The Baby Blanket I Started During Treatment (And Finally Finished Five Years Later)

I started a baby blanket during my second round of IVF. I chose soft blue yarn, a simple afghan knitting loom, and a simple stitch. I enjoyed having something to keep my hands busy during the endless waiting. Keeping my hands busy also kept my mind from wandering too far in the evenings, when doubt tried to creep in. I planned to give it to my future baby. Beginning the blanket kept my hope alive.

I left the loom and yarn out to pick up for a few minutes a day for several months, but it got heavy, emotionally. The half-done blanket on the loom sat in storage, in a cabinet. It eventually ended up in a box in a closet for about three years, through multiple moves, multiple IVF retrieval and transfer cycles. It remained unchanged through failed transfers, a chemical pregnancy, and miscarriage, and finally, a successful pregnancy.

By the time I actually had a baby to give it to, I almost couldn't bear to look at it. It still needed a lot of work and that felt overwhelming. But, I chose to pick it back up. To organize my mess of yarn and refresh my memory on the stitch I had chosen. I’m glad I persevered. That blanket taught me something about hope that I'm still learning.

The Beginning

I bought the yarn before the embryo transfer appointments began. Blue because its one of my favorite colors. Also blue to me is gender neutral and we weren't going to find out the sex because all of our euploid embryos were the same sex. Once we knew, we knew the sex of all our potential future children. We wanted a surprise, in a process where surprises are rare. With so many scans, monitoring appointments, and blood draws, there is not much room for surprise.

Once the yarn was chosen, I had to choose how to make it. I chose a afghan loom and simple knit stitch because my brain could only handle so much complexity while living in two-week increments. The waiting. The shots. The appointments. The phone calls. And keeping it altogether while working full-time.

The plan was straightforward: loom knit during the waiting. Try to alleviate the anxiety and sadness and excitement and disappointment. Make something beautiful while hoping for something beautiful. For several months, it worked. I'd sit at home, wrapping yarn around the pegs and slowly looping it over on the loom. I found comfort in the monotonous process. Then the first crushing phone call came.

The Unraveling

When my first embryo transfer failed, I shoved the blanket in my entertainment center cabinet and didn't look at it for months. It felt like evidence of my naive optimism - this tangible reminder that I'd actually believed it would work. And that it would work on the first try. The blue yarn that had seemed hopeful and calming now felt mocking.

I'd see the unfinished blanket sometimes when I was looking for something else, and it would stop me cold. Several rows of loom knit stitches, bound together with hope I didn’t feel anymore. I couldn’t bear to think about the blanket. I thought about unraveling all my hard work or donating the yarn. It felt cruel to keep this symbol of a future that kept not happening. But I couldn't bring myself to actually do it. So it stayed there, unfinished, like so many other things in my life at that point.

I gave myself room to grieve and regroup. My husband and I planned to move forward with another transfer. It was a chemical pregnancy. Early detection of HCG at the blood draw, but the increase in HCG levels did not meet their expectations. After the third draw, and decreasing levels, we lost the pregnancy. The blanket stayed stashed away.

The Surprise

As we approached our third transfer, we talked with the doctor about how we could adjust medications or do additional tests to ensure we were starting progesterone at the correct point in time. We wanted to try anything and everything that could maximize our chance of success. I think deep down, we were both afraid of what we would do and how we would feel if this failed for a third time.

To our surprise, our third transfer worked. I finally got pregnant. You'd think I would be eager to finish the blanket. Instead, I avoided it even harder. Now it wasn't just a reminder of failure - it was a reminder of how much pregnancy scared me. How afraid I was to hope again. How afraid I was that this baby wouldn’t make it earthside.

I was several months along before I even looked at the partially-started blanket. I finally brought it out to work on it. By now, the baby felt real. My bump was growing. Baby was kicking and moving. I picked up where I left off. Slowly, row, by row, the blanket grew. The muscle memory was still there - my stitches matched the old ones pretty well, almost like no time had passed at all.

The Unexpected Lesson

Here's what I didn't expect: finishing that blanket wasn't about the baby. It was about honoring the person I was when I started it. The one who bought blue yarn and believed in something she couldn't guarantee. The one who kept going to appointments and taking shots and hoping against hope that her body would cooperate.

That woman deserved to see her project completed. Not because it worked out the way she planned, but because she had the courage to start it in the first place. Every stitch I added felt like a conversation with my past self. "I know you're scared," each row seemed to say. "I know this feels impossible. But look - you were right to hope. Not about the timeline, not about how it would happen, but that your baby would make it home."

The Finish

I’ll be honest, it still took years to finish. So many stops and starts. I had hoped to finish it before the baby was born. Instead, I finished just last year, in a burst of crafty productivity. This partially-done blanket made it through multiple IVF cycles, three moves, and the birth of two kids.

My kids play with the blanket now, using to to build forts, play “baby”, and go on “trips”. They don’t know it took six years to finish, or how tough it was for me to work up the courage to keep going with IVF and with the blanket, when every appointment, there seemed to be another disappointment or set back.

Sometimes I watch them playing and remember who I was when I started those first stitches at home. I was braver than I knew. I kept making something beautiful even when everything felt broken. The blanket isn't perfect - you can see where I picked it back up after the long pause. The tension is slightly different, the newer rows just a little looser than the original ones. But maybe that's fitting. I’m not the same person as when I started. I’ve gained more patience, resilience, hope, and empathy. I’m thankful for that journey. I think it’s made me a better mom and more compassionate human.

What I Learned

Hope isn't always about the outcome. Sometimes it's about the process of making something with your hands when your heart is breaking. Sometimes it's about choosing to create beauty in the middle of uncertainty. That blanket taught me that starting something hopeful isn't naive - it's brave. And finishing it, no matter how long it takes or how different the ending looks from what you imagined, is a way of honoring that bravery.

If you have an unfinished project sitting in a closet somewhere - one that holds too much hope or too much grief to look at right now - that's okay. It's not going anywhere. When you're ready, if you're ready, it will still be there waiting for you.

And if you never finish it? That's okay too. Sometimes starting is enough.

Do you have a project that holds more than just stitches or beads? I'd love to hear about it in the comments.

-A