The Challenges Nobody Talks About: Life as an IVF Parent

Someone asked me the other day if being an IVF parent feels different from being a "regular" parent. I paused- because after years of treatment, I'd almost forgotten that most people don't wonder if their happiness has an expiration date. Most people don’t exist in a constant state of anxiety.

Truthfully? Yes, it feels different. Not better or worse, just... different. And since we're all about honesty here, let's talk about the stuff that doesn't make it into the success stories.

The Gratitude Trap

I feel like everyone who knows about my IVF journey expects me to be grateful all the time. And I am- of course. But grateful doesn't mean blissful 24/7, and it definitely doesn't mean I don’t have hard days. In those difficult days, I am both grateful AND fed up, frustrated, exhausted.

When my preschooler is having a meltdown in the daycare parking lot and refusing to get into the car and some well-meaning person says, "At least you have them!" - they mean well. But what they don't understand is that I can be grateful for my child AND tired of cleaning the cheddar turtles and woodchips out of the car seat for the third time this week.

The pressure to be the "grateful mom" all the time is exhausting. I have to remind myself— I am allowed to complain about sleepless nights without someone reminding me how lucky I am. I know how lucky I am - I have the medical bills and trauma to prove it.

The Anxiety Nobody Prepared Me For

Here's what they don't tell you: the hypervigilance doesn't end when you bring your baby home. After years of monitoring every symptom, every cycle, every number, my brain didn’t just flip a switch and relax.

The first few weeks and months, I found myself checking on my sleeping baby, probably more than other parents do. Probably because I’m a little paranoid, but also because I spent so long afraid that this moment might not come that I can't quite believe it's real and I don’t want to lose it.

I still catch myself thinking "this is too good to be true" during perfectly ordinary moments - bedtime stories, Saturday morning pancakes, arguments about wearing shoes. It's like waiting for the other shoe to drop, except the shoe is your entire life. And the anxiety will evolve.

The Identity Shift That Nobody Warns You About

For years, infertility was my part-time job. My cycle was a mess, but with medicated cycles, I had a predictable schedule of appointments and phone calls. I was intimately familiar with all the hormones surrounding fertility and ovulation. I could explain hormone levels to strangers. My calendar revolved around appointments, blood draws, medication injections, and my hope lived in weekly increments. Just trying to make it to retrieval, then cycle off, then transfer.

Then suddenly, I’m just... a parent. And while that's what I wanted, it can feel surprisingly disorienting. Who am I when I’m not fighting for this anymore? What do I talk about when fertility treatments aren't dominating my thoughts?

Some days, I miss the version of me who didn't know how hard this could be. Not because I want to go back, but because that person had a kind of innocence I can't unknow.

The Social Minefield

Playgroup conversations hit different when I remember what it cost to get here. When someone complains about how their kids are "too close in age" and I think about the frozen embryos still waiting in the freezer, unsure if they will ever be transferred. When they joke about surprise pregnancies while I’m calculating whether I could handle treatment again for another sibling. Or convince my partner that another baby is a financial possibility.

I’ve learned to navigate these conversations carefully - not because I’m bitter, but because I’m protecting a part of myself that still feels tender. Most people don't mean harm, but their casual complaints can land like tiny paper cuts on old wounds.

The Questions That Don't Have Easy Answers

"Are you going to have another one?" becomes a loaded question when I know exactly what it would take - financially, emotionally, physically.

"Was it worth it?" seems straightforward until I remember the versions of myself that didn't make it to this moment - the relationships that didn't survive, the dreams I had to let go of, the person I was before I learned how strong I actually was.

Of course it was worth it. And also, I’m allowed to grieve what it cost.

The Plot Twist: It Gets Easier

Here's the thing that gives me hope - it does get easier. Not the parenting part (that comes with its own chaos and charm), but the carrying-your-story part.

The hypervigilance fades (at least a little). The gratitude becomes less desperate and more settled. The questions get easier to answer because I get better at remembering that my story is mine to tell, not theirs to judge.

My kids don't need to know they're miracles every day - they just need to know they're loved. And slowly, I am starting to believe that this life isn't borrowed or temporary. It's just mine.

The challenges of being an IVF parent are real, and they're allowed to coexist with your joy. You don't have to choose between grateful and human. You can be both.

-A