I’m just going to say it. When my best friend told me she was starting IVF, I opened my mouth and something so dumb fell out I still flinch remembering it. Something like, “Oh, that’s so exciting! You’re going to be a science mom!” She gave me a smile that didn’t come anywhere near her eyes, and I knew instantly I’d blown it. Because IVF isn’t a quirky, futuristic way to make a baby. It’s a grueling, expensive, emotionally shredding medical marathon she was about to run, and I’d basically congratulated her on signing up for a fun 5K with test tubes.
If you’re here, you probably want to do better than I did. You want to show up for your friend without accidentally making her feel like a science experiment or, worse, a pity case. Good. Let’s talk about how to actually do that, with all the messy, awkward, and sometimes darkly funny moments that come with it.
First, Shut Up and Listen (Seriously)
I know your instinct is to say something helpful. Fight it. When your friend first tells you she’s doing IVF, she doesn’t need your hot take on fertility, your cousin’s success story, or your theories about gluten. She needs you to absorb the weight of what she’s saying without trying to lighten it.
Try this instead: “Thank you for telling me. I’m here for whatever you need, even if that’s just me shutting up and bringing you snacks.” Then actually shut up. Let her lead. Some days she’ll want to vent about the injections that make her feel like a human pincushion. Other days she’ll want to talk about literally anything else—the new season of that show, the weird guy at her gym, the fact that her cat threw up on her pillow. Follow her cues. Being a safe place to land means not forcing the conversation toward her uterus every time you see her.
Learn the Basics So She Doesn’t Have to Be Your Google
Here’s the thing: IVF is exhausting enough without your friend having to explain what a follicle is or why she’s crying over an embryo grading report. Do your own homework. You don’t need a medical degree, but you should know the rough timeline: suppression, stimulation, egg retrieval, fertilization, embryo transfer, and the two-week wait that feels like two decades. Understand that she’ll be on hormones that make puberty look like a mild mood swing. Know that the attrition rate between eggs retrieved and viable embryos can be brutal—15 eggs might become two embryos, or none.
When she mentions her “lining” or “estrogen levels,” you should have a vague idea what that means. Not so you can offer advice (please don’t), but so she doesn’t have to pause her emotional download to give you a biology lesson. A quick search on reputable sites like the CDC’s Assisted Reproductive Technology page can give you the basics without falling into the rabbit hole of fertility forums, which are often a cesspool of toxic positivity and misinformation.
What to Say (and What to Never, Ever Say)
Let’s start with the no-fly list. If you’ve said any of these before, forgive yourself, but retire them immediately:
- “Just relax and it’ll happen.” IVF is the opposite of relaxing. It’s a scheduled, medicated, invasive process. Also, stress doesn’t cause infertility, and saying this implies she’s somehow doing this to herself.
- “At least you know you can get pregnant!” She doesn’t know that. That’s the whole point. And even if she gets pregnant, a positive test doesn’t guarantee a baby. Many IVF pregnancies end in miscarriage, and she’s acutely aware of that.
- “Have you thought about adoption?” Yes. She has. Everyone has. She’s currently spending thousands of dollars and injecting herself with needles because she’s not ready to go there yet. Don’t rush her grief.
- “My cousin did IVF and got twins!” Cool story. Not helpful. Every IVF journey is different, and comparing hers to someone else’s success story minimizes her current struggle.
- “Everything happens for a reason.” If you say this to someone in the trenches of infertility, you deserve the look she’s going to give you.
Now, what should you say? Often, less is more:
- “I’m thinking of you today.” (Especially on retrieval or transfer days.)
- “That sounds really hard. I’m sorry you’re going through this.”
- “Do you want to vent, or do you want a distraction? I can do either.”
- “I brought you [favorite food/drink/trashy magazine]. No need to talk about it unless you want to.”
Gifts That Don’t Suck
Flowers are nice, but they die, and your friend is already dealing with enough metaphorical wilting. Here are some gifts that actually land during IVF:
- Heating pad or microwaveable rice bag. Post-retrieval bloating is no joke. A good heating pad is a godsend.
- Comfy, loose pants. Her abdomen will be tender and swollen. Soft waistbands are a love language.
- Funny socks. She’ll be in stirrups a lot. Socks with tacos or sloths on them provide a tiny spark of joy in an otherwise clinical setting.
- A playlist or podcast recommendations. Something to distract her during the endless waiting room hours and the two-week wait.
- Gift card for takeout or grocery delivery. Cooking feels impossible when you’re bloated, hormonal, and emotionally drained.
- A handwritten card. Not an email. Not a text. A card she can keep on her nightstand that says, “I believe in you, and I’m here no matter what.”
Notice what’s not on the list: anything baby-related. No tiny socks, no “future mom” mugs, no onesies. That stuff is a jinx and a gut punch if things go wrong. Save it for a baby shower if and when she gets there.
The Hormonal Hellscape: What She’s Actually Going Through
Let’s get real about what IVF does to a person. Your friend is injecting herself with hormones that essentially put her body into a state of artificial puberty, then pregnancy, then withdrawal, sometimes all within a single month. She might be bloated, exhausted, weepy, irritable, or all of the above simultaneously. She might snap at you for no reason, then cry because she snapped at you. She might cancel plans last minute because she can’t bear to put on real pants. She might ghost you for a week because she’s in the two-week wait and every text notification makes her think it’s the clinic with bad news.
None of this is about you. Let me repeat that: none of this is about you. Your job is to absorb the flakiness, the mood swings, and the radio silence without taking it personally. Send a low-pressure text like, “Thinking of you, no need to reply,” and then actually be fine if she doesn’t reply. When she resurfaces, don’t guilt-trip her. Just say, “I’m glad to hear from you. How are you doing?”
The Two-Week Wait: How to Not Make It Worse
The two-week wait (TWW) between embryo transfer and pregnancy test is a special kind of hell. Every twinge, every cramp, every moment of nausea is either a pregnancy symptom or a side effect of the progesterone she’s taking. She’s probably peeing on sticks she shouldn’t be peeing on, then staring at them under different lighting like a forensic scientist. She’s googling “implantation bleeding vs. period” at 3 a.m. She’s convinced it worked, then convinced it didn’t, then convinced it worked again, all before breakfast.
Your role during the TWW is to be a distraction, not a detective. Don’t ask, “Do you feel any symptoms?” Don’t say, “I have a good feeling about this one!” Your gut feelings are irrelevant and put pressure on her to perform optimism. Instead, offer diversions: a movie night where you watch something with zero pregnancy plotlines (seriously, check the synopsis first), a craft project, a gossip session about your terrible coworker. Let her bring up the wait if she wants to. If she doesn’t, talk about that coworker.
When It Doesn’t Work: Showing Up for the Grief
A failed cycle is a death. Not a literal death, but the death of a very real hope, a very real embryo, and a very real future she’d already started imagining. She might have named that embryo. She might have a photo of it on her phone. She’s grieving, and our culture is terrible at acknowledging grief that doesn’t come with a funeral.
Don’t try to silver-line it. “At least you have more embryos frozen” is not comforting when she just lost the one she was most hopeful about. “You can try again” ignores the financial and emotional cost of another cycle. Instead, treat it like any other loss: “I’m so sorry. I’m here. I love you.” Bring food. Send a text on what would have been the due date. Remember the embryo’s nickname if she shared it. Let her cry or not cry, rage or go numb. There’s no wrong way to grieve a cycle that fails.
When It Works: Navigating the Weird Joy
If she gets pregnant, your first reaction might be to scream with excitement. Don’t. Not yet. Let her tell you how she’s feeling first. Many IVF pregnancies start with cautious, terrified relief rather than pure joy. She might say, “I’m pregnant, but I’m so scared it won’t stick.” She might not want to celebrate until she’s past the first trimester—or even until the baby is born. Follow her lead. If she’s subdued, be subdued with her. If she’s ready to celebrate, then you can break out the confetti.
Also, don’t forget the journey once she’s pregnant. She’s not “fixed” now. The trauma of infertility doesn’t vanish with a positive test. She might still feel isolated from “normal” pregnant people who conceived easily. She might have anxiety about every ultrasound. Keep checking in. Keep being the friend who knows the whole story, not just the happy ending.
FAQ: Your Awkward Questions, Answered
Can I ask how many embryos they got?
Only if she brings it up first. Embryo numbers are deeply personal. A high number might feel like a relief to her, or it might feel like a painful reminder of how many didn’t make it. A low number can be devastating. Don’t put her in a position where she has to manage your reaction on top of her own feelings.
Should I offer to go to appointments with her?
You can offer once, gently: “If you ever want company for a monitoring appointment or the retrieval, I’d be happy to come. But no pressure at all.” Then drop it. Some people want a hand to hold during blood draws; others prefer to go alone and process privately. Let her decide without having to manage your disappointment if she says no.
What if I’m pregnant or have kids? How do I navigate that?
This is tricky, and it requires honesty. Tell her: “I know my pregnancy/kids might be hard to be around right now, and I completely understand. Tell me what you need—space, or normalcy, or just a heads-up before I bring them up. I won’t be offended.” Then actually mean it. Don’t complain about your pregnancy symptoms to her. Don’t send unsolicited baby photos. Let her set the boundaries, and respect them even if they change week to week.
The Bottom Line
Supporting a friend through IVF isn’t about having the perfect words or doing grand gestures. It’s about staying steady while she’s on a rollercoaster you can’t ride with her. It’s about being the person who doesn’t need her to be okay, who can sit in the discomfort without trying to fix it, who remembers that she’s still the same friend you loved before all the needles and hormones and waiting rooms. Show up. Bring snacks. Shut up when you need to. That’s it. That’s the whole thing.