Life After the Longest Wait

My third IVF baby just turned one, which feels impossible, emotional, and, if I’m being honest, slightly disorienting. Cue the waterworks, obviously, but also… something else. A strange clarity. Like I just woke up from an almost eight-year-long fever dream devoted entirely to building, protecting, and expanding our family.

If you saw my recent Rescripted reel, you know he was the result of one last Hail Mary IVF attempt — a true “this is it” moment. If that egg retrieval (and subsequent embryo transfer) didn’t work, we were ready to close that chapter. But it did, and now here we are: three kids, a full house, a family that finally feels complete.

Which begs a question I haven’t really had the space, or courage, to ask until now: who am I when I’m not chasing a pregnancy, managing fertility timelines, or defining myself by whether my body is cooperating?

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the small things that somehow feel big again. What hobbies I might want to revisit. What clothes I want to buy just because I like them. Where I want to travel when logistics aren’t the main character. And alongside that curiosity? Anxiety. Because reinvention, even joyful reinvention, comes with a whole lot of uncertainty.

I recently read an existential novel called Buckeye that put into words exactly what I’ve been feeling. There’s a passage about time, how we spend it, waste it, regret it, and wish for it back. And then this line: “All we should ever want of time is more of it.” A sentiment that feels both deeply comforting and completely terrifying at the same time. 

For so long, time felt transactional — measured in cycles, milestones, and fertility clinic waiting rooms. Now, it feels expansive again. A little scary. A little thrilling. But maybe that’s the point. This next chapter isn’t about rushing to fill the space or assigning it a purpose. It’s about sitting in it long enough to figure out who I am now... and who I want to be.