From the beginning of my fertility journey, I had a clear understanding of what was happening medically.
I had endometriosis. I knew getting pregnant might be difficult. I understood the statistics, the treatment options and the likely challenges ahead. In many ways, there was very little uncertainty about the medical reality of my situation.
What surprised me was how little comfort that knowledge brought.
I think I assumed that understanding what was happening would somehow make it easier to live with. Instead, every answer seemed to create another question. The one that sat beneath all the others was simple:
How am I going to become a mother?
That question followed me everywhere.
It followed me into career decisions. I was ready for promotion and excited by the opportunities in front of me, but every decision came with another layer of consideration. Was this really the right time to take on more responsibility? Would a bigger role mean more stress? Bigger hours? Less flexibility? Would I be making choices that might work against the family I was so desperately hoping to create?
It followed me into my marriage too.
The early years of marriage are supposed to be about building a life together, but when you are struggling to conceive, it can sometimes feel as though everything becomes about having children. Conversations, plans and decisions all start to orbit around that one desire. Looking back, fertility occupied so much space in our lives that it sometimes left less room for us simply to be a newly married couple.
What I didn't realise at the time was how much of my identity was tied up in motherhood.
I had always imagined being a mother. I had planned my life around it. As the years passed, I built a career I loved and found fulfilment in many areas of life, but there was always a sense that I was waiting for something. I often felt like a mother in waiting.
As I got older and my endometriosis progressed, I began to understand that pregnancy might not be part of my story. Strangely, I don't think I ever truly let go of becoming a mother. What I struggled to let go of was the idea that I would be pregnant.
There is a particular kind of grief in losing the future you imagined for yourself, even when you are still moving towards the destination.
Family gatherings were often where that grief felt most visible.
I would listen to my sisters and cousins talk about school runs, packed lunches, sleepless nights and the endless exhaustion of parenthood. Sometimes someone would laugh and tell me how lucky I was because I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.
I always understood what they meant.
But inwardly, I wasn't longing for freedom.
I longed for the mum bag full of snacks, tissues and all the random bits that seem to accompany children everywhere. I longed for little hands reaching out to me. I longed for the interruptions, the responsibility and even the exhaustion. I wanted the ordinary parts of motherhood that so many people around me took for granted.
At times it felt like I was standing on the edge of a life I desperately wanted, watching everyone else live it.
The practical reality of fertility struggles added another layer of complexity. My cycle became the centre of everything. Because my endometriosis often made it irregular, planning anything in advance felt difficult. Holidays, evenings out, visits to family and weekends away all had to be considered alongside treatment, timing and possibility.
Later, when I learned that carrying my own child would not be possible, the planning didn't stop. It simply changed shape. Weekends became organised around surrogacy socials and events because there was always the thought that if I didn't attend, I might miss meeting the person who could help us build our family.
From the outside, it probably looked as though I was coping well.
People often told me I was strong. I remember my sister saying, "You're the strongest person I know. If anyone can deal with this, you can."
It was said with love, and I was genuinely touched by her faith in me.
But strength can be a complicated thing.
The truth was that I felt exhausted.
Coping often looked like trying to control everything. The diary. The planning. The future. I kept going because that seemed like the only option available to me, but underneath it all I was tired. Tired of carrying unanswered questions. Tired of trying to stay hopeful. Tired of living on alert.
What made it harder was that the people who cared about me often wanted to help.
Of course they did.
