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The precipice of fertility treatment is like The Fool card in tarot—an entry point of infinite possibilities marking the beginning of a major life journey. It carries the energy of a leap of faith, where growth requires taking risks and stepping into the unknown. Optimism is interwoven with uncertainty and a surrender to forces beyond our control.
In this stage, just before treatment, a great deal unfolds beneath the surface—psychologically and emotionally. It’s a phase rarely acknowledged because there’s “nothing to announce” yet.
The outside world sees this as a stage of logistics and medical planning, but internally, it’s a huge emotional crossroads. People are often holding complex, competing emotions—excitement and dread, trust and doubt, longing and self-protection—all at once. It requires carrying this weight while presenting composure to the world.
This hidden psychological labor can be isolating, as others may not recognize it as a stage of grief, hope, or transition.
The Story We’re Told
We grow up believing that our ability to conceive is simple—something that happens naturally. In fact, as young adults, we spend so much time trying not to get pregnant that we assume when the time comes, it will just happen.
Lucinda’s Story
The reality, however, can look a little different. Take Lucinda. At first, she didn’t notice, but as the months passed, the presence of her period felt like a letdown.
“Everything looks fine! Your numbers are great. Just be patient, keep trying. Give it time,” was the rallying call from her OB-GYN.
Part of her held onto that, and another part felt slightly unsettled. She pushed away her feelings of doubt because she was “just being too anxious.” But as she scrolled through her social media feed and watched her peers “lap” her, she knew something might be off—even if no one had said it yet.
What’s happening? she thought. Why not me?
When the Story Becomes Yours
Lucinda’s story is one you might recognize. First, you tell yourself it’s nothing—you’re still in the “let’s wait and see” phase. But then you start paying attention differently. You begin watching your body like a puzzle you’re trying to solve. Every symptom, every perfectly timed attempt, every letdown feels like a message you can’t quite decode.
Eventually, the doctor suggests, “Try Clomid.” You imagine twins, which is both exciting and nerve-racking all at once. You let yourself get carried away with full-blown fantasies. The sentiment behind it is one you know: Finally, this dream is mine.
And everything still feels quite manageable, as it’s still like “trying”—not full-blown treatment.
Crossing Over Into Treatment
You’re not in fertility treatment yet, but you’re standing at the edge of it. Then comes the word: specialist. And you find yourself in the waiting room of a reproductive endocrinologist—clipboard in your lap, surrounded by a spa-like hallway. The medical forms contain a list of acronyms you’ve never seen before. You’re not just trying anymore; you’re being seen. And that brings a strange mix of grief and relief.
You tell yourself it’s just to rule things out—you want answers.
After the visit, it lands: This is going to be harder than you thought, not because there’s a problem, but because there isn’t one. You saw the doctor scratch the letters UI in your chart, which you later discovered means Unexplained Infertility.
Infertility Essential Reads
The Emotional Weight of This Beginning
Fertility struggles aren’t just medical problems—they’re deeply emotional ones. It’s a dual-impact condition: appointments, procedures, hormones, hope, letdown, waiting, and grief—with no relief.
The body, once a familiar place, becomes a system to be monitored, tested, and fixed. It’s a problem—or maybe you’re the problem. It all gets mixed up as you question yourself, trying to do everything “right” and still facing what feels like failure—a word you know you’re not supposed to use, but secretly do.
The shock of moving from “I’ll get pregnant when I’m ready” to “This may not happen at all” can upend your sense of self. Friends and family try to help, but some don’t know how. Even the people closest to you might miss the weight of what you’re carrying.
You’re not imagining it. And somewhere out there, someone else is living through the same thing.
The Quiet Precipice
This isn’t the chapter you thought you’d be living. You wish it had gone differently—that things had worked out more quickly. The truth is, it’s sad that you’ve had to learn these medical terms, be prodded and poked like a bit of an experiment, and then go home to carry the trauma on your own. These are things we cannot change.
And yet, here you are—on a path you never expected to take, facing uncertainty, still showing up for yourself and your life. That matters, because hope endures, and taking action heals. It counts—in fertility and in life.
It’s OK that you didn’t start sooner. It’s OK that you didn’t know then what you know now—or that you didn’t see the turning point as it was happening. Most people don’t.
This is how fertility journeys begin.
