What IVF Actually Leaves Behind
The grief before, during, and after that no one prepares you for.
By Pamala, Founder of Solacove | From lived experience, not a clinical perspective.
My own path through infertility meant years of trying, rounds of failed cycles, and lots of questioning everything I thought I knew about becoming a parent. I started Solacove after realizing how isolating this journey can be, and how deeply I needed honest, real stories from people who had actually been through it.
• • •
I went through several rounds of IVF. I now have three children. And infertility is still and will always be part of me.
That sentence alone will confuse some people. Because the way the world talks about IVF, there’s a beginning and an end. You start treatment. You either get pregnant or you don’t. And then it’s over. The clinic moves on. The apps stop pinging. Your friends assume you’ve moved on, too.
But that’s not how it works. Not really. Not inside your body. Not inside your mind. And definitely not inside the still moments when something reminds you of what you went through, and you realize, oh. I’m still carrying this.
This isn’t a guide. I’m not a doctor or a therapist. I’m not going to tell you how to cope or give you five steps to healing. I’m writing this because when I was in it, I didn’t even know what I needed. The experience was so consuming, so disorienting, that I lost the ability to identify what was missing. I just knew something was. And no one around me could name it either because most people have never been through it.
So this is me naming it.
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The Grief That Starts Before Treatment Does
The first loss happens before you ever step into a clinic. It’s the death of a story you’ve been telling yourself your whole life, the one where getting pregnant is something that happens. A surprise. A moment. A “we’re pregnant.”
Instead, it’s a diagnosis. A referral. A conversation with a financial coordinator about what your insurance will and won’t cover. And suddenly, the thing you imagined as intimate and private becomes a project with a calendar, a protocol, and a probability percentage.
Nobody gives you space to grieve that version of the story. Because technically, nothing bad has happened yet. You’re “taking action.” You’re “being proactive.” People say things like “at least there’s a way forward,” and they mean well. But you’re already mourning something, and you don’t have language for what it is.
It’s the loss of the way you thought you’d become a parent. And it happens so early that most people don’t even register it as grief.
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The Grief That Lives in Your Body
Your body no longer belongs to you after treatment begins. You begin to observe it rather than experience it. Every ache is information. Each cramp is a query. Like you're studying someone else, you learn to read your own skin, bloating, and moods. When you see yourself in the mirror, you don't recognize the image of yourself. There are bruises all over your stomach. Blood draws hurt your arms. With a needle in hand, you stand in the restroom looking for a location that isn't already painful. You'd like to run. You don't. You tell yourself to breathe as you insert the needle. It's solitary. Even though this kind of pain is common, it doesn't make it any less difficult.
The hormones change you in ways that are hard to explain. You become someone you don’t recognize. Someone who cries at a commercial. Someone who snaps at her partner over nothing. Someone who lies awake replaying conversations she had six hours ago. You know it’s the medication, but knowing doesn’t make it feel less real.
The first time I gave myself an injection, I did it alone. I didn't want anyone watching. I stood there with the needle and thought how am I going to do this for the next twelve weeks? Not the pain. The fact that this was my life now. That this was how I was going to try to become a mother. Standing alone in a room, holding a needle, trying to steady my own hands.
You’re not failing. You’re not weak. Your body is doing something it was never designed to narrate to you in real time, and the quietness around what that actually feels like is its own kind of cruelty.
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The Grief That Sits Between You and Everyone Else
IVF changes your relationships before you realize it's happening. Your partner wants to help, but there's no role for them in this. They can't carry it. They can't fix it. And you can both feel the distance growing, but neither of you knows how to close it because the thing creating the distance is the thing you're doing together.
And then there's everyone else. The people who love you and say the wrong thing, not because they're careless, but because they haven't taken the time to understand that this is a soft spot. This is the part no one says out loud, shame, or being the black sheep of the family. This kind of disappointment changes how you see someone. When you're in the most vulnerable experience of your life and someone close to you, your mother, your sister, your aunt, says something that shows you they don't see what this actually is, you can't unfeel that.
And when treatment is over, you're expected to go back to normal. You’re expected to attend family dinners, spend holidays together, and be “fine." When you look at that person, part of what you see is the moment that they showed you.
IVF is not only about changing your body or your schedule; it also silently and in an irrevocable way changes the relational dynamics around you.
This is a grief that people do not talk about because if you give it a name, it will be an acknowledgment that there has been a change in the relationship between you and your loved ones. Most people would rather carry that silently than risk what might happen if they said it out loud.
The loneliest part of IVF isn’t being alone. It’s being surrounded by people who love you and realizing that love, by itself, isn’t enough to reach you where you are.
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The Grief of Losing Time
IVF puts you on a different clock. Every month is a cycle. Every cycle is a countdown. You stop living in regular time and start living in IVF time, where everything is measured in follicles and blood draws and waiting rooms and two-week windows.
Your life outside of treatment starts to feel like it’s on hold. You push back the trip. You delay the career move. You stop making plans that extend past the next retrieval or transfer. And slowly, without noticing, your world gets smaller. Not because you chose that, but because the treatment demands it.
And no one talks about the math you start doing in your head. If this cycle works, I’ll be due in… If it doesn’t, the next one begins in… You’re constantly calculating, always projecting, always living in a future that hasn’t happened yet. And every time a cycle ends, regardless of the outcome, the clock resets. And so do you.
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The Grief That Comes After
This is the section that rarely gets any coverage.
No matter what choice you made, be it conceive or move on, there is still the after that we have all come to be accustomed to in silence. If you got pregnant, there is the expected grateful and glowing attitude you are supposed to display. If you didn't, there is supposed to be an acceptance stage, so you are expected to be processing, healing, and finding that peace. Regardless of the outcome, the infrastructure falls away. The clinic has to move on to the next patient. The support groups feel like they are for people still in it. Meanwhile, you are there, still processing all that has happened, while the world has moved on.
Your body doesn’t just snap back. The hormones don’t just leave. You’ve been pumped full of medications that altered you on a cellular level, and then one day the protocol ends, and everyone acts as if your body should return to normal. But your cycle might be different now. Things might hurt that didn’t hurt before. Your skin, your weight, your energy, none of it is what it was. And you’re walking around in a body that went through something enormous while the rest of the world treats it as a chapter that’s closed.
You still flinch at pregnancy announcements. You still tense up in a doctor’s office. You still count in cycles even though you’re not in one anymore. The calendar in your head doesn’t just stop because the treatment did.
The after never quite materialized for me, either. I was diagnosed with POI, or premature ovarian insufficiency, meaning my body never went back to normal, even when my treatment did. It never would have. I'm still adjusting to hormones, still attending appointments, still doing things that seem to echo the IVF protocols, although no one tells me that anymore. The protocols ceased, yes, my body never got the message, and that's not something anyone prepares you to deal with when the initial reason for seeking IVF in the first place never goes away, even when the IVF does.
The hardest grief is the one that arrives after everyone assumes you’re done grieving.
• • •
What I Wish Someone Would Have Told Me
The reality is that infertility never ends. Not when treatment stops. Not when you get pregnant. Not when you determine that your family is complete. It is something you have to carry for the rest of your life. The work isn’t about letting go of those feelings. It is about finding a way to live with them.
I know the sentiment isn't ideal. Most people would want a clean resolution. It is human nature to want to see the story unfold with a struggle, followed by healing, and an entirely new chapter. It is a reality that infertility does not come to a clean end. It is a reality that you will be left with an incomplete puzzle and with the real work that nobody speaks of. It is about learning to find happiness within the puzzle, with a hole, with a missing piece.
Not happy despite that fact. Not happiness as a way to overcome the struggle. Happiness in that space. It is a journey that will be harder than any self-help, motivational, or advice-based content would ever lead you to believe.
I'm not writing to let you know that things will get better.
I'm not writing to tell you what to do.
What I needed most during that time, and in the long, silent aftermath, was not comfort.
It was the truth.
Truth from someone who had actually been there.
All of it. Even the most complex parts. Especially the parts that hurt to hear.
Because not knowing was worse.
The softer version was worse.
Hearing someone say, " This is what it is”, was so much better than spending another night wondering if my feelings were normal or if I was losing my mind.
I needed someone who could “ay, "Yeah, this is pretty messed up, and I understand why you feel the way you do," but I also needed that honesty to be accompanied by something else. And stop there. Don't make an effort to explain. Don't push me toward optimism. not remind me of my blessings. Just be in it with me long enough for me to realize that holding everything at wasn't crazy.
Because no one leaves space for that part, you can feel thankful and angry at the same time. Even if you love your kids, you may still be sad about the price you paid for them. Even though it's over, you still deal with it daily. Everything can be true at once. But you're constantly being asked to choose one.
If you are looking for something to hold onto, even the smallest gestures can be beneficial. Little steps make a big difference. If nothing else, focus on the one thing that makes today bearable rather than trying to solve or fix everything.
• • •
If you’re in it right now, before, during, or in the aftermath that no one warned you about, I want you to know that everything you’re feeling has a shape. It’s real. It doesn’t need to be fixed. And you don’t need anyone’s permission.
I built Solacove because this is the part of the experience that gets left behind. Not the treatment. The person going through it. If you've been looking for a place that doesn't rush you toward a bright side, that holds everything you're feeling without trying to clean it up, then this is it. You don't have to be in crisis to need support.
About the Author
After undergoing multiple IVF cycles, Pamala founded the fertility support website Solacove. The emotional aspect of this experience merits more than a referral. Solacove offers members a safe online community, including peer support forums, moderated discussion spaces, and opportunities to connect one-on-one with others who have shared similar experiences. You can find people in the community who genuinely understand the journey and are honest about your experience. Joining Solacove is like entering a circle where people who have been there before acknowledge your feelings, do not discount your grief, and offer support. Visit solacove.com to find out more.
This piece illustrates personal lived experience. It is not medical or therapeutic advice. If you find yourself struggling or in need of extra support, it is absolutely valid to reach out for help.