My daughter’s nursery is a stone’s throw from the fertility clinic where she was conjured into being. Despite walking past the entrance four times a day, several times a week, the drab building still seems remarkable to me, a place of worry and wonder. I often think about that time in my life, and lately have considered why it took getting pregnant for me to really open up about it.
Initially, we told select friends and family. It seemed such a momentous process that keeping it between the two of us didn’t feel possible — how else would I explain why I couldn’t commit to the hen do around the time of my egg collection, or my sudden switch from wine to nettle tea? Most people we told were concerned and supportive, but some — to our surprise — seemed purely excited. Perhaps they hadn’t known if we were going to have children and were pleased we were (hoping to), or possibly they had a skewed idea of the success rates, like I used to.
Typing IVF into a search engine brings up a range of content, almost all of it focused on positive outcomes. Most is clever advertising from fertility clinic websites; the rest tends to be articles about people in their mid-to-late 40s having children through IVF. Since the HFEA reports a birth rate of under 5% per embryo transferred for women aged 43 and over, these stories really are remarkable. They are not the norm. There’s already a culture of toxic positivity within the world of fertility treatment, where the reasonable advice of reducing stress has morphed into a need for absolute positivity; a deranged idea that by chilling out, women can manifest a pregnancy. And the media’s obsession with success stories adds greatly to this, making it harder to tell those around you when a round has failed.
When you’re struggling to conceive, the fear of failure is constant. Each month brings around the same disappointment and an overwhelming feeling that your body is failing you.
People aren’t good at failure; most of us fear it. The psychologist Jonathan Atkinson characterises this fear as “the capacity or propensity to experience shame upon failure”. We seek out books on how to overcome it, podcasts on how to do it, and therapy to unpack the consequences of it. Studies show that women are much more likely to fear failure and to adopt avoidance-based goals as a consequence. Whiteboards are encouraged in primary schools so that wrong answers can swiftly be erased and children — particularly girls — will be more likely to have a go. When you’re struggling to conceive, the fear of failure is constant. Each month brings around the same disappointment and an overwhelming feeling that your body is failing you.
The reason the NICE Guidelines recommend three rounds of IVF is that most of us aren’t lucky enough to get two blue lines on our first attempt, though given a few chances, many eventually will. Failure of some sort is commonplace, though it’s still rarely spoken of. Before being added to the waitlist, our consultant asked if we were sure we wanted to proceed, reminding us that even in the most favourable age category, a round of IVF is much more likely to fail than succeed. Her unexpected candidness went against all the think-positive propaganda we’d consumed, allowing us to prepare ourselves for the possibility of negative outcomes, and in doing so, protect ourselves.
(Image credit: Getty Images)
It’s difficult to practice self-preservation without coming across to friends and family as having lost all hope. People would remind me of a colleague or even a stranger whose sixth round was successful, but these narratives rarely brought reassurance. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to endure or finance such a marathon, and I worried how people would react if I were to just step away, if I simply stopped. It felt like women were celebrated for pushing themselves to the brink, and those who didn’t were made to feel less. With each setback, I sought stories of people finding happiness despite not having the children they desired. I was searching for a blueprint of a different life, evidence that things would be okay either way. A protective — not preventative — mindset. It wasn’t that we’d lost hope; we just carried it carefully, close to our chests, worried it might shatter if released.
It took three scans, sixteen weeks, and my jeans to no longer fit before we told anyone beyond our close circle that we were pregnant. When we did, we always added that it was through IVF — it felt too miraculous not to mention. We were high on gratitude and relief and yes, hope — this time, the soaring kind. And people understood how huge it was for us, their celebratory hugs coming back in for a second squeeze.
As of 2025, there are now only three Integrated Care Boards in the UK that meet the NICE Guidelines and offer three NHS rounds of IVF; the vast majority offer one. We lived in one of the six areas in the UK that didn’t offer any NHS-funded IVF at all, but since the treatment area is dictated by the postcode of your GP rather than your home address, we were offered two. This administrative detail is likely the reason we are lucky enough to have children. It doesn’t sound fair, because it isn’t.
Many people end up paying for additional rounds; many people can’t afford to. In the online world of trying to conceive, infertility is often described as a battle, its participants: warriors, and I think it’s important that we keep listening to those who put down their swords, who know when to step away, or have no choice but to. Opening up the conversation to all eventualities isn’t losing hope; it’s gaining insight, paving the way for easier, better conversations.