That moment you can tell she’s thinking about donor eggs.
Really thinking about it. Or just wondering. Or fearing it’s the worst possible outcome.
I hate that moment for her.
I lived that moment—or series of moments—about a year ago.
You’ve just got to get through it, girlfriend.
She has to find her own way, her own peace and acceptance about it.
It = Her Eggs
It’s not that I don’t have hope for her. It’s not that I didn’t have faith in myself. The egg is so important. It’s crucial—and sometimes it’s just broken.
I’m not trying to say that lifestyle can’t or won’t change her egg health because it absolutely can.
But where do we draw the line between what we’re made of and built from vs. what we can change? Honest question.
I’ve had friends who’ve completely transformed their reproductive health due to lifestyle choices they controlled over time … and more time … and even more time.
But that doesn’t explain why some women who are obese or severely underweight, smokers or heavy drinkers, drug users, or poor eaters are perfectly fertile.
Sometimes you’ve just got what you got.
I just hate that moment for her. Because it’s a lot to digest.
It’s worth it in the end, but there is loss.
I want to share with her my thoughts, my story. But she won’t think my story is a success. She may think it’s a victory for me—but certainly it’s not her happy ending. And I totally get that.
So, I pause.
Sometimes the journey is so damn hard. Sometimes we find ourselves living proof of TTC timeline hell.
I don’t take pride in my suffering—not in that way. Trust me—I’d much rather be the girl who got off easy easier, who just didn’t have to go through quite as much. My story is not one to share with a new member of the infertility community. It would just scare her.
I take pride in my strength, my story, my babies.
But I don’t want that for her. So—again—I pause.
Because you’ve just got to get through it, girlfriend.