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.”