So your friend is doing IVF. She told you over coffee, or maybe in a voice note you had to replay three times because she said it so fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid. And now you’re standing in the greeting card aisle, staring at a “Congratulations!” section that feels wildly inappropriate, wondering if you should send flowers or just pretend you never heard the news. Welcome. You’re a good friend for even caring enough to Google this. Most people just say, “Oh wow, keep me posted!” and then vanish into the fog of their own fertility.
I’m Jenna, and I’ve been through IVF. Twice. I’ve also been the friend on the outside, trying not to be a disaster. I’ve collected enough awkward moments to fill a bingo card: the friend who asked if I was “excited to be a science experiment,” the one who sent me a YouTube link to a documentary about adoption during my two-week wait, and the well-meaning soul who told me to “just relax” as if my uterus was a stressed-out middle manager who needed a spa day. I’m here to help you not be those people.
This isn’t a guide about the medical side of IVF. You don’t need to know the difference between a day-3 and a day-5 embryo unless she wants to explain it to you while you nod and pour her more wine (or, more likely, ginger tea). This is about the friendship side. The part where you show up without making her feel like a science project, a pity case, or a walking hormone bomb—even if she kind of is one.
First, Understand That IVF Is a Mindf*ck Disguised as a Medical Procedure
IVF isn’t just “getting pregnant with extra steps.” It’s a months-long emotional gauntlet where hope and terror take turns driving the bus. Your friend is injecting herself with needles the size of a hummingbird’s beak, her hormones are doing the cha-cha, and she’s spending enough money to buy a small island. She’s also grieving—maybe the loss of spontaneous conception, maybe previous miscarriages, maybe the sheer unfairness of it all. And she’s doing all of this while pretending to be normal at work, at family dinners, and in group chats where someone inevitably shares a pregnancy announcement with confetti emojis.
So when you say, “At least you know you can do IVF!” you’re not helping. IVF isn’t a guarantee. It’s a gamble with her body, her bank account, and her sanity. Treat it with the gravity it deserves, but don’t treat her like she’s made of glass. She’s still the same person who laughed so hard at that terrible movie that soda came out of her nose. She just also happens to be injecting herself in the stomach every night.
What to Say (and What to Shove Back Down Your Throat)
Let’s start with the verbal landmines. IVF turns everyday conversation into a minefield, and you’re wearing clown shoes. Here’s a quick translation guide for common impulses:
“Everything happens for a reason.”
Translation: “I have no idea what to say, so I’m going to imply that your infertility is part of a cosmic plan that will make sense later, like a plot twist in a movie you didn’t audition for.”
Try instead: “This is so unfair. I hate that you’re going through this.”
“Have you tried [insert unsolicited advice]?”
Translation: “I assume you haven’t spent hundreds of hours researching this or talking to actual medical professionals, so let me offer this thing my cousin’s neighbor did.”
Try instead: Nothing. Just listen. If she wants advice, she’ll ask. Spoiler: she won’t.
“At least you have embryos!”
Translation: “I’m trying to find a silver lining in your painful, expensive, and emotionally devastating experience, and I’ve landed on something that might not even work.”
Try instead: “How are you feeling about the next steps?”
“My friend did IVF and got triplets!”
Translation: “Let me tell you an anecdote that has nothing to do with your specific situation and might actually terrify you.”
Try instead: “I’m here for whatever happens.”
“Just relax. Stress is bad for fertility.”
Translation: “I’m blaming you for your infertility and also giving you something new to stress about.”
Try instead: “What would feel supportive right now? A distraction, a vent session, or me just shutting up and sending memes?”
Here’s the golden rule: You don’t need to fix it. You can’t. Your job is to witness it, to sit in the discomfort with her, and to resist the urge to wrap everything in a tidy bow. Infertility is messy and sad and boring and enraging, often all at once. Let it be that.
The Practical Stuff: How to Show Up Without Being a Stage-Five Clinger
IVF is a logistical nightmare. There are appointments at 7 a.m. on Saturdays, injections that need to happen at exactly 9 p.m. while you’re at a dinner party, and retrieval days that leave her bloated and cramping like a balloon animal. Here’s how to be useful without hovering like a helicopter parent.
Offer Specific Help, Not a Blank Check
“Let me know if you need anything!” is the friendship equivalent of a LinkedIn endorsement. It’s nice, but it puts the burden on her to figure out what you can do and then ask for it. She won’t. Instead, offer something concrete: “I’m dropping off dinner on Tuesday—any allergies or aversions right now?” or “I’m free Thursday morning if you need a ride to your appointment. I’ll wait in the car and listen to true crime podcasts so you don’t have to entertain me.”
Respect the Two-Week Wait (TWW)
The time between embryo transfer and pregnancy test is a special circle of hell. She’s analyzing every twinge, Googling “implantation bleeding vs. period” at 3 a.m., and trying not to lose her mind. Do not ask for updates. Do not send “baby dust” texts. Do not tag her in Instagram posts about “miracles.” If she wants to talk about it, she will. Your job is to act like a normal human who talks about normal things—send her a ridiculous meme, ask if she’s seen the latest episode of that show, complain about your own mundane life. Be an escape pod, not a reminder.
Learn the Lingo (But Don’t Be a Know-It-All)
It helps to know what an embryo transfer is versus an egg retrieval, or that “PIO” means progesterone in oil and not some new crypto coin. But don’t show up to brunch rattling off stats about blastocyst grading like you’re her RE. The goal is to understand enough that she doesn’t have to explain everything, not to become her unpaid consultant. If she wants to vent about her lining thickness, just nod and say, “That sounds frustrating.” You don’t need to know what 7mm means to know it’s not what she hoped for.
Gifts That Don’t Suck
Flowers die. “Fertility” candles are cringe. Instead, think comfort and distraction: a heated blanket for post-retrieval cramping, a subscription to a streaming service she doesn’t have, a DoorDash gift card for the days she can’t face the stove, or a care package of fuzzy socks, chocolate, and a book that has nothing to do with babies. One friend gave me a Lego set of a haunted house. It was perfect—I built it during the TWW and only cried twice.
Navigating Group Dynamics: When You’re All Friends and One Is in the Trenches
Friend groups get weird around IVF. Suddenly every conversation feels like a minefield, and someone always detonates it by announcing their pregnancy with a cake. Here’s how to be a buffer without making the IVF friend feel like a charity case.
Don’t Censor Joy, But Don’t Ambush Either
If another friend is pregnant, she still gets to celebrate. But maybe give the IVF friend a quiet heads-up before the group gathering: “Hey, Sarah’s going to announce her pregnancy at brunch. I wanted you to know so you can decide if you’re up for it or want to skip and do something else with me later.” This isn’t about shielding her from all happiness—it’s about giving her agency. She might be genuinely thrilled and want to be there. She might also want to set something on fire. Let her choose.
Check In, But Don’t Make IVF Her Only Identity
Yes, ask how she’s doing. But also ask about her job, her dog, her opinion on the latest celebrity scandal. She’s still a full person with interests and thoughts that aren’t related to her uterus. One of the loneliest parts of IVF is feeling like you’ve disappeared and been replaced by a patient. Remind her she’s still visible to you.
When It Fails (Because Sometimes It Does)
IVF cycles fail. Transfers don’t take. Miscarriages happen. And people get so weird about it. They disappear because they don’t know what to say, or they say things like “You can always try again!” as if she just failed her driver’s test. Here’s what you do: show up. Send a text that says, “I’m so sorry. I’m here if you want to talk or not talk. No pressure to reply.” Bring food that can be eaten with one hand while crying. Don’t try to make it better. Just be there, in the wreckage, with a box of tissues and a bottle of wine if she’s off the wagon.
FAQ: The Questions You’re Too Scared to Ask Her Directly
Can I ask how many embryos they got?
Please don’t. This is like asking someone their salary or the exact details of their sex life. If she wants to share numbers, she will. Otherwise, assume it’s private medical information and stick to “How are you feeling about everything?”
Is it okay to talk about my own kids or pregnancy?
Yes, but read the room. She’s still your friend and probably wants to hear about your life—just maybe not a play-by-play of your baby’s first solid poop while she’s in the middle of injections. Keep it balanced, and if she seems quiet or changes the subject, follow her lead. A good rule: don’t complain about your kids or pregnancy to her. Save that for someone who isn’t spending their life savings to maybe have a chance at what you’re venting about.
What if I say the wrong thing?
You will. Everyone does. The difference between a good friend and a bad one is what you do next. Apologize simply: “I’m sorry, that was a dumb thing to say. I’m still learning.” Then move on. Don’t make her manage your guilt on top of everything else. IVF is already a full-time job of managing other people’s feelings about your body—don’t add to the workload.
Should I offer to go to appointments with her?
You can offer once, gently, and let it go. Some people want a hand to hold during transfers; others want to be alone with their phone and a podcast. If she says no, don’t take it personally. IVF involves a lot of people looking at your vagina—she might not want to add a friend to the audience.
The Long Game: Being There After the Cycle Ends
IVF doesn’t end when the cycle ends. If it works, she’s thrust into a high-anxiety pregnancy where she’s afraid to sneeze too hard. If it doesn’t, she’s grieving while deciding whether to do it all again. Either way, she’s changed. The hormones, the hope, the loss—it all leaves marks. Your friendship will need to adapt.
Keep showing up. Keep sending the memes. Keep treating her like a person, not a patient. And if she does get pregnant, don’t say “See? It was all worth it!” because that erases the pain she went through. Instead, say “I’m so happy for you. How are you feeling—really?”
Friendship during IVF is mostly about shutting up and being present. It’s about letting her lead, letting her cry, letting her laugh at dark jokes about her ovaries. It’s about not making it weird. And if you’re reading this, you’re already doing better than most. Now go send her a text that has nothing to do with babies. Maybe a video of a cat falling off a counter. Cats are safe. Cats are always safe.