It’s been three years since my husband and I started trying. 

I used to hate that term – trying. It sounded passive, whiny, noncommittal. And between the 1,056 ovulation pee tests, a fertility wrist tracker worn nightly, two diet changes, cleaning up my act and my beauty bag with NakedPoppy, three acupuncturists, two fertility clinics, three failed IUIs, fourteen eggs, four viable embryos, one failed IVF transfer, and one “maybe” IVF transfer, trying felt like an understatement. 

But trying also sums up the emotionally taxing process better than any other word. Because trying is trying for a lot of us out there. It’s strenuous looking at every calendar like it’s a ticking baby time bomb. It’s unsexy barking at your husband to have sex on demand. It’s awkward when friends get pregnant but feel guilty sharing their big news, because poor you. It’s frustrating, disheartening, and isolating. Because even when you have an incredibly supportive partner, ultimately, it’s you on the toilet gripping the pee sticks. 

So there I sat, alone, nine days after my second embryo transfer. A cup of pee in one hand and a flimsy pregnancy test in the other. 

It was too early to test but I was doing it anyway. I’d had heartburn for the first time in my life, which is apparently a sign of early pregnancy. I was looking for signs everywhere and had the Google search history to prove it. 

“Chin zits pregnancy.” 

“Hot meat smells gross pregnancy.”

“Heartburn pregnancy.” Ladies and gentlemen, we had a hit!

I hear most women leave the room after they’ve tested their urine and come back three minutes later to see the results. Not this woman. I stared at that stick unblinkingly for two straight minutes looking for even a hiccup of a line. 

No dice. 

But that heartburn was pretty weird, right?

Now, it was a day later, another test, another staring contest. Is that an outline of a line? I squinted to see a little whisper of whiter on white. That could be something. I waited 60 more seconds. And that whisper began turning the faintest hint of pink…am I…? 

Suddenly I was on my knees, digging in the trashcan next to the toilet for yesterday’s test. I was up to my elbows sifting through plastic wrappers, used cotton balls, tissue, and dental floss. Had there actually been a second line that I hadn’t given the time to develop? 

I found the trash test and held it up to the light. Oh my god, yes.

Still in disbelief, I brought out the big guns: First Response. While the flimsy tests cost me $20 for a box of 100, First Response was $20 a pop. I dipped the stick and stared for another two minutes, and there she was. The official second line – making her glorious mauve debut. 

As soon as my husband came home I shoved all three pee sticks in his face. His eyes went wide. 

“Really?” he asked.  

I shook my head yes, and we both teared up, and we held each other for a very long time. It was the most romantic moment I’ve ever had near urine. 

I’m in my sixth month of pregnancy now. “Filling out” as my mother says. Reading about how French women raise calmer babies. Cleaning out every closet in a nesting frenzy. And eating lots of ice cream to ease my heartburn (it really is a sign).

I really don’t know why it “took” this time. Was it switching to clean beauty and a healthier lifestyle? Was it the medical intervention and sticking myself with needles for months at a time? Was it pausing from the obsessive fertility tracking for a couple of months and looking at my life without kids and realizing it’s actually incredibly fulfilling? 

I’m sure it was a combination of all of the above, but especially the latter. Because my head was so far up my fertility trackers, and so focused on what I wanted, that I’d forgotten all that I have. 

I’ve had the time to work on myself and my relationships. I’ve had the privilege to travel and explore new ideas. I’ve had the chance to work as long and hard as I want. I’ve had the freedom to stay up too late with friends, and the luxury of long, slow brunches the morning after. 

With or without kids, I love my life and I’m happier than ever. And if I’m being honest, it’s not because I finally got pregnant. It’s because I reclaimed the one thing I can control: my perspective.

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