Ah, here we go again

There’s a unique silence in waiting rooms like these. It’s not the usual kind of quiet—it’s heavy, filled with unspoken hopes and fears that no one dares to voice. Everyone is looking down: at their phones, the floor, the wall. Anything to avoid catching someone else’s eye, lest the fragile wall holding us all together cracks.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve sat in one of these chairs. By now, I know exactly which magazines are outdated, which nurse will call my name, and how long I’ll wait before the door opens to the exam room. It’s almost comical how familiar this all feels.

But this time, something is different.

When the nurse calls me back, I gather my things and stand up, my stomach doing a slow flip. Not because I’m nervous—though I am—but because this time I’m not holding onto hope like I used to. I’m here, but my heart isn’t entirely in it. It’s somewhere else. Somewhere softer, safer, less exposed.

I used to call this stage “burnout,” but now I think it’s something else. I think it’s self-preservation.

Infertility is an experience that reshapes you. It starts with big things—grief, joy, anger, disappointment. But over time, it changes the little things too. I notice it in the way I avoid the baby aisle at the store without even thinking. The way I smile tightly when someone asks, “Do you have kids?” The way I automatically say, “Not yet,” even when I’m not sure if that’s the truth anymore.

And here I am again, back in the chair, back on the exam table, back on the rollercoaster I swore I’d get off last time.

The doctor comes in, cheerful and kind as always. She starts explaining the next step, a treatment we haven’t tried yet. I nod, but my brain only half-listens. I’m too busy marveling at how I’ve become this version of myself—a woman sitting in a room talking about hormones and egg counts and percentages like she’s discussing the weather.

“Ah, here we go again,” I think to myself, but this time the phrase doesn’t sting as much.

Maybe it’s because I’ve learned that this process doesn’t define me. I used to think my life was on pause until I became a mom, like I was a supporting character waiting for my real story to begin. But somewhere along the way, I realized the story is already happening. The me who wakes up every day and keeps going? She’s not a placeholder. She’s the protagonist.

I walk out of the clinic, not with hope exactly, but with something steadier—acceptance. I’ve stopped trying to fight the waves and started learning how to float.

Infertility hasn’t made me stronger, but it has made me see myself more clearly. It’s stripped away the illusions, the expectations, the pressure to pretend I’m fine when I’m not. And maybe that’s the gift in all of this: not just the possibility of a new life, but the rediscovery of my own.

So, here we go again. Not because I’m naive enough to believe this will be easy, but because I know I’ll keep finding my way through, no matter what.