When I began IVF, I believed I would be strong. And I was. Until I miscarried. After that, the fear of never having a family only deepened. Each step became a relentless cycle of hope and despair: the number of follicles, the eggs collected, the quality of embryos, the transfer date, and finally the dreaded “two week wait.” To see a positive test, only to have it taken away, was devastating. I felt as though the outcome of IVF dictated my entire future. Would I have the family life I longed for, or would I be forced to create a new one, and what would that even look like?
What hurt most was not the hormone injections in toilet cubicles during German lessons, or the endless scans and appointments. It was the constant gamble with the future, while life moved on around me. Friends and colleagues fell pregnant, spoke of sleepless nights and school runs, invited me to baby showers. Patients sat across from me, asking for terminations because “it wasn’t the right time,” while I, still bleeding from my second miscarriage, held myself together as their doctor. The journey was emotional, isolating, and deeply personal. No one else’s path looked like mine.
Then there were the comments: “Don’t you think you should call it a day?” or “You’ll fall pregnant when you stop stressing.” Words that leave marks you do not forget.
Eight years later, I painted these pieces. At first, they were simply cathartic, gentle expressions of my grief and resilience. An introduction to a more abstract, intuitive style, that felt clumsy at first, but increasingly, naturally flowed from me. But as I shared them, I realised they were also invitations: spaces for conversation and connection, openings for the discussions we so rarely have about IVF, loss, and longing.