Joanna Marshall

I used to think I was the only mother who sometimes stared at her baby and felt absolutely nothing. Not love, not hate, just a hollow, exhausted blank where emotion was supposed to be. The books I read, the Instagram posts I scrolled, the well-meaning advice from relatives—they all painted a picture of motherhood as a messy but magical journey. What they left out was the ugly. The real ugly. Not the cute “haha I haven’t showered in three days” ugly, but the “I’m not sure I recognize myself in the mirror anymore” ugly.

We’ve built a culture around motherhood stories that are sanitized for public consumption. We share the first smile, the first steps, the homemade puree triumphs. We rarely share the moment we locked ourselves in the bathroom and sobbed because we resented a tiny human who needed us. We don’t talk about the rage that bubbles up when your partner sleeps peacefully through the third night feeding. We don’t admit that sometimes, for a split second, we understand why animals eat their young.

I’m tired of it. I’m tired of the curated vulnerability that’s really just a humblebrag in disguise. “I’m so exhausted, but it’s all worth it for these precious snuggles!” That’s not honesty. That’s a Hallmark card with a sleep-deprivation filter. Real honesty is saying, “I’m so exhausted I fantasized about driving past the daycare and just keeping on going until I hit a motel with blackout curtains and a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign.”

The Performance of Perfectly Imperfect Motherhood

Somewhere along the way, we traded one impossible standard for another. We rejected the 1950s housewife with her pearls and vacuuming in heels, only to create the modern mom who is supposed to embrace the chaos with a wry smile and a witty Instagram caption. We’re allowed to be imperfect now, but only in the most performative, palatable ways. Show your messy living room, but make sure the lighting is good and there’s a cute toddler in an organic cotton onesie in the corner. Admit you’re tired, but follow it up immediately with how grateful you are. The ugly parts—the truly ugly parts—still get edited out.

I remember scrolling through a mommy blog at 3 a.m., my nipples cracked and bleeding, my baby finally asleep on my chest after screaming for two hours straight. The blogger wrote about her “challenging night” with a colicky newborn, and I felt a flicker of recognition. But then she ended with, “But when he smiled at me this morning, it all melted away.” I wanted to throw my phone at the wall. My baby hadn’t smiled yet. He just screamed and sucked and screamed some more. There was no magical moment that made it all worth it. There was just survival, and the creeping fear that I’d made a terrible mistake.

That’s the story we need more of. The one where the magical moment doesn’t come for weeks, or months. The one where you don’t feel an instant bond, but a slow, grudging affection that builds over time like a callus. The one where you grieve your old life so intensely that you can’t even look at photos of your pre-baby self without feeling a pang of loss that borders on physical pain.

The Dark Thoughts Nobody Warns You About

Let’s talk about the thoughts. The ones that flash through your mind and then leave you feeling sick with guilt. The ones you don’t tell your partner, your best friend, or your therapist—at least not at first. I’m not talking about postpartum depression, though that’s real and serious and deserves its own space. I’m talking about the garden-variety dark thoughts that come with the territory of keeping a small, demanding human alive.

I once stood at the top of the stairs, baby wailing in the nursery, and thought, “What if I just didn’t go in?” I didn’t do it. I went in, picked him up, rocked him, fed him. But the thought was there, and it scared me. For months, I didn’t tell anyone. I was terrified that admitting it would get me labeled unfit, that someone would take my child away. But when I finally whispered it to a friend over coffee, she didn’t gasp in horror. She nodded. She said, “I used to imagine just walking out the front door and never coming back.”

That’s the power of ugly honesty. It lets another mother know she’s not a monster. It lets her know that her dark thoughts are not unique, not a sign of failure, but a sign of being pushed to a limit that our culture refuses to acknowledge exists. We need stories that don’t wrap up the darkness in a neat little bow. Stories that let the ugly sit there, unadorned, so we can see it for what it is: a normal response to an abnormal amount of pressure.

The Myth of the “Natural” Mother

Somewhere along the line, we got sold the idea that motherhood is instinctual. That the moment that baby is placed on your chest, a switch flips and you just know what to do. For some women, maybe that’s true. For me, it was like being handed the controls to a nuclear submarine and told to figure it out while someone screamed in my ear. I didn’t know how to breastfeed. I didn’t know how to interpret cries. I didn’t know how to bathe a slippery newborn without feeling like I was going to drop him. Nothing about it felt natural. It felt like a job I was wildly unqualified for, and the stakes were life and death.

We need stories that admit this. Stories that say, “I Googled ‘how to tell if my baby is breathing’ approximately 47 times a day.” Stories that confess to feeling more competent at spreadsheets than at soothing a crying infant. Stories that acknowledge the steep, brutal learning curve of motherhood without softening it with platitudes about maternal instinct.

The Loneliness of the Ugly Truth

Here’s what happens when you start telling the ugly truth: you find out who your real friends are. Some people will recoil. They’ll change the subject, or give you a tight smile and say, “It gets better!” as if that’s a magic spell. Others will lean in. They’ll say, “Tell me more.” Those are the ones to keep. Those are the ones who understand that sharing the ugly parts isn’t complaining—it’s connecting.

But the loneliness before you find those people is profound. You’re sitting in a mommy-and-me class, surrounded by women who seem to have it together, and you feel like an alien. You’re convinced you’re the only one who didn’t cry tears of joy at the first ultrasound. The only one who felt more dread than excitement as the due date approached. The only one who sometimes wishes, just for a moment, that you could go back and make a different choice.

That loneliness is a liar. It tells you you’re alone when you’re actually surrounded by women feeling the exact same thing, all of them too scared to say it. The only way to break the cycle is for someone to speak up first. To be the one who says the unsayable. I’m trying to be that person, even though my hands shake a little as I type.

When Love Feels Like Stockholm Syndrome

There’s a phase of early motherhood that I can only describe as Stockholm syndrome. You’re held captive by this tiny, tyrannical being who dictates your every move. You don’t sleep when you want to sleep. You don’t eat when you want to eat. You don’t pee alone. And yet, over time, you start to develop affection for your captor. You start to find his tyrannical demands endearing. You start to think his gummy, toothless grin is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

But nobody calls it Stockholm syndrome. They call it bonding. They call it maternal love. And maybe that’s what it is, but I think acknowledging the captivity part is important. Because if we don’t acknowledge the captivity, we can’t understand why some mothers struggle to bond. We can’t understand why some mothers feel resentment alongside love. We can’t understand the complexity of a relationship that is both chosen and utterly non-consensual in its daily demands.

I love my son now with a ferocity that surprises me. But I didn’t love him at first. I cared for him because I had to, because he was helpless, because I’m not a monster. The love came later, slowly, like a sunrise you’re too tired to appreciate until it’s already full daylight. And I think that’s okay. I think that’s more common than anyone admits.

The Body Horror We Don’t Discuss

Pregnancy and childbirth are often described as miraculous. What they are, more accurately, is body horror. Your body becomes a vessel, a landlord to a tenant who redecorates without permission. Your organs get shoved aside. Your bones literally shift. You grow a whole new organ—the placenta—and then expel it in a gush of blood and tissue that nobody adequately prepares you for. And that’s if everything goes well.

Afterward, you’re left with a body you don’t recognize. Stretch marks that look like a road map of trauma. Breasts that leak at inopportune moments. A pelvic floor so weakened you’re afraid to sneeze. We’re supposed to wear these changes as badges of honor, and sure, some women do. But some of us look in the mirror and feel grief. Not vanity—grief. Grief for the body we used to know, the one that felt like home. And we’re not allowed to say that without someone reminding us that our body “did an amazing thing.” Yes, it did. It also feels ruined. Both things can be true.

I want stories that hold that duality. Stories that say, “I’m grateful my body grew a human, and I also hate what it looks like now.” Stories that don’t rush to the silver lining. Stories that let the body grief exist without immediately reframing it as empowerment.

The Partner Problem

Let’s talk about partners. The ones who are supposed to be our co-pilots but often end up as passengers. Even the good ones, the ones who try, can’t fully understand what you’re going through. They didn’t carry the baby. They didn’t have their body torn apart. Their hormones didn’t go on a rollercoaster ride that makes puberty look like a gentle slope. And yet, they get to be the “fun parent” while you’re the default parent, the one who knows the nap schedule and the feeding cues and the exact location of every pacifier in the house.

Resentment builds. It builds in the middle of the night when you’re up for the fourth time and he’s snoring. It builds when he says, “Just tell me what to do,” as if the mental load of delegating isn’t itself exhausting. It builds when you see him leave for work, free to be an adult in the world, while you’re trapped in a cycle of feeding and diapering and soothing that feels endless.

We need stories that don’t sugarcoat this. Stories that admit marriage after baby is hard, sometimes brutal. Stories that confess to moments of pure hatred for the person you’re supposed to love. Stories that don’t end with “but we’re stronger than ever” unless that’s actually true—and even then, only after pages of ugly honesty about how close you came to breaking.

Why I’m Writing This Anyway

I’m writing this because I needed to read it three years ago. I needed to know that the darkness I felt wasn’t a personal failing but a shared, secret experience. I needed someone to say, “This is hard in ways that will make you question your sanity, your identity, your choices—and that’s normal.” I needed the ugly truth, not the pretty lie.

So here it is. Motherhood broke me open in ways I’m still trying to understand. It took my sense of self and shattered it, and I’ve been picking up the pieces ever since, trying to figure out which ones still fit and which ones I need to leave behind. Some days I’m a good mother. Some days I’m a mediocre mother. Some days I’m a mother who counts the minutes until bedtime starting at 9 a.m. All of those days are real. All of them deserve to be in the story.

If you’re reading this and recognizing yourself, please know you’re not broken. You’re not a bad mother. You’re a human being who is doing something impossibly hard with very little support and a whole lot of judgment. The problem isn’t you. The problem is a culture that demands we perform motherhood instead of live it, that values the aesthetic of parenting over the messy, ugly, beautiful reality.

Let’s tell the ugly stories. Let’s tell them without apology, without the compulsory happy ending. Let’s make space for the full spectrum of motherhood, from the transcendent to the terrible. Because when we only tell the pretty parts, we leave mothers alone in the dark. And the dark is a dangerous place to be alone.

FAQ: The Questions We’re Too Afraid to Ask Out Loud

Is it normal to not feel an instant bond with my baby?

Yes. Absolutely yes. The myth of instant bonding is one of the most damaging lies we tell about motherhood. For many mothers, love grows slowly over weeks or months. You’re not broken, and you’re not a bad mother. You’re a human being adjusting to a massive, life-altering relationship. Give yourself time, and if the feelings of detachment persist or worsen, talk to a healthcare provider about postpartum depression—but know that a slow bond alone is not a pathology.

How do I deal with the resentment I feel toward my partner?

First, acknowledge it. Don’t push it down or tell yourself you’re being unfair. Resentment is a signal that something in your relationship needs attention. Have an honest conversation—not an accusatory one, but one that lays out the invisible labor you’re carrying. Be specific: “I need you to take the 2 a.m. feeding on weekends” is more actionable than “I need more help.” If conversations don’t lead to change, consider couples counseling. Resentment left to fester can corrode a relationship beyond repair.

Why do I feel guilty about grieving my pre-baby life?

Because we’re taught that motherhood should be the ultimate fulfillment, and anything less feels like a betrayal. But grieving your old life is normal and healthy. You lost something real: freedom, spontaneity, a version of yourself that no longer exists. Grief and love can coexist. You can adore your child and still miss sleeping in on Saturdays. You can be grateful for your baby and still mourn the body you used to have. Let yourself feel both. The guilt will fade when you stop demanding that motherhood be the only thing that matters.

I once posted a photo of my toddler smashing a banana into the dog’s fur while I cry-laughed in the background, mascara streaking down to my chin. The caption read: “This is 10 a.m. on a Tuesday. I haven’t brushed my teeth. The dog smells like fruit. Send help.” A friend commented, “You’re so real for this.” Another messaged me privately: “Thank you. I thought I was the only one losing it.”

That’s when I realized we’re all starving for the ugly parts. Not the curated chaos with a filter and a witty punchline. The actual ugly. The kind that doesn’t resolve in a three-panel comic strip. The kind that makes you wonder if you’ve broken something fundamental inside yourself and whether it can ever be fixed.

Motherhood stories have a branding problem. We’ve been sold a highlight reel wrapped in soft lighting and linen onesies, and when our own experience looks more like a gas station bathroom at 2 a.m., we assume we’re doing it wrong. We’re not. We’re just telling the wrong stories.

The Cult of the Pretty Mess

Scroll through any social platform and you’ll find “honest motherhood” content everywhere. A mom in a spotless kitchen, holding a crying baby, captioned: “Real life, y’all!” But her hair is washed. The counter behind her is gleaming. The crying baby is wearing a matching organic cotton set. This isn’t honesty. This is messiness as an aesthetic. It’s a performance of vulnerability that still obeys the rules of being palatable.

I’ve done it myself. Posted a photo of my living room littered with toys, but angled the camera so you couldn’t see the pile of laundry that had been there for four days. I called it “the beautiful chaos of motherhood.” What I didn’t say: I hadn’t showered in three days because every time I tried, my kid screamed like I was abandoning her to wolves. I didn’t say I resented my partner for getting to leave the house with clean hair and adult conversations. I didn’t say I googled “do I hate being a mom” at 3 a.m. while pumping milk that smelled like old pennies.

That’s the ugly honesty I’m talking about. The stuff that doesn’t photograph well. The stuff that makes people uncomfortable. The stuff we’re terrified to say out loud because what if saying it makes it true?

The Lies We Tell New Mothers

When I was pregnant, people fed me a steady diet of platitudes. “Sleep now while you can!” (Impossible when you’re peeing every 45 minutes and your hips feel like they’re being pried apart with a crowbar.) “It’s all worth it when you see their face!” (True, but also: sometimes you see their face at 4 a.m. and feel nothing but rage that they won’t go back to sleep.) “Cherish every moment!” (I cherish approximately 40% of moments. The other 60% I’m just surviving.)

These lies aren’t malicious. They’re protective. We tell them because the full truth feels too dangerous to speak aloud. If we admit that motherhood sometimes makes us feel hollowed out and furious, that we’ve fantasized about getting in the car and driving until we run out of gas, that we’ve looked at our beautiful, wanted children and felt absolutely nothing—well, what kind of monster does that make us?

Here’s the answer: a normal one. A human one. A tired, overwhelmed, under-supported human one. But we don’t hear that enough, so we bury the ugly feelings under shame and silence. And shame is a terrible gardener. Everything it touches grows twisted.

The Stories That Actually Helped Me

The moments that saved my sanity weren’t the inspirational quotes or the “you’ve got this, mama” comments. They were the stories that made me gasp with recognition. A friend telling me she once locked herself in the bathroom and ate a sleeve of Oreos while her toddler banged on the door screaming. A stranger in a breastfeeding support group admitting she sometimes hated her baby at 3 a.m. A blog post where a mother described postpartum anxiety as “feeling like my skin was on inside out and everyone could see my raw, pulsing failure.”

These stories didn’t fix anything. They didn’t offer solutions. But they cracked open a window in the airtight room of my own misery and let in a little air. They said: You are not uniquely broken. This is just hard in ways nobody warned you about.

We need more of that air. We need stories that don’t tie everything up with a bow. Stories that end with “and then I cried in the pantry and nothing was resolved.” Because that’s often the truth. The resolution comes later, or it doesn’t come at all, and we learn to live inside the unresolved mess.

What Ugly Honesty Actually Looks Like

Ugly honesty isn’t just admitting you’re tired. It’s admitting the specific, shameful thoughts that tiredness breeds. It’s saying: I resented my baby today. I resented my partner for getting to be a person while I’m just a function. I resented my body for failing at something that’s supposed to be natural. I resented myself for not being grateful enough, patient enough, enough enough.

It’s admitting that sometimes you don’t like your child. Not in a “haha, toddlers are terrorists” meme way. In a deep, quiet, scary way that makes you question whether you were meant to be a mother at all. And then, ten minutes later, they do something impossibly sweet and you love them so ferociously it hurts, and you’re whiplashed between extremes with no seatbelt.

Ugly honesty is saying that motherhood didn’t complete you. It complicated you. It added a whole new floor to the house of your identity, but the stairs are broken and you keep falling through the gaps. It’s admitting that you miss your old life with a grief that feels disloyal. That you sometimes fantasize about the person you were before—her freedom, her sleep, her uncluttered brain—and then you feel guilty for fantasizing about a version of yourself that doesn’t include your children.

The Danger of Sanitized Stories

When we only share the pretty mess, we create a false baseline. New mothers measure their raw, unprocessed experience against someone else’s carefully edited version and conclude they’re failing. This isn’t just bad for mental health—it’s dangerous. Postpartum depression and anxiety thrive in isolation. They grow fat on the belief that everyone else is handling this better than you.

I nearly didn’t seek help for my postpartum anxiety because I thought what I was feeling was just “normal new mom stress.” The sanitized stories had convinced me that wanting to check the baby’s breathing seventeen times a night was just what loving mothers did. It wasn’t. It was a symptom. But I didn’t know that because nobody talked about the difference between normal worry and the kind that eats your sleep and your sanity.

We need stories that draw a line between “this is hard” and “this is a crisis.” Stories that say: It’s normal to feel overwhelmed. It’s not normal to feel like you’re drowning every single day with no moments of air. That’s not a personal failure. That’s a medical condition, and it’s treatable.

But we can’t have those conversations if we’re still pretending everything is fine-but-messy. The pretty mess obscures the real mess. It makes it harder to see who’s actually struggling.

Writing the Ugly Parts

I’ve started writing the ugly parts. Not for likes or shares or comments. For the woman I was two years ago, googling in the dark, desperate to find someone who sounded as broken as she felt. I write about the time I screamed into a pillow so hard my throat hurt for two days. About the marriage fights that started with “you didn’t refill the wipes container” and ended with “I don’t know who I am anymore.” About the day I sat in the pediatrician’s parking lot and sobbed because my baby had dropped a percentile in weight and I was convinced it was my fault, my milk was failing her, my body was failing her, I was failing her.

These stories don’t get many likes. They get quiet messages. “I felt this.” “Me too.” “Thank you for saying it.” And those messages matter more than any viral post ever could. They’re proof that the ugly honesty is landing where it needs to—with the women who are still in the dark, still googling, still wondering if they’re the only ones.

How to Tell an Ugly Truth

Telling ugly truths isn’t about trauma-dumping or oversharing for shock value. It’s about precision. It’s about describing the specific texture of a hard moment without sanding off the edges. Here’s what I try to remember when I write:

Be specific, not dramatic. “I was tired” is generic. “I fell asleep sitting up while nursing and woke up with my face stuck to the headboard” is specific. Specificity is what makes someone else say, “Oh, that exact thing happened to me.”

Include the shame. The shame is the part we usually edit out. It’s the feeling that we shouldn’t feel this way, that we’re bad for feeling this way. Naming the shame takes its power away.

Don’t resolve it. Not every story needs a lesson or a silver lining. Sometimes the truth is just: this sucked, and I survived it, and I’m still not sure how. That’s enough.

Write for the one person who needs it. Not for the algorithm. Not for the audience. For the woman who is where you were. She’s the only reader who matters.

The Pushback

Whenever I post something truly ugly, I get pushback. Someone always comments that I’m being negative, that I should focus on the good, that my children will read this someday and feel unwanted. I understand the concern. But I think hiding the truth does more damage than telling it.

My children will grow up in a world that still expects mothers to be martyrs who suffer silently and smile. I want them to know that it’s okay to struggle. That struggling doesn’t mean you don’t love. That you can be a good mother and still have days where you want to quit. That honesty about hard feelings is not the same as ingratitude.

If my daughter becomes a mother someday, I want her to have a library of ugly honest stories to turn to when the pretty ones make her feel inadequate. I want her to know that her grandmother, her mother, her aunties—we all had days where we sat on the bathroom floor and wondered what we’d done to our lives. And we all got up eventually. Not because we were strong. Because the baby needed a diaper change and nobody else was going to do it.

FAQ: The Questions Nobody Asks Out Loud

Is it normal to regret becoming a mother?

Yes. Regret is not the same as not loving your child. You can love your child deeply and still grieve the life you had before, the freedom you lost, the person you used to be. These feelings often coexist, and they don’t cancel each other out. Many mothers experience moments—or even longer periods—of regret, especially in the early years when the demands are relentless and support is thin. The problem is we don’t talk about it, so women think they’re alone. They’re not.

How do I know if my feelings are “normal” or if I need professional help?

Normal hard feelings ebb and flow. You have bad days and good days, bad hours and good hours. You can still find moments of joy, connection, or just okayness. When the hard feelings are constant—when you can’t sleep even when the baby sleeps, when you can’t eat, when you feel numb or panicked or hopeless most of the time—that’s a sign to reach out. Postpartum depression and anxiety are medical conditions, not personal failures. Talk to your doctor, a therapist, or a hotline. You don’t have to white-knuckle this.

Won’t my kids be hurt if they read my honest stories someday?

They might be. But they might also be relieved. They might read your words and understand that you were a whole person, not just a mother-shaped robot. They might see that love and struggle can live in the same house. Context matters: if your stories are framed with love and self-compassion, not blame, they’re more likely to land as human truth than as rejection. And if you’re worried, write for yourself first. You don’t have to publish everything. Some truths are just for you, to help you process and survive. That’s valid too.

How can I start telling more honest stories without oversharing?

Start small. Write about one specific moment—not your whole motherhood journey, just ten minutes of it. Focus on what you felt in your body, what thoughts ran through your head, what you did next. Ask yourself: what’s the part I’m most ashamed of? Write that part. Then decide whether to share it. You can share anonymously, with a trusted friend, in a private group, or on a public platform. The act of writing it down is healing regardless of who reads it. Sharing it helps others. But you get to choose the container.

Motherhood is not a single story. It’s a million stories, and most of them are messy, contradictory, and unresolved. The more we tell the ugly ones, the more we make room for each other to be human. So here’s my ugly truth for today: I love my children, and sometimes I want to run away from them. Both things are true. Both things are allowed. And if you feel the same, you’re not broken. You’re just in the thick of it, like the rest of us.

I’m in a coffee shop, phone in hand, thumb scrolling through Instagram. And there it is again: a mom in a spotless white kitchen, toddler balanced on her hip like a prop, not a smear of banana in sight. The caption says, “Motherhood is pure magic ✨ #Blessed #MomLife.” I consider hurling my latte at the wall.

I’m Jenna Luisa Ferrer. I’ve been a mom for four years, two months, and eleven days—and a writer for longer than that. I’m tired. Not just the bone-deep, haven’t-slept-since-2019 tired, but the kind of tired that comes from watching the messiest, most feral human experience get shrink-wrapped into a Pinterest board. We need ugly honesty in motherhood stories. Not the coy, “Oops, I’m so imperfect!” confession that still comes with a ring light and a filter. I mean the kind where you admit you cried in a closet while eating a stale granola bar you found at the bottom of the diaper bag. The kind where you confess you’ve fantasized about a hotel room where no one asks you for a snack. The kind that makes another mom exhale and think, Oh thank God, it’s not just me.

The Myth of the Glowing Mother

Somewhere along the way, we decided motherhood should be a curated experience. Maybe it started with those soft-focus baby-product ads in the ’90s, or maybe it’s just what happens when every life event becomes a branding opportunity. Either way, we’ve built a whole mythology around the Glowing Mother: she’s patient, she’s grateful, she finds joy in the chaos, and she never, ever loses her mind in the Target parking lot because her four-year-old just announced she hates the color of the shopping cart.

I’ve met the Glowing Mother. She doesn’t exist. What exists is a woman who’s learned to perform serenity while internally screaming. And I get it—I’ve done it. I’ve posted the cute photo of my daughter “helping” me bake, carefully cropping out the flour explosion on the floor and the fact that I was muttering curses under my breath. But every time I do that, I feel like a liar. Not just to my followers, but to myself. I’m reinforcing the idea that the ugly parts of motherhood are shameful secrets, not the actual texture of the life I’m living.

Here’s what I mean by ugly honesty: it’s the stuff that never makes the baby book. It’s the afternoon I spent sobbing on the bathroom floor because my toddler wouldn’t nap and I hadn’t spoken to another adult in three days. It’s the resentment I felt toward my partner when he walked in and asked what was for dinner, as if I hadn’t been negotiating with a tiny terrorist for eight hours. It’s the moment I looked at my daughter—my wanted, loved, desperately hoped-for daughter—and thought, I have made a terrible mistake.

That last one is the thought we’re not supposed to have. It’s the thought that marks you as a bad mom, a monster, a woman who doesn’t deserve her child. But I’ve whispered it to other moms in quiet moments, and every single one has nodded. Some have cried. One laughed so hard she snorted. Because here’s the secret: that thought isn’t a sign of failure. It’s a sign of being human, of being pushed past your limits, of loving someone so much it terrifies you and exhausts you and sometimes makes you want to flee.

The Stories We Tell (and the Ones We Swallow)

I think a lot about the stories my own mother told me. She was honest, in her way, but there were gaps. She’d mention the sleepless nights, but not the rage. She’d talk about the exhaustion, but not the boredom—the soul-crushing, mind-numbing boredom of pushing a swing for the thousandth time while your brain slowly turns to oatmeal. She’d tell me she loved me more than anything, but she never told me that love could feel like a trap. A beautiful, soft, sticky trap you’d die for but also desperately need a break from.

I don’t blame her. She was doing what her generation did: protecting me from the hard parts, maybe protecting herself from the judgment that comes with admitting them. But I wish she’d told me. I wish someone had told me it’s normal to feel like you’re failing every single day. That it’s normal to miss your old life so fiercely it feels like grief. That it’s normal to love your child with a primal, ferocious love and still want to lock yourself in the bathroom and eat chocolate in the dark.

So now I tell those stories. Not to scare people, but to prepare them. To make them feel less alone. To push back against the glossy narrative that motherhood is a string of golden-lit moments, like pearls on a thread. It’s not. It’s a messy, sticky, loud, boring, terrifying, hilarious disaster. And that’s okay.

The Dark Humor That Keeps Us Breathing

If ugly honesty is the meat, dark humor is the salt. It’s what makes the hard parts go down. The moms I trust most are the ones who can joke about finding a half-eaten chicken nugget in their bra. The ones who text you at 2 a.m. saying, “If I have to sing ‘Baby Shark’ one more time, I’m going to commit a felony.” The ones who, when you admit you yelled at your kid, don’t gasp but instead say, “What did the little monster do now?”

Dark humor is a survival mechanism. It’s a way of saying, “This is awful, but we’re in it together.” It’s the gallows humor of the playground, the whispered jokes at the pediatrician’s office, the memes about wine and tantrums that feel less like jokes and more like documentary evidence. When we laugh about the ugly parts, we strip them of their power. We admit they exist without letting them define us.

I remember a day when my daughter, then two, had a meltdown in the middle of a grocery store because I wouldn’t let her lick the floor. She was screaming, I was sweating, and an older woman gave me that look—the one that says you’re doing it wrong. I wanted to die. But later, when I told the story to my mom group, one of them said, “Well, did you at least check if the floor was clean? Maybe she was onto something.” I laughed so hard I cried. That’s the power of ugly honesty mixed with dark humor. It turns a moment of shame into a moment of connection.

The Cost of Keeping Quiet

When we don’t tell the ugly stories, we pay a price. Isolation. Shame. The creeping sense that we’re the only ones failing. I’ve spent too many nights scrolling through perfect motherhood blogs, feeling like a fraud. I’ve compared my messy house, my messy emotions, my messy parenting to a highlight reel and come up short every time. And I know I’m not alone. The rates of postpartum depression and anxiety are staggering, and while there are many causes, I can’t help but think the gap between our reality and the stories we’re told plays a role.

We need to hear that other moms are struggling. Not in a vague, “It’s hard but so worth it” way, but in a specific, “I once hid in the garage and ate an entire sleeve of Oreos while my kids banged on the door” way. We need to know that the dark thoughts are common, that the rage is normal, that the boredom doesn’t mean you don’t love your child. We need to know that motherhood can be both the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to you, often in the same hour.

I think about the moms who don’t have a support system, who are doing this alone, who are drowning in the silence. What are they seeing? The same perfect photos I am. The same captions about gratitude and magic. And they’re thinking, What’s wrong with me? Nothing. Nothing is wrong with them. What’s wrong is the story we’re telling.

What Ugly Honesty Actually Looks Like

So what does it mean to write with ugly honesty? It means telling the truth even when it’s uncomfortable. It means admitting that you’ve felt regret, that you’ve felt rage, that you’ve felt boredom so profound it made you question your entire identity. It means describing the physical realities: the leaking breasts, the hemorrhoids, the hair loss, the way your body feels like a stranger’s. It means talking about the mental load, the invisible labor, the resentment that builds when you’re the default parent and your partner gets to be the fun one.

It also means being honest about the love. Because here’s the thing: ugly honesty doesn’t erase the beauty. It makes the beauty more real. When I admit that I’ve had moments of wanting to escape, it makes the moments when I choose to stay more meaningful. When I talk about the boredom, it makes the flashes of pure joy—the first laugh, the unexpected hug, the “I love you, Mama” whispered in the dark—feel earned. The ugly and the beautiful aren’t opposites. They’re tangled up together, and you can’t have one without the other.

I want to read stories about moms who lose their tempers and then apologize, who mess up and then try again, who are learning as they go. I want to read stories that don’t end with a tidy lesson or a heartwarming conclusion. I want stories that end with, “And then I put them to bed and drank a glass of wine and stared at the wall for an hour because that’s all I had left.” Because that’s real. That’s the truth of so many nights.

The Pushback We’ll Get (and Why It’s Worth It)

I know that writing this way will invite criticism. Someone will say I’m ungrateful. Someone will say I’m scaring new moms. Someone will say I should focus on the positive. To which I say: I am grateful. I’m grateful enough to be honest. And new moms deserve the truth, not a fairy tale that sets them up for a crash. As for focusing on the positive, I do that too. But positivity without honesty is just propaganda.

There’s a particular kind of judgment reserved for mothers who admit to negative feelings. We’re supposed to be martyrs, endlessly self-sacrificing, our identities dissolved into our children’s needs. When we say, “This is hard, and sometimes I hate it,” we’re seen as selfish. But I think the real selfishness is demanding that mothers perform happiness for the comfort of others. The real selfishness is expecting women to erase their own experiences so that the myth of the Glowing Mother can survive.

I’m done with that. I’m done with the performance. I’m going to write about motherhood the way I live it: with mess, with mistakes, with dark humor, and with a love that’s fierce enough to withstand the truth. I hope you’ll join me. I hope you’ll tell your ugly stories too. Because the more we tell them, the less power they have over us. And the more we’ll realize we’re not alone.

Frequently Asked Questions

Isn’t it harmful to focus on the negative parts of motherhood?

I’d argue it’s more harmful to pretend they don’t exist. When we only share the highlight reel, we set unrealistic expectations that can lead to shame and isolation. Sharing the hard parts—with honesty and often humor—helps other moms feel seen and normalizes the full range of emotions that come with raising children. It’s not about focusing exclusively on the negative; it’s about telling the whole truth.

How do you balance honesty with protecting your child’s privacy?

This is a line I think about constantly. I never share stories that could embarrass or harm my daughter as she grows up. The ugly honesty I’m talking about is about my experience—my feelings, my struggles, my reactions. I can tell you I had a breakdown over nap time without revealing anything specific about her. I can talk about the rage without making her the villain. The focus stays on my journey through motherhood, not on her as an individual.

What if I’m not comfortable sharing my own ugly stories publicly?

That’s completely okay. You don’t have to broadcast your hardest moments to the world. But I encourage you to find at least one person—a friend, a partner, a therapist—you can be fully honest with. Say the scary things out loud. Write them in a journal. The goal isn’t to perform vulnerability for an audience; it’s to stop carrying the weight of silence. Even admitting the truth to yourself can be a radical act.

Does writing with ugly honesty mean you regret becoming a mother?

Not at all. For me, it means the opposite: I love my daughter so much that I’m willing to be honest about how hard this is. Regret is a feeling that comes and goes, like all feelings. It doesn’t define my motherhood. What defines it is the choice I make every day to show up, to try again, to love her through the mess. Ugly honesty is part of that love—it’s refusing to lie about what it costs me, because she deserves a mother who is whole and real, not a martyr performing a role.

So here’s my ugly, honest truth: motherhood has broken me open in ways I didn’t ask for. It’s shown me my worst self and my best self, often in the same tantrum. It’s made me laugh until I peed and cry until I couldn’t breathe. And I wouldn’t trade it—not because it’s always beautiful, but because it’s mine. The mess, the rage, the boredom, the love. All of it. That’s the story I’m going to keep telling.

There’s a photo of me from three weeks postpartum. I’m sitting on the edge of my unmade bed, hair in a knot that’s more grease than style, wearing a nursing tank stained with spit-up and tears. My eyes are puffy. My smile is a lie. I posted it on Instagram with a caption about “soaking in the newborn snuggles.” The truth? I had just sobbed for twenty minutes because I couldn’t get my baby to latch and my husband asked if I wanted toast. Toast. As if bread could fix the fact that my body felt like a stranger’s and my brain was a fog of dread and love twisted so tight I couldn’t breathe.

That photo still haunts me. Not because it’s ugly—it is—but because I lied. I wrapped my raw, bleeding reality in a soft-focus filter and served it up as another pretty motherhood moment. And I know I’m not the only one.

We’ve built a culture of curated chaos. The messy bun, the coffee-stained onesie, the “hot mess mom” trope—it’s all still packaged. It’s mess with a bow. It’s honesty that stops just short of the bone. And I think we’re starving for something sharper. Something that doesn’t just admit it’s hard but shows the bruise. The ugly honesty that makes you flinch and then exhale because someone finally said it.

The Instagram Lie We’re All Complicit In

Scroll through any motherhood hashtag and you’ll see it: the artfully disheveled living room, the toddler mid-tantrum but in golden-hour light, the caption that says “surviving on coffee and chaos” with a winking emoji. It’s relatable, sure. But it’s also safe. It’s the kind of honesty that still gets likes. It doesn’t mention the time you locked yourself in the bathroom and seriously considered climbing out the window. It doesn’t talk about the rage—the hot, shameful rage that bubbles up when your kid won’t stop screaming and you’ve tried everything and you suddenly understand why people shake babies even though you’d never, ever do it.

I’ve felt that rage. I’ve sat on the bathroom floor, hands over my ears, while my six-month-old wailed in the other room with my husband, and I’ve thought, I am not cut out for this. I am broken. I am a monster for even needing this break. And then I walked out, smiled, and said, “Thanks, babe, I just needed a minute.” That’s the gap. The gap between what we feel and what we say. The gap where ugly honesty lives.

We’re not doing this because we’re bad people. We’re doing it because the stakes feel impossibly high. Admit you’re struggling too loudly and someone might question your fitness. Admit you don’t love every minute and you might as well tattoo “bad mother” on your forehead. So we edit. We crop out the darkest corners and hope the light parts are enough to keep us connected.

But connection built on half-truths is flimsy. It’s like trying to build a bridge out of filtered photos and clever captions. It might look like it’s holding, but the first real storm will snap it clean.

The Stories We Don’t Tell at Playgroup

At a playgroup once, a mom I barely knew leaned over and whispered, “Sometimes I don’t like my son.” She immediately pulled back, eyes wide, as if she’d confessed to a crime. I grabbed her hand. “Sometimes I don’t like mine either,” I said. And we just sat there, two women holding hands next to a ball pit, not fixing anything but not alone anymore.

That moment was a lifeline. It was ugly honesty—the kind that doesn’t come with a solution or a silver lining. Just the truth: motherhood can be monotonous, infuriating, and lonely enough to make you forget who you were before. We need more of that. We need stories about the boredom that stretches hours into years. About the resentment that flares when your partner’s life seems unchanged while yours has been atomized. About the guilt of missing your old body, your old freedom, your old self—and then feeling guilty for feeling guilty.

I remember standing in the kitchen at 2 a.m., warming a bottle, and thinking, I could walk out the door right now and never come back. I didn’t. I won’t. But the thought was there, sharp and seductive. I’ve never told anyone that before. Not even my therapist. Because what kind of mother thinks that? A human one, I suspect. A tired, overwhelmed, human one.

Why Ugly Honesty Is Different from Venting

Let me be clear: I’m not talking about the performative complaint. You know the type—“Mom life: no sleep, no shower, no sanity lol.” That’s venting as a bonding ritual. It’s fine. It has its place. But ugly honesty goes deeper. It’s not about swapping war stories for sympathy points. It’s about revealing the parts of yourself that you’re genuinely ashamed of. The thoughts that make you question your core. The moments you’d never put in a group chat.

Ugly honesty is saying, “I resented my baby for ruining my marriage.” It’s admitting, “I Googled ‘how to give up parental rights’ at 3 a.m.” It’s confessing, “I love my child more than life, but I hate being a mother sometimes.” These aren’t cries for help—they’re just the truth. And the truth, spoken aloud, has a way of loosening its grip on you.

I think we’re terrified that if we say these things, someone will take our kids away. Or worse, they’ll nod and smile and then slowly back out of our lives. But here’s what I’ve learned: the right people lean in. The right people say, “Me too.” And the wrong people? They were never going to be your people anyway.

The Cost of Pretty Lies

When we only share the sanitized version of motherhood, we’re not just lying to others—we’re lying to ourselves. We start to believe that our dark thoughts are aberrations. That we’re uniquely broken. That every other mom is handling this with grace while we’re barely holding it together. That isolation is a breeding ground for postpartum depression and anxiety. It’s where the shame spirals live.

I spent my first year of motherhood convinced I was failing because I didn’t feel the way the Instagram moms looked. They looked tired but transcendent. I felt tired and hollow. They posted about “heart-exploding love.” I felt love like a weight—precious but crushing. I thought something was wrong with me. It wasn’t. It was just that no one had told me the full spectrum of normal includes some very dark colors.

Research backs this up. A study published in the Journal of Reproductive and Infant Psychology found that unrealistic expectations of motherhood—fueled by social media portrayals—are linked to higher rates of postpartum distress. When we expect bliss and get ambivalence, we blame ourselves instead of the narrative. We need a new narrative. One that makes room for the ugly.

What Ugly Honesty Looks Like in Practice

So how do we actually do this? How do we write and share stories that go past the pretty mess into the real one? It starts with permission. Permission to be the villain in your own story sometimes. Permission to not wrap everything in a lesson or a gratitude pivot. Not every hard moment needs to end with “but it’s all worth it.” Some moments just suck. Period.

Here’s an example from my own life. Last week, my three-year-old drew on the wall with permanent marker while I was on a work call. I lost it. I yelled—really yelled—and then I cried because I yelled. Later, I could have posted a funny photo of the wall art with a caption about “future Picasso.” That would have been the pretty version. The ugly version is: I scared my kid. I saw fear in her eyes and it broke something in me. I apologized, but the moment is still there, a splinter I can’t get out. That’s the story I need to tell. Not for absolution, but because it’s true.

Ugly honesty doesn’t mean we’re wallowing. It doesn’t mean we’re not grateful. It means we’re whole. We’re holding the beauty and the brutality in the same hand and refusing to drop either one. That’s the kind of motherhood story I want to read. The kind that says, “I love my child so much it terrifies me, and also I hid in the pantry today to eat a cookie alone because I couldn’t share one more thing.” Both things can be true. Both things are true.

Why We Need to Write the Ugly Parts

Writing the ugly parts isn’t just cathartic—it’s revolutionary. Every time a mother tells the truth about her experience, she cracks open the door for another mother to do the same. She says, “This space is safe for your mess.” She becomes a witness, not a judge. And in a culture that judges mothers for everything—how they feed, how they sleep train, how they work, how they don’t—witnesses are precious.

I want to read about the mom who didn’t feel a bond with her baby for six months. The mom who fantasized about her pre-kid life so intensely she cried at old photos. The mom who loves her teenager but doesn’t like who they’re becoming. The mom who chose to have only one child and feels both relief and grief. The mom who had an abortion and doesn’t regret it but still thinks about it. The mom who is struggling with infertility and hates every pregnant woman she sees. These stories exist in whispers. They need to exist in words.

I’m not saying we should all start trauma-dumping on Facebook. There’s a difference between processing publicly and bleeding publicly. But in our blogs, our essays, our conversations with friends who’ve earned our trust—we can go there. We can write the thing we’re afraid to write. We can hit publish and feel our hearts pound and know that somewhere, a mother is reading it and feeling less alone.

The Dark Humor That Keeps Us Sane

If ugly honesty is the meat, dark humor is the salt. It’s how we survive the unspeakable. I have a group chat with two mom friends where we send each other the thoughts we’d never say out loud. “If this kid asks me for one more snack I’m going to sell him to the circus.” “I just told my daughter the park is closed because I can’t handle the slide small talk today.” “Motherhood: the only job where you can be simultaneously bored and overstimulated.” We laugh because the alternative is crying, and we’ve already cried enough for today.

Dark humor isn’t cruelty. It’s a release valve. It’s acknowledging the absurdity of loving someone so much while they’re actively destroying your sanity. It’s the wink between mothers that says, “I see you. This is ridiculous. We’re in it together.” The best motherhood writing uses humor not to deflect but to deepen. It makes you laugh and then catches you off guard with a gut-punch of truth.

I want to read essays that make me snort coffee out my nose and then sit in silence for a minute, staring at the wall. That’s the sweet spot. That’s where ugly honesty lives with a smirk on its face.

Let’s Stop Apologizing for Our Ambivalence

Ambivalence is the great unspoken of motherhood. We’re allowed to say it’s hard. We’re not allowed to say we’re not sure we’d choose it again. But many of us feel that. Not all the time. Not in a way that means we don’t love our children. But in a way that acknowledges the cost. The careers paused, the bodies changed, the marriages strained, the selves lost. Pretending that cost doesn’t exist doesn’t make us noble—it makes us dishonest.

I love my daughter with a ferocity that shocks me. I would throw myself in front of a train for her without a second thought. And also, I miss sleeping in on Saturdays. I miss spontaneous road trips. I miss being able to finish a thought. These things coexist. They don’t cancel each other out. They just are.

When we write about motherhood, we need to hold that “and also.” The love and also the loss. The joy and also the resentment. The gratitude and also the grief. That’s the full picture. That’s the ugly, beautiful mess. And it’s the only story worth telling.

FAQ: The Hard Questions About Motherhood Honesty

Isn’t it dangerous to share such negative feelings about motherhood?

It can feel dangerous, yes. There’s a real fear of judgment or even intervention. But sharing honestly in safe spaces—with trusted friends, in anonymous forums, or in personal writing where you control the narrative—can be incredibly healing. The danger often lies more in not sharing, letting the shame fester in isolation. When we speak our darkest thoughts to someone who receives them without flinching, they lose some of their power over us. That said, if you’re experiencing thoughts of harming yourself or your child, that’s a signal to seek professional support immediately—not just a blog post.

How do I start writing more honestly about my own motherhood experience?

Start small and start private. Write in a journal that no one else will read. Write the thing you’re most afraid to say, even if you delete it afterward. Notice where you’re editing yourself—where you’re adding a “but it’s all worth it” out of habit. Try ending a piece without that pivot. Try writing a story where you don’t come off as the good guy. The more you practice telling the truth to yourself, the easier it becomes to share it with others. And when you do share, choose your audience carefully. Not everyone deserves your ugly honesty.

What if my honest story upsets my family or partner?

This is a legitimate concern. Our stories don’t exist in a vacuum—they involve real people who might recognize themselves. Before publishing something that includes your partner or children in an unflattering light, consider having a conversation with them. You might say, “I wrote something about a hard moment we had. I want to share it because I think it could help other people, but I want you to read it first.” Sometimes the act of sharing the writing with them can open up a conversation you needed to have anyway. And sometimes, you might decide the story isn’t yours alone to tell—and that’s okay too. Fiction and anonymized details can be powerful tools.

Does focusing on the ugly parts mean I’m not grateful for my children?

Absolutely not. Gratitude and struggle are not opposites. You can be deeply grateful for your child and still find parts of motherhood crushing. You can be thankful for your family and still grieve your old life. Honesty doesn’t cancel out love—it makes it more real. The mothers who write about the hard parts are often the ones who love their children most fiercely. They’re just refusing to pretend the hard parts don’t exist. That’s not ingratitude. That’s integrity.

So here’s my challenge to you—and to myself. The next time you sit down to write about motherhood, leave the filter off. Write the ugly part. Write the thought you’d never say at a playdate. Write the moment you’re not proud of. And then, if you’re brave enough, share it. Not for likes. Not for sympathy. But because somewhere out there, a mother is drowning in her own unspoken truths, and your words might be the hand she grabs onto.

Let’s tell the ugly, beautiful truth. Let’s stop apologizing for the mess that doesn’t photograph well. Motherhood is not a highlight reel. It’s a bloody, breathtaking, ridiculous, devastating, miraculous disaster. And it deserves stories that are just as real.

So your friend is doing IVF. She probably told you over text, maybe with a crying-laughing emoji and a vague mention of “shots” and “hormones” and “hoping for the best.” Now you’re standing in the greeting card aisle, staring at a pastel stork, realizing you have absolutely no idea what to say or do without making it awkward. Welcome. You’re already ahead of the game, because you’re here, trying.

I’ve been on both sides of this. I’ve been the one with the bruised stomach and the calendar full of appointments that sound like NASA launch codes. And I’ve been the friend on the outside, wanting to help but terrified of saying the wrong thing. So let’s talk about it—honestly, and with the kind of dark humor that actually gets us through waiting rooms and two-week waits.

First, Understand That IVF Isn’t a “Journey” She Signed Up for the Views

People love to call infertility a “journey.” I get it—it sounds hopeful, like something with a map and a destination. But for most of us in the trenches, it feels less like a journey and more like being shoved into a medical clown car that’s also on fire. IVF is not a spiritual retreat. It’s injections, blood draws, vaginal ultrasounds that feel like a violation before 8 a.m., and a level of hope and despair that can pivot on a single phone call. When you frame it as a “journey,” you risk minimizing the sheer physical and emotional grind of it. Instead, just acknowledge that it’s hard. Say, “This sucks, and I’m here.” That’s it. That’s the magic.

What to Say (and What to Absolutely Never Say)

Words matter. A lot. The wrong ones can make your friend want to throw a prenatal vitamin at your head. The right ones can feel like a life raft. Here’s a cheat sheet.

Things You Should Definitely Say

• “I’m here for you, whatever you need.” Simple, open-ended, no pressure. It lets her lead.
• “How are you really doing?” And then wait. Don’t fill the silence. Let her decide how deep to go.
• “That sounds incredibly hard.” Validation is everything. You’re not trying to fix it; you’re just seeing her.
• “Do you want to talk about it, or do you want a distraction?” This is a pro move. It gives her control over the conversation, which she has zero of in her treatment calendar.
• “I brought wine and trash TV. No baby talk unless you start it.” Sometimes the best support is a night off from being a patient.

Things You Should Never, Ever Say

• “Just relax and it’ll happen.” If relaxation cured infertility, we’d all be pregnant from spa weekends. IVF exists precisely because relaxing doesn’t fix blocked tubes, low sperm count, or endometriosis. This phrase implies she’s causing her own infertility by being too stressed. It’s insulting and medically ignorant.
• “At least you know you can get pregnant!” Said often after a miscarriage. No. Just no. A loss is not a silver lining.
• “Have you tried…?” Unless you are her reproductive endocrinologist, she has tried it, researched it, or ruled it out. Acupuncture, pineapple core, keto, manifesting—she knows. Trust me.
• “My cousin’s friend did IVF and got twins!” Anecdotes about other people’s success are not comforting. They’re just reminders that it worked for someone else. Also, twins are not the goal; a healthy baby is the goal.
• “Everything happens for a reason.” If you say this, I will personally manifest a minor inconvenience into your life so you can enjoy finding the reason for it. This phrase is spiritual bypassing at its worst.

The Practical Stuff: How to Show Up Without Being Overbearing

IVF is a logistical nightmare. Appointments are often early in the morning, last-minute, and require her to be at the clinic with a full bladder and an empty soul. Here’s how to help in tangible ways that don’t require her to manage you.

Food Is a Love Language, But Read the Room

During stims (the injection phase), her ovaries swell to the size of grapefruits. She’s bloated, uncomfortable, and probably nauseous. A casserole heavy with cheese might not be the move. Instead, ask: “Can I drop off some easy-to-reheat soup or a smoothie?” Or just send a delivery gift card. Let her choose what sounds edible. After egg retrieval, she’ll be sore and at risk for OHSS (ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome), which means high-sodium, high-protein foods are actually recommended. That’s your window for electrolyte drinks, salty snacks, and maybe a rotisserie chicken. But again—ask first.

Offer to Be a Chauffeur

She can’t drive herself home after retrieval or transfer because of the sedation. If you can take a morning off to drive her, it’s a huge gift. But don’t be offended if she says no. Some people prefer to have their partner do it, or they feel vulnerable and don’t want an audience. Offer once, genuinely, and then let it go.

Help with Her Other Responsibilities

If she has other kids, offer to take them for a few hours so she can nap after monitoring appointments. Walk her dog. Pick up her prescription—but only if she trusts you with her pharmacy drama, because specialty fertility meds often require refrigerated pickup and a signature, and the pharmacy will inevitably mess it up. Be ready for that.

The Emotional Landmines: Holidays, Announcements, and Social Media

IVF turns the calendar into a minefield. Mother’s Day, baby showers, gender reveals—these can feel like personal attacks, even though they’re not. Your job isn’t to shield her from the world, but to be a safe person within it.

Pregnancy Announcements

If you’re the one getting pregnant, tell her privately before you post on social media. Text her. Do not do it in person, because she will have to perform happiness on the spot, and that’s exhausting. Say something like: “I wanted to let you know before I share publicly. I understand if you need space from me for a while, and I won’t take it personally.” Then actually mean it. If she unfollows you for a few months, it’s not about you. It’s survival.

Baby Showers and Kid-Centric Events

Invite her, but explicitly give her an out. “I’d love to see you, but I totally get if this isn’t something you can do right now. No hard feelings either way.” And if she doesn’t come, don’t make her feel guilty. Send her a picture of the cake later if she wants it, but don’t push.

Social Media Sensitivity

You don’t have to stop posting your kids. But maybe don’t send her every cute video directly. Let her curate her own feed. If you’re sharing something IVF-related, don’t tag her unless she’s explicitly said she’s open about her treatment. Outing someone’s infertility is a betrayal.

The Two-Week Wait: How to Not Make It Worse

The two-week wait (TWW) between embryo transfer and pregnancy test is a special circle of hell. She’s analyzing every twinge, every cramp, every absence of symptoms. She’s Googling “implantation bleeding vs. period” at 3 a.m. She’s trying not to test early but probably already has. Here’s how to be a good friend during this time:

• Don’t ask if she “feels pregnant.” Progesterone supplements mimic early pregnancy symptoms exactly. She has no idea. Asking just forces her to either lie or spiral.
• Don’t tell her to “stay positive.” Toxic positivity is a cage. Let her feel whatever she’s feeling—hope, dread, numbness, all of it at once.
• Do offer distractions. “Want to binge-watch something stupid with me?” “I found a new taco place, want to go?” Low-stakes, low-energy hangouts are gold.
• Do remember the test date. Mark it in your phone. On that day, don’t text her first thing in the morning asking for results. Wait. If she wants to share, she will. If you don’t hear from her by evening, a simple “Thinking of you today” is enough.

When It Doesn’t Work: Showing Up for the Grief

A failed cycle is a death. Not of a person, but of a possibility—a very specific, very loved possibility. She may have named the embryo. She may have imagined their eye color. And now that’s gone. Treat it like any other loss. Don’t try to cheer her up. Don’t immediately pivot to “What’s next?” Just sit in the dark with her. Say, “I’m so sorry. This is heartbreaking.” Bring food. Send a card that doesn’t have a stork on it. Acknowledge the loss directly: “I’m sorry your embryo didn’t make it.” Using the right words shows you’ve been paying attention.

And please, don’t say “You can always try again.” She knows that. But right now, she’s mourning this one. Let her.

Long-Term Friendship Maintenance

IVF can last years. It can consume her identity, her finances, her marriage. She might become a different person for a while—more withdrawn, more brittle, more obsessed with cervical mucus than you ever wanted to know. Your friendship might feel one-sided. That’s okay. Keep showing up in small ways. A meme sent without context. A “no need to reply” text. An invitation to something low-key that she can ignore without guilt. When she finally comes up for air, she’ll remember who was still there.

And if she decides to stop treatment—whether to move to donor eggs, adoption, or a childfree life—support that too. The goal was never a baby at all costs. The goal was her well-being. Remind her of that.

FAQ: Your Awkward Questions, Answered

Is it okay to ask how many embryos they have?

Generally, no. Embryo numbers feel deeply personal—like asking how much money someone has in their savings account, but also how many potential children are on ice. If she brings it up, you can engage. Otherwise, don’t. Some people are open about it; many are not. Let her lead.

Can I offer to be a surrogate or egg donor?

Only if you’ve thought about it seriously and are prepared for her to say no. This is not a casual offer. It’s a massive, life-altering commitment. If you’re genuinely willing, you can say something like, “I’ve been reading about egg donation/surrogacy, and if that ever becomes something you need to explore, I’d be honored to talk about it. No pressure, and I won’t bring it up again.” Then don’t bring it up again. Let her sit with it for months if she needs to.

What if I accidentally say something stupid?

You will. We all do. The key is to catch yourself and apologize quickly, without making it about your guilt. “Oh god, that was a dumb thing to say. I’m sorry. I’m still learning.” Then move on. Don’t over-explain. Don’t make her comfort you. A sincere, brief apology and a subject change works wonders.

Should I stop talking about my own kids completely?

No. That’s weird too. She doesn’t want you to pretend your children don’t exist; she just wants you to read the room. If she’s having a particularly hard day, maybe don’t lead with a story about your toddler’s hilarious potty-training adventure. But don’t erase your life. A good rule: share the funny or frustrating stuff, not the “miracle of motherhood” stuff. She can handle poop stories. She can’t handle glow.

At the core of all this is one simple idea: treat her like a whole person, not a tragedy or a project. IVF is a medical treatment, not a personality. She’s still your friend—the one who laughs at inappropriate jokes and hates cilantro and once helped you move a couch in the rain. Don’t lose sight of that. Be normal. Be present. And when in doubt, just bring snacks and shut up.

So your friend is doing IVF. She told you over coffee, or maybe in a text that ended with a string of emojis you didn’t know how to interpret. You said something like, “That’s so exciting!” and then immediately wondered if that was the wrong thing to say. Because IVF is exciting, but it’s also terrifying, expensive, and about as romantic as a pelvic exam under fluorescent lights. You want to be there for her, but you’re terrified of saying the wrong thing, or worse, becoming one of those people who treats her like a fragile glass unicorn. Good news: you’re already doing better than most just by caring enough to read this. Let’s talk about how to show up without making it weird.

First, Understand That IVF Is a Mindf*ck

Before you can be a good friend, you need to get a basic grip on what IVF actually entails. It’s not just “turkey baster stuff” or “a little help from science.” It’s a months-long, hormone-soaked, hope-and-despair rollercoaster that makes puberty look like a mild inconvenience. Your friend is injecting herself with needles the size of a small harpoon, bloating like a pufferfish, and riding waves of synthetic hormones that make her cry at car commercials and then rage at her partner for breathing too loud. She’s also spending enough money to buy a decent used car, all for a chance—not a guarantee—at a baby. So when you say, “Just relax and it’ll happen,” you might as well be telling someone with a broken leg to just walk it off. Understanding this baseline of chaos is step one to not being an accidental jerk.

What to Say (and What to Shove Back Down Your Throat)

Words matter, especially when your friend’s emotional state is held together by progesterone suppositories and sheer will. Here’s a quick cheat sheet:

Say This

• “I’m here for you, whatever you need.” Simple, open-ended, no pressure.
• “How are you really doing?” The “really” is key. It gives her permission to drop the polite mask.
• “That sounds so hard. I’m sorry you’re going through this.” Validation without toxic positivity.
• “Want me to come over and just watch trash TV with you?” Distraction without forced conversation is a gift.
• “I brought snacks. No pressure to talk.” Actions often speak louder.

Please, For the Love of God, Don’t Say This

• “Just relax! Stress is bad for fertility.” Congratulations, you’ve now added guilt to her stress cocktail.
• “Have you tried [insert unsolicited advice]?” Unless you’re her reproductive endocrinologist, no. She has a team. She doesn’t need your Googled wisdom about pineapple core or standing on her head after sex.
• “Everything happens for a reason.” This is the verbal equivalent of a slap. Infertility is not a divine lesson plan.
• “At least you know you can get pregnant!” After a miscarriage or failed transfer, this is not a silver lining. It’s a reminder of loss.
• “When are you doing the transfer? Are you pregnant yet?” IVF is a marathon of waiting. Don’t make her give you progress reports unless she offers.

The Art of Not Being a Fertility Detective

One of the fastest ways to make your friend regret telling you about IVF is to start tracking her cycle like a creepy ovulation app. Don’t ask for transfer dates, egg retrieval numbers, or embryo grades unless she brings them up first. IVF turns a woman’s body into a public spreadsheet, and she’s already fielding questions from her partner, her doctor, her mother-in-law, and probably a Facebook group of strangers. Be the person who asks about her life, not her lining thickness. Ask about her job, her dog, the weird dream she had, the show she’s binging. Let her be a whole person, not just a walking uterus.

If she does share details, listen without turning it into a problem-solving session. She doesn’t need you to research her protocol or suggest a different clinic. She needs you to say, “That sounds exhausting. I’m sorry.” And then maybe offer to bring over pizza. That’s it. That’s the magic.

Gifts That Don’t Suck (and Some That Really Do)

Gift-giving during IVF is a minefield. You want to be thoughtful, but you also don’t want to hand her a “World’s Best Mom” mug two days after a failed transfer. Here’s a guide:

Good Gifts

• Cozy things: A soft blanket, fuzzy socks, a heating pad. Hormones make her cold, then hot, then cold again. Plus, heating pads help after injections.
• Distractions: A trashy novel, a puzzle, a subscription to a streaming service she doesn’t have. Something to occupy her brain during the two-week wait.
• Food: A meal delivery gift card, her favorite snacks, or a home-cooked dinner dropped off with zero expectation of hanging out. Bonus points if it’s comfort food.
• Practical self-care: Nice lotion (unscented, because hormones can make smells nauseating), a cute ice pack for injection sites, a funny card.

Gifts to Avoid

• Anything baby-related. No onesies, no “Future Baby” ornaments, no tiny socks. It’s presumptuous and painful if things go wrong.
• Fertility statues, crystals, or “lucky” charms. Unless she’s specifically into that, it feels like you’re pushing magical thinking on her.
• Self-help books about infertility. She’s already drowning in information. She doesn’t need you to assign homework.

Showing Up During the Hard Parts

IVF is a series of waiting rooms, both literal and metaphorical. There’s the baseline ultrasound, the stim checks, the egg retrieval, the fertilization report, the embryo update, the transfer, the beta test, the second beta test, the ultrasound, and on and on. Each step is a cliffhanger. You can’t be there for all of it, but you can be present for the emotional fallout.

If she gets bad news—a canceled cycle, no embryos, a negative test—don’t try to fix it. Don’t say, “You can always try again!” or “What about adoption?” Just say, “I’m so sorry. This is really unfair.” Then show up with her favorite takeout and sit on the couch while she ugly-cries or stares blankly at the wall. Your job is to witness her pain, not to solve it. If she wants to talk, she will. If she wants to sit in silence, let her. Being a container for someone’s grief without flinching is one of the most profound things you can do as a friend.

If she gets good news, celebrate carefully. IVF joy is often cautious, wrapped in layers of “but it’s still early” and “we’ve been here before.” Match her energy. If she’s quietly hopeful, be quietly hopeful with her. If she’s screaming and jumping, then scream and jump. Don’t force a party when she’s holding her breath.

Don’t Make It About You (Even If You’re Also Struggling)

This is tricky. Maybe you’re also dealing with infertility, or pregnancy loss, or the soul-crushing ambiguity of “unexplained.” It’s natural to want to connect over shared pain, but be careful not to hijack her experience. If she’s venting about her fourth egg retrieval, and you respond with, “Oh, I know, my IUI was so brutal,” you’ve just shifted the spotlight. Instead, try: “I’ve been through some of this too, so I really get it. But I want to hear about your stuff right now.” Then, later, you can ask if she has space to hold your story. Mutual support is beautiful, but it requires consent and timing.

If you’re pregnant or have kids, be mindful of how you share that. She’s happy for you, genuinely, but your joy might also punch her in the gut. Tell her privately, before any big announcements, and give her permission to feel however she feels. A text like, “I wanted to let you know before I post anything. I totally understand if you need space, and I love you no matter what,” can go a long way.

Respect the Financial and Logistical Sh*tshow

IVF is a part-time job that costs a fortune. Your friend is juggling appointments, injections, pharmacy runs, insurance battles, and possibly travel to a clinic. She’s exhausted and broke. Don’t make her manage your emotions about it. Don’t say, “I could never do all those shots!” or “How can you afford that?” It’s not helpful. Instead, offer concrete help: “Can I pick up your meds?” “Want me to drive you to your monitoring appointment so you can nap?” “Let me bring dinner Thursday—any dietary restrictions from the protocol?”

Also, don’t take it personally if she declines. Sometimes she just wants to be alone, or she’s already got a system with her partner. The point is that you offered without strings attached.

FAQ: Your Awkward Questions, Answered

Is it okay to ask how IVF works?

Only if she brings it up first. Some people love educating their friends; others are exhausted by it. A better approach: “I’d love to understand more about what you’re going through, but only if you feel like sharing. No pressure.” Then actually mean it.

What if I accidentally say the wrong thing?

You probably will. We all do. 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. The goal is to be a safe person, not a perfect one.

How do I support her during the two-week wait?

The two-week wait (the time between embryo transfer and pregnancy test) is a special circle of hell. Distraction is your best tool. Plan low-key hangouts that don’t revolve around drinking or strenuous activity. Movie nights, craft sessions, gentle walks. Don’t ask if she “feels pregnant.” Don’t analyze her symptoms. Just be there and keep her company while she Googles “9dpt5dt symptoms” for the 400th time.

What if she decides to stop treatment?

That’s her decision, and it’s heartbreaking. Don’t try to talk her out of it or offer alternative paths unless she explicitly asks. Say, “I trust you to know what’s right for you. I’m here no matter what.” Then follow her lead. Grief over stopping is complicated—it’s not just the loss of a potential child, but the loss of a dream, a timeline, a version of her future. Let her mourn it.

Long-Term Friendship: Don’t Disappear

IVF can take years. Friends often rally at the beginning, then drift away when the process drags on or when it gets “too heavy.” Don’t be that friend. Set a reminder to check in regularly, even if it’s just a stupid meme or a “thinking of you” text. Consistency matters more than grand gestures. And if she does eventually have a baby, don’t vanish because you assume she’s “fine now.” The trauma of infertility doesn’t evaporate with a positive test. She might be navigating a high-risk pregnancy, or postpartum anxiety, or the surreal transition from “infertile person” to “parent.” Keep showing up.

Supporting a friend through IVF isn’t about having the right answers. It’s about being willing to sit in the discomfort with her, to show up without an agenda, and to love her through a process that is fundamentally unfair and often absurd. You’ll mess up. That’s okay. Just keep coming back.

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.

So, your friend is doing IVF. She told you over coffee, or maybe in a late-night text that felt like a punch to the gut. And now you’re here, reading this, because you want to show up for her without accidentally making everything worse. Good. You’re already ahead of most people.

I’ve been on both sides of this particular fence—the friend nodding sympathetically while internally screaming, and the one in the paper gown with my feet in stirrups, a full bladder, and a doctor telling me my uterine lining looked “beautiful” like he was describing a freshly upholstered couch. IVF is a strange, expensive, hormonal, and deeply unsexy ordeal. Supporting someone through it without making them want to throw a used progesterone suppository at your head is a skill. Let’s talk about how to do it right.

IVF Is Not a “Journey”

It’s a medical procedure. A grueling, invasive, soul-crushing medical procedure that sometimes, if you’re lucky, ends with a baby. Calling it a “journey” makes it sound like a whimsical road trip with a curated playlist and stops for artisanal cheese. It’s not. It’s more like being strapped to a rocket ship where the fuel is your savings account and the destination might be a brick wall. Your friend isn’t on a journey. She’s in the trenches. Treat her accordingly.

That means ditching the platitudes. “Everything happens for a reason” is a phrase that should be legally banned from all fertility clinics. “Just relax” is a fast track to getting uninvited from her life. And “At least you get to have fun trying!” is a sentence that reveals you’ve never seen a semen analysis room with its single sad leather chair. The fun died months ago. Maybe years. Now it’s just logistics and grief.

Learn the Lingo So She Doesn’t Have to Be Your Google Translator

One of the most exhausting parts of IVF is managing everyone else’s ignorance. Your friend is already juggling injections, blood draws, ultrasounds, insurance battles, and the emotional whiplash of hope and despair. She does not also need to explain what a blastocyst is or why she’s crying over a fertilization report. Do your own homework. You don’t need a medical degree, but knowing the difference between a fresh transfer and a frozen transfer, or understanding that an embryo is not a baby, will make you a safe person to talk to.

Here’s a cheat sheet: Stims are the hormone injections that make her ovaries produce multiple eggs. Retrieval is the minor surgery where they suck those eggs out with a needle. Fertilization is when sperm meets egg in a petri dish. Blastocyst is a day-5 embryo that’s developed enough to maybe implant. Transfer is when they put it back in. Beta is the blood pregnancy test. PIO is progesterone in oil, an intramuscular injection that feels like getting stabbed with a knitting needle full of peanut butter. Learn these. Use them correctly. She’ll notice.

Ask Open-Ended Questions, Then Shut Up and Listen

“How are you feeling?” is a trap. It’s too broad, and the answer is always “like a bloated science experiment with the emotional stability of a wet cat.” Instead, try: “What part of this week’s protocol is stressing you out the most?” or “Do you want to vent about your clinic’s billing department, or would you rather I distract you with gossip about my neighbor’s questionable landscaping choices?” Give her a menu of options. Let her choose the level of disclosure. And when she talks, just listen. Don’t problem-solve unless she explicitly asks. Sometimes she just needs to say “I had 14 eggs retrieved and only one made it to blast” and have you respond with “That is so unfair and I hate it” instead of “Well, it only takes one!” She knows it only takes one. She also knows the statistics are brutal. Let her grieve the 13 that didn’t make it.

Gifts: Skip the Baby Booties, Send the Heating Pad

If your love language is gift-giving, you’re in luck. IVF is a gift-giving goldmine, but only if you aim for comfort, not sentiment. Do not, under any circumstances, give her a onesie, a “Future Big Sister” shirt for her dog, or a fertility crystal you bought off Etsy. She is not pregnant. She is going through a medical gauntlet that leaves her bruised, bloated, and emotionally raw. What she needs is practical, cozy, borderline hedonistic comfort.

Here’s your shopping list: a high-quality heating pad (her butt and belly will thank you after those PIO shots), fuzzy socks with grippy bottoms (for cold clinic floors), a giant water bottle (hydration is critical during stims), unscented everything (hormones make her nose a bloodhound), and snacks. So many snacks. Salty snacks for after retrieval when she’s at risk for OHSS and needs electrolytes. Chocolate for when the beta is negative. A DoorDash gift card for the days she can’t move. These gifts say “I see your suffering and I want to make it 2% more bearable” without the toxic positivity of “I believe this will work!”

Don’t Make Her Manage Your Feelings About Her Fertility

This is the big one. The cardinal rule. When your friend tells you her transfer failed, or she miscarried, or she got zero normal embryos, your job is to hold space for her pain. It is not to burst into tears so she has to comfort you. It is not to say “I’m so devastated, I was really counting on being an auntie.” She is not a baby factory for your future role as a godparent. She is a person whose body is failing her in a profoundly intimate way. Let her cry. Let her rage. Let her be silent. Your feelings about her infertility are valid, but they are yours to process with someone else—your partner, your therapist, your journal. Not with her. Not now.

This also applies to pregnancy announcements. If you get pregnant, tell her via text. Give her space to react privately, without an audience, without the pressure to perform joy. A text that says “I have some news that might be hard to hear, and I want you to process it however you need to. I love you. No response required.” is a masterclass in empathy. Do not surprise her at a group brunch. Do not hand her a “Promoted to Big Cousin” onesie. Do not be weird.

The Two-Week Wait: Become a Distraction Machine

The time between transfer and beta test is a psychological hellscape. Every twinge is a sign. Every absence of a twinge is a sign. Google is her worst enemy and her only comfort. Your role here is to be the Minister of Distractions. Do not ask “Do you feel pregnant?” She doesn’t know. She’s on supplemental hormones that mimic pregnancy symptoms. Her body is a liar right now.

Instead, plan low-key, non-competitive activities. Think: a movie marathon of films with zero pregnancy plotlines (I recommend the entire John Wick franchise—pure, unadulterated revenge fantasy with no babies), a craft night where you both fail at macramé, or a trip to a rage room where she can smash plates with a baseball bat. Offer to go with her to non-IVF medical appointments, like the dentist, because sitting in a waiting room that isn’t filled with hopeful couples and fertility magazines is a genuine relief. Be her shield against the world’s casual fecundity.

What to Say When You Have No Idea What to Say

Silence is fine. Presence is better. But if you must open your mouth, here are some scripts that won’t make her want to throw a speculum at you:

• Instead of “It will happen when it’s meant to”: “This is so unfair and I’m angry on your behalf.”
• Instead of “Have you thought about adopting?”: “I’m here to support whatever path you choose, even if that path changes.”
• Instead of “My cousin did IVF and got twins!”: Nothing. Just don’t. Success stories from other people feel like a spotlight on her failure.
• Instead of “At least you know you can get pregnant” (after a loss): “I’m so sorry. That loss matters. This isn’t a consolation prize.”
• Instead of ghosting because you don’t know what to say: “I’m thinking of you. No need to reply.”

Notice a theme? Acknowledge the pain. Don’t try to fix it. Don’t silver-line it. Just sit in the mud with her.

Respect That IVF Is a Financial Black Hole

IVF costs a fortune. Even with insurance, the copays, medications, and “optional” add-ons (which never feel optional) can drain savings, delay home purchases, and max out credit cards. Your friend is not just emotionally raw; she’s financially hemorrhaging. So when she declines your invitation to a destination wedding or a $50 brunch, don’t push. Don’t say “You deserve a treat!” She knows. She also knows that one round of stim meds costs more than your weekend in Napa.

If you want to help, be discreet and specific. “I’d love to cover your meds this cycle” is a huge, generous offer that might feel too intimate. Instead, try: “I’m sending you a grocery delivery on Friday so you don’t have to think about dinner after your monitoring appointment.” Or: “Let me drive you to your retrieval. I’ll bring a puke bag and a playlist of angry 90s rock.” Practical, financial-adjacent support that doesn’t make her feel like a charity case.

FAQ: The Questions You’re Too Scared to Ask Her

Can I ask how many embryos they got?

You can ask if she wants to share details, but don’t ask for specific numbers unless she offers. Embryo counts are loaded. A high number can feel like a brag she’s terrified to jinx. A low number is a gut punch. Say: “I’d love to hear any updates you feel like sharing, but no pressure.” Then let her lead.

Should I avoid talking about my kids?

Not entirely, but read the room. She still loves you and your children. She just might not want to hear a play-by-play of your toddler’s potty-training triumphs on a day she found out her embryo didn’t thaw. Ask: “Is it okay if I talk about the kids, or is that hard right now?” And mean it. If she says it’s hard, respect that without making her feel guilty.

What if she decides to stop treatment?

Support her. Unequivocally. The decision to stop IVF is not a failure; it’s a brutal, brave choice to reclaim her body, her finances, and her mental health from a process that can consume everything. Say: “I trust you to know what’s right for you. I’m here no matter what.” Don’t suggest she “just needs a break” or imply she’s giving up. She’s surviving.

Remember She’s Still a Person, Not a Patient

IVF can swallow an identity whole. Your friend who used to talk about books, politics, and her questionable taste in men now spends her days analyzing cervical mucus and progesterone levels. Remind her that she’s more than her uterus. Talk about the things you’ve always talked about. Send her memes. Argue about whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie. Invite her to things she’ll probably say no to, but invite her anyway. Being treated like a fragile, one-dimensional infertility vessel is its own special kind of loneliness.

And if she does get pregnant? Don’t immediately shift into baby mode. The trauma of IVF doesn’t vanish with a positive test. She might be terrified, disconnected, unable to trust her own body. Follow her lead. Celebrate if she celebrates. Tread gently if she’s holding her breath. The goal was never just a baby—it was your friend, intact, knowing she wasn’t alone in the darkest, most expensive, least sexy fight of her life.

You’re a good friend for even reading this. Now go be the person she deserves—the one who brings snacks, shuts up when needed, and never, ever says “baby dust.”

So your friend is doing IVF. She told you over coffee, or maybe in a late-night text that landed like a confession. You said something supportive, probably “I’m here for you,” and then you went home and Googled “what not to say to someone doing IVF” because you’re a decent human who doesn’t want to accidentally torch a friendship. Good. You’re already ahead of most people.

Here’s the thing: IVF is a medical marathon that also happens to be an emotional minefield, a financial sinkhole, and a hormonal roller coaster designed by a sadist. Your friend is currently strapped into that ride, and she needs you to not make it weirder than it already is. I’ve been through it. I’ve watched friends go through it. I’ve said the wrong thing. I’ve had the wrong thing said to me. Let’s talk about how to actually show up without making her wish she’d never told you.

First, Understand What IVF Actually Is (So She Doesn’t Have to Explain It)

IVF isn’t just “the thing where they mix stuff in a petri dish.” It’s weeks of injections that make her ovaries swell to the size of grapefruits. It’s blood draws every other day at 7 a.m. It’s transvaginal ultrasounds so frequent she starts to feel like a garage with an open bay door. It’s a retrieval surgery where they stick a needle through her vaginal wall to suck eggs out of her follicles while she’s under anesthesia. Then it’s waiting to see if any of those eggs fertilize, if any become embryos, if any embryos are normal, if her lining is thick enough, if the transfer works, if the beta numbers double, if there’s a heartbeat. Every step is a cliffhanger. Every step can fail. And she’s doing all of this while mainlining hormones that make her feel like she’s permanently stuck in the worst PMS of her life.

So when you say “Just relax and it’ll happen,” what she hears is “I have no idea what you’re actually going through, and I’m not interested in learning.” Don’t be that person. Read a little. Ask her if she wants to talk about the process, but don’t make her your sole source of IVF education. She’s already tired.

The Art of Not Saying the Dumb Thing

People get weird about infertility. They say things that would be hilarious if they weren’t so painful. Here’s a greatest hits album of phrases to retire from your vocabulary immediately:

• “Everything happens for a reason.” Unless that reason is a specific genetic mutation or a blocked fallopian tube, no. This is the platitude equivalent of a pat on the head. It dismisses her pain and implies some cosmic plan decided she needed to suffer. She doesn’t need a philosophy lecture; she needs a friend.
• “Have you tried just not thinking about it?” Yes, because injecting yourself with hormones twice a day while tracking follicle growth on a spreadsheet is super easy to forget. She’s not “thinking about it” recreationally. It’s her life right now.
• “At least you know you can get pregnant!” This one often comes after a miscarriage or a chemical pregnancy. Knowing you can get pregnant but not stay pregnant is a special kind of hell. It’s not a consolation prize.
• “My cousin’s neighbor did IVF and had twins!” Success stories feel like pressure, not hope. She knows IVF can work. She also knows it often doesn’t. Your anecdote about a stranger’s uterus is not the encouragement you think it is.
• “Are you going to do genetic testing? What about the leftover embryos?” These are deeply personal, ethically complex decisions she’s probably already agonizing over. Unless she brings it up, assume it’s none of your business.

Instead, try: “I’m so glad you told me. I don’t know what to say except I’m here. How are you feeling today—like, actually?” That’s it. You don’t need to solve anything. You just need to be a safe place for the ugly truth.

Gifts That Don’t Suck (and One That Really Does)

If you’re a gift-giver, you might want to show up with something. Great. But please, for the love of all that is holy, do not bring her a pineapple. The internet has decided pineapples are the “symbol of IVF” because of some bromelain theory, and now every well-meaning friend shows up with a pineapple like it’s a fertility talisman. She doesn’t want a pineapple. She wants a heating pad and a bag of Cheetos.

Here’s what actually helps:

• Cozy socks. Her feet are cold from all the blood draws and anxiety. Get the really soft ones with grippy bottoms.
• A heating pad or hot water bottle. Post-retrieval cramps are no joke. Her abdomen will feel like she did a thousand crunches while someone inflated a balloon inside her.
• Gift cards for food delivery. Cooking feels impossible when you’re bloated, hormonal, and emotionally drained. Uber Eats or DoorDash credit is a lifeline.
• Trashy magazines or a mindless novel. She needs distraction that requires zero brain cells. Think celebrity gossip, not “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.”
• A handwritten card that says “I love you and I’m here” and nothing else. No “baby dust.” No “sticky vibes.” Just human connection.

How to Ask How It’s Going Without Making Her Want to Scream

“Any news??” with two question marks and a prayer-hands emoji is not the move. She will tell you if there’s news. The waiting is the worst part, and your check-ins can feel like you’re asking her to produce a positive pregnancy test for your own emotional relief. That’s a lot of pressure.

Instead, ask open-ended questions that don’t demand a specific outcome:

• “How are you holding up this week?”
• “What part of the process are you in right now?”
• “Do you want to talk about it, or do you want me to distract you with gossip about my neighbor’s questionable landscaping choices?”

Let her lead. Some days she’ll want to vent about every injection site bruise. Other days she’ll want to pretend IVF doesn’t exist and talk about literally anything else. Follow her cues. If she changes the subject, let her. If she starts crying, don’t panic. Hand her a tissue, say “this sucks,” and sit in the suck with her.

The Hormones Are Running the Show (Be Cool About It)

IVF hormones are not like regular PMS hormones. They’re like PMS hormones after chugging a Red Bull and watching a sad dog commercial. Your friend might cry because she dropped a spoon. She might rage-text you about a coworker’s “stupid baby shower.” She might send you 47 memes at 2 a.m. and then go radio silent for a week. None of this is about you. Don’t take it personally. Don’t tell her she’s being hormonal—she knows. Just ride the wave. Reply with a heart emoji. Show up with coffee (decaf if she’s in a transfer cycle) and don’t expect her to be consistent.

One friend told me she burst into tears at a stoplight because the car in front of her had a “Baby on Board” sticker. Another threw her phone across the room after seeing a pregnancy announcement on Instagram. This is the reality. Your job is not to fix it. Your job is to say “That sticker is obnoxious anyway” and hand her a tissue.

What She Actually Needs From You (It’s Not Advice)

Unless you are her reproductive endocrinologist, she does not need your medical advice. She doesn’t need to hear about your aunt who “stopped trying and then got pregnant.” She doesn’t need you to suggest acupuncture, yoga, keto, or “just adopting.” She has a team of doctors. She has Google. What she doesn’t have is a friend who can sit in the mess with her without trying to clean it up.

Here’s what she actually needs:

• Someone to be normal with. IVF makes you feel like a science experiment. Be the person who reminds her she’s still a whole human who is funny and smart and liked for reasons that have nothing to do with her uterus.
• Someone who remembers her triggers. If she tells you baby showers are hard right now, don’t invite her to yours and then say “I’d understand if you can’t come!” Just don’t invite her. Send her a text that day saying you’re thinking of her. She’ll appreciate not having to make the choice.
• Someone who shows up after bad news. A failed transfer or a miscarriage is a death. Treat it like one. Bring food. Don’t ask questions. Say “I’m so sorry. I’m here.” Then be there. Not with solutions, but with your presence.

The Pregnancy Announcement Problem

If you get pregnant while your friend is in the trenches of IVF, telling her is going to be awkward no matter what. But you can make it less awful. Do not tell her in a group setting. Do not tell her via a cutesy social media post she’ll stumble upon at 6 a.m. while injecting herself with hormones. Tell her privately, over text, so she doesn’t have to perform happiness in real time. Say something like:

“I wanted to let you know before you heard elsewhere that I’m pregnant. I know this might be hard to hear given everything you’re going through, and I completely understand if you need space. I love you and I’m here however you need me.”

Then give her space. Don’t expect her to throw you a shower or coo over ultrasound photos. Let her set the pace for how much pregnancy talk she can handle. And for the love of God, don’t complain about your pregnancy symptoms to her. She would kill for the chance to have morning sickness.

What If She Stops Talking About It?

Sometimes the silence means she’s in a waiting period where there’s nothing to report. Sometimes it means she got bad news and can’t say it out loud yet. Sometimes it means she’s decided to stop treatment and the grief is too big for words. Don’t fill the silence with “So, any updates?” Just keep showing up. Send a meme. Invite her to something low-stakes. Remind her you’re her friend, not her fertility tracker.

If she does decide to stop treatment—whether that means moving to donor eggs, pursuing adoption, or choosing a childfree life—that is not your opportunity to finally share your opinion. It’s her life. Her body. Her grief. Her relief. Your only job is to say “I support you completely” and mean it.

Don’t Make Her Manage Your Feelings

This one is big. IVF is emotionally exhausting for her. She doesn’t have the bandwidth to also manage your discomfort, your pity, or your toxic positivity. If you feel awkward, sit with it. If you feel sad for her, process that with someone else. She is not your therapist. She is the one actually going through it. When you say “I just feel so bad for you,” you’re asking her to comfort you about her own pain. Don’t do that.

Instead, say “I hate that you’re going through this.” It’s a statement of solidarity, not a bid for reassurance. See the difference?

What About the Partner?

If your friend has a partner going through this with her, don’t forget them. They’re often the invisible support person, managing their own grief while trying to hold everything together. They’re giving injections, driving to appointments, fielding questions from their own family, and watching someone they love suffer. Ask them how they’re doing. Offer to grab a beer or go for a walk. They need support too, and they’re probably not getting much because everyone’s focused on the person with the ovaries.

But also: don’t make weird jokes about how they just have to “do their part in a cup.” That’s dismissive and gross. They’re going through this too, just differently.

When You Mess Up (Because You Will)

You’re going to say the wrong thing eventually. Everyone does. The difference between a friend who survives IVF with you and one who doesn’t is what happens next. If you realize you just said something stupid, apologize. Quickly. Without making it a whole thing. “Wow, that was a dumb thing to say. I’m sorry.” Then move on. Don’t over-explain. Don’t make her reassure you that it’s okay. Just own it and do better.

She’s not keeping score. She’s just looking for people who are safe. Be safe. Be the friend who can handle the dark jokes, the ugly cries, and the long silences. Be the friend who doesn’t need her to be okay to stick around.

Frequently Asked Questions

Should I offer to go to appointments with her?

You can offer once, gently, but don’t push. Many appointments are early morning monitoring visits that last 15 minutes and involve a transvaginal ultrasound—not exactly a spectator sport. The retrieval and transfer are more significant, but she may only want her partner there. Say “I’m happy to drive you to any appointment if you ever want company,” and then let it go.

Is it okay to ask how much IVF costs?

Nope. Unless she brings it up, finances are off-limits. IVF is staggeringly expensive and often not covered by insurance. Asking about money can feel invasive and adds another layer of stress. If she volunteers information, you can listen, but don’t pry.

What if I’m also struggling with infertility? Can we support each other?

Maybe, but tread carefully. Infertility is not a monolith. Your experiences might be very different, and one of you might get pregnant while the other doesn’t. That can strain even the strongest friendship. It’s okay to bond over shared understanding, but protect both your hearts by maintaining other support systems too.

How long should I keep checking in?

As long as it takes. IVF can go on for years. The support she needs doesn’t have an expiration date. Even after treatment ends—whatever the outcome—she’ll still be processing. Keep being her friend. The check-ins don’t have to be about IVF. Just keep showing up.

At the core of all of this is one simple truth: your friend is going through something hard, and she needs you to be there without making it about you. That’s it. That’s the whole assignment. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be present, humble, and willing to sit in the discomfort without trying to fix it. If you can do that, you’re already doing better than most. And she’ll remember it forever.

I named the embryo “The Maybe.” Not out loud, not to my wife, not in the clinic portal where the embryologist had already assigned it a number and a letter grade like a cut of beef. I named it in a private journal I started the week of the transfer, a journal I told myself was for “processing” but was really for control. The Maybe. It was the best I could do. It was honest in a way that “Baby” wasn’t, that “Little One” felt like a lie, that “Embryo 4AB” was accurate but also the language of a lab report, not a hope. I wanted a name that held the uncertainty without collapsing into it. I wanted a title for this chapter of my life that didn’t pretend to know the ending.

What I discovered, over the weeks that followed, is that we have almost no good language for the things we build when the thing we’re building is a family. The tools we do have—the clinic’s numbering systems, the insurance company’s “infertility diagnosis” codes, the culture’s insistence on “natural” versus “artificial,” the well-meaning friend’s “when are you due?”—are all titles someone else wrote. They are the equivalent of a book title generator spitting out options based on genre and market positioning, calibrated for broad appeal, optimized for clarity, and completely indifferent to the actual story.

I know this because I spent an evening, somewhere around day six of the two-week wait, actually using a book title generator. I typed “queer woman tries to get pregnant through reciprocal IVF while insurance denies everything and her mother keeps asking about the real father” into a prompt field and watched the algorithm return suggestions like “Between Two Worlds” and “The Long Wait” and “A Mother’s Hope.” I laughed, the kind of laugh that is mostly exhale, and then I felt something closer to grief. Because the generator was doing exactly what the world does: taking a story that is specific and messy and full of bodies and money and bureaucratic absurdity, and smoothing it into something marketable. Something with a clear genre. Something that would look right on a shelf.

This is not a critique of the generator itself. The Reedsy book title generator is, by its own description, a tool to “spark the imagination of fiction writers when it comes to title-hunting.” It asks for genre, core conflict, comparative titles, words to avoid. It offers a commercial mode and a literary mode. It is transparent about its limitations: “the generator is better at sparking a direction than landing the final answer.” That is honest. That is useful, if you are writing a novel. But I was not writing a novel. I was living inside a story that had no genre, no clear conflict, no comp titles, and a protagonist who was also the author and also the audience and also, depending on the day, the villain. And the generator’s logic—its tidy, market-tuned, genre-sorted logic—was exactly the logic the world kept applying to my family-building. It was the logic of the fertility clinic’s “success rates” page. The logic of the insurance form that asked me to check “infertility” as a diagnosis when my body had never been given a chance to fail. The logic of the phrase “intended parent,” which is a title that announces, before you have even begun, that you are not yet the thing you are trying to become.

The problem is not that we name things. The problem is that the available names are broken. They are broken in ways that are specific to queer families, to families built through assisted reproductive technology, to anyone whose path to parenthood does not follow the script. “Natural” is a title that implies the rest of us are unnatural. “Real mother” is a title that gets asked as a question, in ultrasound rooms and grocery store lines, and the question itself is a title fight. “Just adopt” is a title that gets offered as a solution, as if adoption were a backup plan and not its own entire story with its own entire grief and its own entire bureaucracy. “Rainbow baby” is a title some people find beautiful and that makes me feel like my child is a weather event. “Warrior mama” is a title I have never once felt like, unless the battle is with a prior authorization department and the weapon is a fax machine.

And then there are the titles we give ourselves, in private, in the spaces where the public vocabulary fails. I called the embryo “The Maybe” because I could not call it “The Baby” and I could not call it “The Embryo” without feeling like I was reading from a medical chart. My wife called it “The Dot,” because that’s what it looked like on the ultrasound photo we taped to the refrigerator: a dot, a period, a punctuation mark at the end of a sentence we hadn’t finished writing. A friend of mine, going through IVF alone, called her embryos “The Committee,” because there were five of them and she imagined them in a boardroom deciding her future. Another friend, after a failed transfer, renamed the embryo “The Almost” and then stopped naming things altogether. These are not titles a generator would produce. They are not marketable. They are not inspirational. They are the names we give when the official names fail, and they are, in their way, more accurate than anything the culture has offered us.

The naming impulse is human. We name our children, our pets, our cars, our plants, our projects, our fears. We name things to make them real, to make them ours, to make them manageable. The Reedsy character name generator understands this: it asks for archetype, personality, setting, cultural origin, and then returns names with meanings, because a name is supposed to mean something. A name is supposed to fit the world it enters. But what do you do when the world your embryo enters has no archetype for it? When the setting is a petri dish in a lab in a city where your marriage is legal but your parentage is not? When the cultural origin is “donor 4876, CMV negative, likes hiking and claims to read Proust”? The generator can give you a name for a hero, a mentor, a trickster, a villain. It cannot give you a name for the thing that is none of those yet, the thing that is a possibility wrapped in a grade and a freezer burn and a hope you are afraid to articulate because articulating hope has, in the past, preceded loss.

So we improvise. We call the embryo “The Maybe” or “The Dot” or “The Committee” or nothing at all. We call the process “the thing” or “the treatment” or “IVF” as if it were a single word and not a year of injections and ultrasounds and phone calls and spreadsheets and crying in the car outside the clinic because you cannot cry inside the clinic, there are other people there, people who might be having a worse day. We call the grief “disappointment” because “grief” feels too large, too permanent, too much like a title you cannot take back. We call the hope “stupid” because hope has burned us before. We call the family we are building “our family” and then pause, because the word “family” is a title the state may not recognize, a title the school form may not have a box for, a title the stranger in the park may question with a tilt of the head and a “so which one of you is the—” and then they stop, because they do not have a title either.

The bureaucratic names are their own genre. On insurance forms, I was “the patient” and my wife was “the partner,” except when she was “the patient” and I was “the partner,” and the switching was a paperwork nightmare that required its own spreadsheet. On the clinic’s portal, our embryos were “specimens” until they were “blastocysts” until they were “transferred” or “discarded” or “cryopreserved,” and each word was a title that carried a different weight, a different cost, a different future. The embryologist called my eggs “product” once, and I flinched, and then I realized she was not being cruel, she was being precise, and the precision was the cruelty. The legal consultation gave us titles we had not known we needed: “second parent adoption,” “gestational carrier,” “intended parent,” “known donor,” “anonymous donor,” “genetic mother,” “non-genetic mother.” Each title was a door that opened onto another door that opened onto a fee. Each title was a reminder that our family was a legal construction before it was a social one, a paperwork pregnancy before it was a body pregnancy, a story that had to be filed before it could be told.

And then there is the cultural pressure to title the whole thing with a tidy, marketable logic. The pressure to have a “journey” with a “destination.” The pressure to frame the struggle as a “lesson” or a “blessing” or a “testament to perseverance.” The pressure to post the ultrasound photo with a caption that resolves the tension, that assures the audience it was all worth it, that wraps the mess in a bow. I drafted that caption. I drafted it six times. I never posted it. Because the caption was a title, and the title was a lie, and the lie was that the story had ended. The story had not ended. The story was a child, and the child was a beginning, and the beginning was full of its own unnameable things: the postpartum anxiety I had not titled, the breastfeeding grief I had not titled, the strange disorientation of being a non-genetic mother to a child who looked like my wife and a donor and also, somehow, like me, because family resemblance is a story we tell, not a truth we find.

What I have learned, three years into parenthood, is that the most honest title is often the one that refuses to be inspirational. The one that admits it does not know. The one that holds the uncertainty without collapsing into it. “The Maybe” was not a good title for a book. It would not sell. It would not fit on a spine. But it was true, and truth is what I needed more than marketability. Truth is what I still need, when people ask me to describe my family and I say “two moms, a kid, a donor we’ve never met, and a lot of paperwork” and watch them try to fit that into a category they already have. Truth is what I need when my child asks about the “other lady” in the donor photo and I have to decide, in real time, what to call her: donor, genetic material provider, biological origin, the nice man from California who liked hiking. None of these are good titles. All of them are true in different ways. The truth is that we are still naming things, still revising the titles, still discovering that the story does not end at the positive test or the birth or the first birthday or the first time your kid says “my moms” without hesitating. The story keeps going, and the titles keep failing, and we keep inventing new ones.

There is a tool, if you are looking for one, that understands this better than most. It is not a book title generator, though it comes from the same impulse to name creative work. Unsloppy AI’s approach to title generation starts from the premise that a title is not a label but a relationship between the work and the reader, and that the best titles emerge from the specific texture of the thing itself, not from a genre dropdown. I am not saying it would have named my embryo. I am saying it understands that naming is an act of attention, not an act of categorization. And attention is what the fertility industry, the insurance industry, the culture at large, so rarely offers. Attention is what we offer each other, in the group texts at 3 AM, in the private journals, in the names we give the things that have no official names. Attention is what I am trying to offer here, by writing this, by refusing to title it “My Fertility Journey” or “How I Found Hope” or “The Gift of IVF.”

The embryo I called “The Maybe” is now a child with a name, a real name, a name we chose from a baby book after three fights and a spreadsheet. But the name is not the end of the naming. The child asks questions, and the questions require new names. The school asks questions, and the questions require new explanations. The world asks questions, and the questions are often the same question in different fonts: which one of you is the real mother? And I have learned to answer not with a title but with a story, a story that starts with “we both are” and then goes wherever it needs to go, depending on who is asking and why. The story is the title. The story is the only title that fits. And the story is still being written, in the quiet, unshareable spaces where we name our grief and our hope and our children and our selves, not for the market, not for the algorithm, not for the culture, but for each other, and for the record, and for the maybe that became a yes.