I haven’t posted in a hot miunte. Here’s why…
If you had told me five years ago that I’d one day be writing a blog post telling people I am pregnant, I would have laughed, cried, or possibly thrown a fertility medication at you. Not in a mean way — just in a “my hormones are 97% pharmaceutical-grade chaos” way.
But here I am. Five weeks pregnant.
Five.
Weeks.
Pregnant.
Which, for anyone unfamiliar with early pregnancy math, means I am currently the proud host of something roughly the size of a sesame seed who is already dictating my sleep schedule, my appetite, and my emotional stability. Incredible.
The Plot Twist I Didn’t See Coming
After five years of infertility — five years of appointments, needles, waiting rooms, hope, heartbreak, and Googling things no human should ever Google — I had quietly made peace with the idea that maybe this wasn’t going to happen for me.
And then it did.
Except instead of the movie moment where I gasp, clutch the pregnancy test, and sink gracefully to the bathroom floor in a soft, cinematic cry… I stared at the test like it was a prank. Then I took another. Then another. Then I made my husband look at them under three different lighting conditions like we were appraising diamonds.
Romantic, I know.
Joy, But Make It Complicated
Here’s the truth: I am happy. I am terrified. I am grateful. I am grieving. I am hopeful. I am all of these things at the same time, and if that sounds exhausting, trust me — it is.
Infertility doesn’t just switch off because a test turns positive. It lingers. It shadows. It whispers, “Are you sure?” every time you feel a cramp or don’t feel a symptom or wake up at 3 a.m. convinced you dreamt the whole thing.
I’m still checking for bad news the way some people check the weather.
But I’m also letting myself feel joy — tiny, cautious, trembling joy — because this moment deserves to be felt.
For Anyone Still Waiting
If you are reading this and you’re still in the thick of it — still waiting, still hoping, still hurting — I want you to know something:
I see you.
I remember the sting of pregnancy announcements. I remember the way hope can feel like both a lifeline and a punishment. I remember the months that felt like years and the years that felt like a lifetime.
Nothing about my news erases that version of me, or the version of you who is still fighting.
I’m not “on the other side.” I’m just in a new chapter of the same story — one that began with longing, loss, and resilience. And I will never forget the people still standing in the storm.
If you need to mute me, skip this post, or take space, please do. Protect your heart. I would.
What Comes Next
I don’t know what the next weeks will bring. I don’t know how this story will unfold. But for the first time in a long time, I feel something that looks suspiciously like hope.
Messy hope. Fragile hope. Hope with trust issues.
But hope, nonetheless.
And today, that’s enough.
Tag: hope
-
-
Waiting should be simple. You sit. You breathe. You exist.
But no—my brain treats waiting like an Olympic sport, complete with emotional gymnastics, mental sprinting, and the occasional dramatic collapse onto the metaphorical floor.Whether it’s waiting for good news, bad news, or the kind of news that could tilt your whole life in a new direction, the experience is the same: a slow, creeping unraveling of sanity wrapped in a blanket of hope, dread, and overthinking.
🎢 The Emotional Roller Coaster Nobody Asked For
Waiting is never just waiting. It’s a full-body, full-brain experience. One minute you’re fine—calm, rational, sipping tea like a serene woodland creature. The next minute you’re spiraling into a Google search that absolutely did not need to happen.
There are stages. Oh, there are stages.
1. The Optimist Era
This is the phase where you’re basically a motivational poster.
“It’s going to be fine.”
“Everything works out.”
“The universe loves me.”You’re glowing. You’re hopeful. You’re borderline delusional. It’s adorable.
2. The Doom Spiral
Then, without warning, your brain flips the switch.
Suddenly every possible worst-case scenario is not only possible but probable.
You start mentally drafting your acceptance speech for the Worst Luck of the Year Awards.3. The Distraction Olympics
You try to keep busy.
You clean things that do not need cleaning.
You alphabetize your books (again).
You consider taking up knitting (joking).
You stare at your phone like it owes you money.4. The Bargaining Phase
You start negotiating with the universe like you’re trying to close a business deal.
“If this goes well, I swear I’ll drink more water.”
“If you give me good news, I’ll stop doomscrolling.”
(You will not.)5. The Numb Zone
Eventually, you hit a point where your brain just… powers down.
You’re not hopeful. You’re not anxious. You’re just a potato with a pulse.
A waiting potato.6. The Moment of Truth
And then—finally—the news arrives.
Good or bad, the waiting ends.
Your brain unclenches. Your shoulders drop. You remember how to breathe again.And you realize the waiting was the hardest part.
🧠 Why Waiting Feels So Intense
Because waiting is a vacuum.
And the human brain hates a vacuum.
So it fills it—with stories, predictions, fears, fantasies, and the occasional imaginary argument with someone who isn’t even involved.Waiting forces you to sit with uncertainty, and uncertainty is uncomfortable. It pokes at every soft part of you. It exposes how much you care. It reveals the stakes. It makes you feel vulnerable in a way that’s both terrifying and deeply human.
🌱 But Here’s the Quiet Truth
Waiting means you’re hoping for something.
It means something matters.
It means you’re standing on the edge of a moment that could change your life, even in a small way.And that’s brave.
So if you’re in a season of waiting—whether for good news, bad news, or the kind of news that will shape the next chapter—be gentle with yourself. Let your brain cycle through its funhouse modes. Let yourself be hopeful, terrified, distracted, dramatic, numb, all of it.
Waiting is messy.
Waiting is human.
Waiting is a story in itself.And when the moment finally comes, you’ll know you survived something quietly enormous.
-
It’s happening.
Like… actually happening.
After what feels like 47 years of talking, planning, Googling, and me dramatically sighing into the void, we’re officially starting the IUI process.I always imagined this moment would feel cinematic — soft lighting, inspirational music, maybe a gentle breeze blowing my hair like I’m in a fertility-themed shampoo commercial. Instead, I’m a chaotic blend of terrified, excited, hopeful, nauseous, and “did I leave the stove on?” energy.
Apparently, when something truly matters, your brain throws a surprise party and invites every emotion you’ve ever had.
💛 The Weight of “Finally” (It’s Heavy, Okay?)
“Finally” is such a tiny word for something that carries so much.
It holds every appointment, every month of “maybe?”, every moment I wondered if my body got the memo about the assignment. It holds the quiet fears I didn’t always say out loud, and the hope I kept tucked away like a fragile little secret.
But “finally” also feels like a door cracking open.
Like the universe shrugging and saying, Alright, girl. Let’s give this a shot.🤍 Doing This Together
One thing keeping me grounded is my husband — the human equivalent of a weighted blanket.
He’s calm where I’m spiraling, steady where I’m vibrating with nerves, and somehow manages to make me laugh even when I’m clutching a fertility clinic pamphlet like it’s a hostage situation.
We’re walking into this as a team:
- Me: emotional raccoon with a planner
- Him: supportive golden retriever with a driver’s license
Honestly? It works.
🌈 Holding Two Feelings at Once (Apparently That’s Allowed)
I used to think fear meant doubt.
Now I’m learning fear can also mean this is important. That excitement and anxiety can sit together like two toddlers fighting over the same toy. That hope doesn’t have to be neat or tidy — it can be messy, loud, and a little sweaty.So yes, I’m scared.
But I’m also excited in a way that feels electric — like the good kind of roller coaster, not the kind that makes you question your life choices.✨ What Comes Next (Besides Me Stress-Eating)
I don’t know how this journey will unfold.
I don’t know how many twists or turns are ahead. But I do know this: we’re moving forward. We’re trying. We’re giving ourselves a chance.And that feels brave.
And hopeful.
And a little miraculous.
Wandering in the Woods 