ask ChatGPT niggling questions that felt too small to pick up the phone for but too big to let sit dormant. For example: after one injection I developed a lumpy red rash which ChatGPT reassured me was a normal side effect if I had pulled the needle out too early — which in the early days, I couldn’t whip them out quick enough. So instead of festering on it, I was able to move on with my day (and just slightly overthink it).

Any good tips or tricks?

After years of watching Grey’s Anatomy and All Saints, I was deeply concerned by the sight of air bubbles in syringes. Some instructions will tell you to ensure there’s a droplet of liquid at the tip to release the air, while others say a small bubble is totally fine. If you’re unsure or feeling nervous, check the instructions, speak to your pharmacist, or call your clinic — there’s no shame in double-checking.

And a word of warning for the overachievers like myself: don’t over-ice. Before my first trigger shot, I applied an actual ice block for so long I gave myself minor frostbite. The skin went rock hard, the injection hurt more, and now I have a patchy scar to remember it by.

If you’d have told me 10 years ago I could hold a syringe let alone push it into my stomach — without falling into chicken bones — I’d never have believed you.

But that’s the thing about this whole sorry experience, you’ll never fail to surprise yourself and make your former (and current) self exceptionally proud.

Each night after I was sure everyone was fast asleep, I’d pull it from under my mattress to pore over its pages, my young mind flooded with confusion and glee.

From what I understood. . . when a man and a woman have sex they make a baby as the tadpole swims into the tummy and it grows to the size of a basketball. Then, voila, a healthy baby slips out of the vagina — gross, but that was an old person problem.

Over my early high school years there was whispering of girls having s-e-x but the conversations were nothing but gossip tinged with naive judgement. The films I watched showed bursts of aesthetic romps on screen, attractive couples going from zero to 100 within a fever-pitched 30 seconds as their parts perfectly slot together like Tetris pieces.

At 16, I was prescribed the pill in the hope of dulling the period pain that stopped me from going to school a few times a year in lieu of a day on the couch with a heat pack and a (very excellent) afternoon of Judge Judy and Ready, Steady, Cook.

The plan was to come off it when I was ready to have babies — my future fertility felt as neatly wrapped in a bow as that.

Like many women, I grew up thinking pregnancy was a given and therefore did everything in my power to avoid it in my late teens, twenties and early thirties.

We take a pill at the same time each day. We have IUDs inserted which can be an excruciating experience for many. We rely on someone’s son to have a condom nestled in their wallet. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you mention the pull-out method. And if all else failed there was always the shuffle into the pharmacy the next morning for the morning after pill.

Travel, career, making bad decisions and sometimes learning from them were at our forefront as thinking about fertility and babies were pushed to the back of our minds, attracting dust next to superannuation and skin cancer checks.

Well, this might be the first time I’ve been on trend

Compared to our parents' generation, Millennial and Gen Z women are having babies much later. Delaying motherhood is a growing trend across Australia, with more than 43 per cent of first-time mums now over the age of 30, nearly double the rate in 1991.

Chances are your mum had a few chubby cheeked toddlers by the age you’re at now. Mine had me at 26 and by my age now (36 years young to some, geriatric to the medical field) she had four daughters aged 10, eight, six and four — a punctual queen.

Women now may be prioritising hot girl walks and martinis over ovulation strips and prenatal supplements but it doesn’t mean we’ve ever completely ignored the faint tick of a biological clock that grows metaphorically louder each year.

For many of us, the tick of this clock has loomed and boomed.

Many women have their panic year, the age that if they’ve not found ‘the one’ or aren’t pregnant they’re hit with jabs of panic.

My worry age was always 33. Then it was 34. Suddenly, 35 had a nice ring to it.

When I began the process of seeking help for what I have since learnt is unexplained fertility at 35, I had no idea where to turn.

I was in a long-term relationship with my favourite person and we’d been trying — aka having scheduled sex at the time my period app and ovulation thermometer told us to — for 18 months.

It felt like everyone around me was getting pregnant with ease, every second post on social media was a curated flatlay of a scan surrounded by a doll-sized onesie or a bump pic asking “Real or pasta baby?”.

Despite being overjoyed for these women, a selfish and silent part of me also wished it was a spaghetti carbonara belly. Each announcement was a reminder that I was no closer to hanging my own blurry black and white image on the fridge.

Instead my fridge is covered in magnets I’ve collected in the cities I’ve been fortunate enough to travel to.

It tells the story of getting engaged in Montenegro under the guise of a ‘magic trick’, fearing for my life as we drove along cliff tops in the Amalfi Coast, sipping wildly overpriced cocktails on a rooftop in Paris and laughing as my sister realised it wasn’t just a fart in Canggu.

The colourful collection has always made me happy, but sometimes I catch sight of it after a long day at work (deputy editor and features writer by day, The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City fanatic by night), mid snack search, and wonder if the flights or deadlines came at the cost of starting a family.

Welcome to my Roman Empire

My first step was my GP, who refused to do the blood tests that I requested, saying I was too young and it was too early to test my fertility.

But my gut knew there was more to it.

I changed medical practices to a GP who immediately just got it. She created the bloods form before I’d even requested it, was equally flabbergasted at the previous doctor’s refusal, listened and related with snippets of her own fertility story. The discrepancies in women’s health is my forever Roman Empire.

As the results for bloods, a pelvic ultrasound and a brain MRI came in, I was referred to a highly-recommended fertility specialist.

While I waited for my appointment — because of course everything fertility and women's health related is eye-wateringly expensive and comes with a long wait — I did what I could to stay in motion. I worked with my sister (a naturopath) to improve whatever I could: hormone levels, nutrition, stress. That last one is a cruel joke when you’re in the midst of this process, but meditation, yoga and a rattling of daily supplements it was.

A HSG test, sperm analysis and a third round of bloods later, not to mention two pricey specialist appointments, and we were told that ICSI — a type of IVF in which a single sperm is injected into the egg (rather than through natural penetration in the petri dish) — was our only option.

My shameless gut did its little “I told you so” dance.

According to IVF Australia, once you turn 36 your chance of conceiving naturally is nearly halved compared to your chance in your twenties. The quality and quantity of our eggs starts to decline in our early thirties, and more rapidly after the age of 35.

I’ve struggled with this information, my logical Virgo brain needing specific data and comprehensive case studies.

I was lucky enough that my 35th birthday coincided with our first family trip to Europe. It was a day that began with a 4.30am wake up call and a taxi driver adamant on taking the longest and windiest drive to London’s Gatwick Airport to ensure we were all sufficiently motion sick. It ended, thankfully, in a meal at a gorgeous restaurant I’d seen splashed across my TikTok in Paris.

Not wanting to spend $80 on Ubering such a short ride, on that 35 degree day I declared it to be a perfectly fine distance to stroll, plus we’d be passing the Eiffel Tower on the way.

As I left my partner, sister and two nieces in my wake to jog in a new black linen maxi hoiked around my knees to the venue to avoid the 200 euro no-show fee (my niece later had a nasty bout of heat stroke, I’m so sorry Charlie) it’s fair to say if I had my time again — I’d have paid for that ride.

But it was still a beautiful day, one of the best.

Yet there are moments that I look back and wonder if it was when I was running, sweating in places that shouldn’t, that my fertility began to decline?

Was it the moment I sipped my warm prosecco and laughed as my partner attempted to discreetly order me a dessert in broken French?

Or was it the moment I woke up on my birthday in the wee hours of the morning that my eggs started to give up?

Ever googled “Am I pregnant?” No, me neither. . .

But if there’s been one constant in my IVF journey so far — 55 needles, 15 blood tests and two failed cycles — it’s the questions: unanswered, unrelenting and utterly ridiculous (my Google search history knows no bounds), that tend to tap dance through your brain at 3am.

And while being open and vulnerable has always come naturally to me, this experience has tested that.

Because there is a cruel shame that creeps in that questions why my body feels broken and why is it unable to do what so many others seem to manage without trying?

There is envy when someone announces their third “surprise” pregnancy.

There’s overwhelm at the sheer logistics of it all: the endless appointments, tests, 7am blood tests and scans that make it feel like a second full time job.

And there’s fear that people might pity me — but an even greater fear that all the money, the hot-shower cries, the bloated and bruised stomach, and the life savings poured into supplements might still amount to nothing.

The most comfort I’ve found is in the company of women who get it.

Flowing texts at all hours with my best friend, my lifeline, who has gone through the same experience.

Sliding into the DMs of women who once bravely shared their stories on social media to quiz them about pain (how much do the needles hurt out of 10?) or beg for any secret hacks that can’t be found online.

Quiet conversations with colleagues before our 9–5.

The comfort of Michelle Andrews’ Glass, a podcast that gives language to the feelings I hadn’t yet articulated.

The fertility Facebook groups where strangers feel like friends.

You might have made it this far into my yapping because you’re navigating the same rollercoaster, or maybe someone close to you is and you’re worried about saying the wrong thing (just don’t tell us it will happen when we least expect it, ask if we’ve been drinking pomegranate juice or tried acupuncture — we have!).

So often, we only hear about someone’s IVF journey once they’ve reached their happy ending, rarely the emotional slog it took to get there. Hopefully, sharing these stories helps those still in the thick of it, reminding you that every needle and scan is one step closer to where you want to be.

Because from the moment the constellation of bruises across my tummy began healing, I began tapping away into a document my thoughts, emotions, whinges, annoyances and fears. Slowly I’ll share some of the parts that have kept me up at night, and have been the most surprising, scary, heartwarming and powerful on my marathon so far. I’ll also be sharing other women’s stories because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s how wildly different (and incredibly resilient) our experiences can be.

You’re also welcome to reach out, because often the answers (or at least some kind of lightness in all the heaviness) comes from talking with other women who feel similarly lost, overwhelmed, hopeful, heartbroken, shit-scared, over it and proud — often all at once.