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The Cost of Hope

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When Hope Comes with a Price Tag

It was a hot day — the kind where the air feels heavy and everything slows a little. We were back at the clinic, this time for a quick chat with someone from the admin team. Not a consultation or a medical update — just a conversation to help us understand the costs involved.

We’d seen some of the numbers before, but having everything printed out in front of us made a real difference. Line by line, it all started to feel more real. We were shown what we’d absolutely need, what was optional, and what might give us the best chance — particularly if we wanted to pursue multiple rounds of egg collection to gather as many eggs as possible.

One round cost a little less than I had expected, which was a small relief. But the idea of doing two or even three rounds — which we might need if we want to build the family we’ve dreamed of — was far more than I had anticipated.

That part hit hard.

I’ve always imagined having a big family. I’ve carried that hope quietly, tenderly, for so long — and in that moment, it felt like that dream began to float away. I would be lucky to have one child. I know that. But still, it hurt. It’s not easy to let go of something you’ve held in your heart for years.

My initial reaction was calm. We’ll figure it out, I thought. My husband, who usually worries about money, was surprisingly steady and reassuring. His confidence helped ground me. Still, I felt the edges of disappointment, of frustration.

I was surprised, too, by how much medication would be involved. Another layer to the process. Another reminder of how different our path is from others. It felt unfair — that some people get pregnant so easily, and for us, there is so much to consider. So much to carry.

When Hope Comes with a Price Tag

The printout laid it all out — not just the basics, but every element we might need to consider. IVF and ICSI for one round of egg collection. A surprisingly long list of medications. PGT-A testing, which screens embryos for genetic issues and helps identify the ones most likely to become successful pregnancies. One year of egg freezing.

It was helpful to see it all in black and white — but also overwhelming. There are still unknowns: medication costs if I become pregnant, extra testing fees depending on how many embryos we retrieve. It’s anxiety-inducing not knowing the final total. So much depends on how things go.

And it’s strange, this idea of looking at a baby — a family — through the lens of line items and invoices. It feels like something deeply emotional has been converted into financial terms. I know it’s necessary, but it makes it all feel less tender. Less sacred, somehow.

Still, I’m good with planning and figures, and that side of me kicked in. I started thinking practically, mapping out possibilities. It helped me focus — even if the reality is hard.

The hardest part is realising that, financially, we may only have one go at this. We’re not in a position to do multiple rounds. That’s a heavy truth to sit with. We’ll give it everything we can — but we might not get more than this one chance.

Right now, I feel mostly determined. Ready to try. But the fear still flickers beneath the surface, appearing when I least expect it.

Carrying the Weight, Keeping the Hope

Later that day, I found myself sitting with everything we’d seen and heard — the figures, the options, the unknowns. I felt more determined, somehow, like I finally understood what we needed to do. But I was also intimidated. The cost felt like a stretch — just about doable, but not without sacrifice. It reminded me of the physical journey ahead, too: taxing, but possible. Hard, but not impossible.

I wouldn’t call myself particularly spiritual, but lately, I’ve felt a quiet pull — like I’m leaning into God, or the universe, or whatever it is that calls us toward something bigger. I feel guided. Like this is the path we’re meant to take, even if it isn’t easy. Even when the doubts creep in, they don’t stay long. Underneath it all, I still feel sure: we’re doing the right thing.

What better thing could we spend our money on than the chance to grow our family?

Talking things through with my husband helped anchor me. He reminded me — as he often does — that we’ll figure it out. That we’re in this together. And hearing that, I started to feel a flicker of something I hadn’t let myself feel in a while.

A quiet kind of excitement.

This journey asks a lot. But we keep showing up. We keep believing. And we keep moving forward — with open hearts, careful plans, and more love than fear.

A Path Ahead

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After the consultation — clarity, questions, and choosing hope

Before the Consultation

Our consultation was over video — just me and my husband, sitting together on the sofa, waiting for a doctor to join the call. It felt strange to be in such a familiar space, about to have such an unfamiliar and potentially life-changing conversation.

This was our first consultation with a fertility specialist, after some initial tests and a referral from the GP. We weren’t sure what to expect — but we knew it was time to start asking questions and seeking help.

Some recent test results had raised concerns — particularly for my husband — and although no one had explicitly told us that conceiving would be difficult, we’d begun to assume as much. There was uncertainty hanging quietly between us, and I found myself carrying a low hum of anxiety all week.

I was worried. Not just about what they’d say about him, but what they might have found in my tests too. What if both of us had challenges? What if the path ahead was even harder than we thought?

I tried not to overthink it, but it was there — a quiet weight.

And then we sat there, side by side, waiting for the doctor to appear on the screen. This person we’d never met, who might be the one to tell us whether our dream of becoming parents was still possible — and how.

It was surreal.

Familiar surroundings.

Unfamiliar stakes.

Soft cushions. Big questions.

The Consultation

When the doctor appeared on the screen, I felt myself relax just a little.

He was softly spoken and friendly — calm, but confident. There was an authority in the way he carried himself, but it was paired with warmth. It helped me feel like we were in safe hands.

He began by asking questions and documenting our history — a gentle but thorough start. I appreciated that, but what I was really waiting for was my test results.

That part mattered to me — maybe more than I realised.

And then came the words that gave me a little lift:

I have above average ovarian reserve.

It felt good to hear something positive. Something hopeful.

The doctor also noted that my uterus is slightly heart-shaped — but he didn’t seem concerned. Just another detail noted down, not a problem to fix.

Then we moved on to the bigger picture: what now?

He explained that our best chance of conceiving would be through IVF with ICSI. Even with a strong ovarian reserve, the reality of my age means the number of eggs that could actually result in a healthy pregnancy is still low — and getting lower with time.

That part was harder to hear.

He told us that from the 18 follicles seen on my recent scan, we might expect to collect around 15 eggs. But from there, maybe only two or three would end up with the potential to become a viable pregnancy.

It was sobering. Not hopeless — but serious.

If we choose to go ahead, we could start treatment as early as my next cycle. The option is there to do two or even three egg collections to increase our chances of creating viable embryos. But of course, that also increases the cost.

That’s where my thoughts started to spiral a little.

By the end of the call, I felt a bit deflated. Not crushed. Not broken. But aware — of the cost, of the unknowns, of the reality that this will likely be a long and expensive road.

The doctor said the clinic would be in touch soon with our treatment plan. And then the call ended — and I went straight back to work.

My husband and I didn’t really talk about it. Not yet.

I think we both needed some space to digest everything.

Sometimes it takes a while for big news to sink in.

What Comes Next

I’m glad we’ve taken the next step. I really am.

It feels good to have moved forward — to have more clarity, and to know that something is happening.

Hearing that my ovarian reserve is better than average gave me a quiet moment of relief. It wasn’t something I expected, and I’m trying to let that be a small anchor of hope, even while everything else still feels so uncertain.

Right now, we’re waiting.

Waiting for the formal treatment plan.

Waiting for the costings.

Waiting to see if the path that’s been offered is one we can actually walk.

That’s the part I’m scared of.

Not the injections, not the appointments — but the price. The question of whether we’ll be able to afford more than one round. Whether this possibility will stay possible once the numbers arrive.

It’s a strange in-between.

I’m not in crisis. I’m not elated.

I’m just… processing.

I feel tired, so I’m trying to rest where I can.

Cuddling the pets. Reading. Letting my mind occupy gentle spaces instead of spiralling into all the what-ifs.

There is hope.

But I’m not quite ready to hold it yet.

It’s there — but I need to put it down for now.

To walk forward one small step at a time, without gripping too tightly to what might be.

I want to be committed to this journey. I do.

But everything still feels too unsure, too unclear.

So for now, I’ll rest here.

In the in-between.

And trust that the path will reveal itself, one piece at a time.

A Note for Others

This part is hard — so hard.

There are so many different things you might hear in your consultation, and each one can feel overwhelming in its own way.

Please, be gentle with yourself.

You are doing what you can, even when so much feels out of your control.

Your body is not failing you.

We all need help sometimes, and asking for it is an act of courage, not weakness.

In the days leading up to your appointment, try not to expect too much of yourself.

It’s normal to feel distracted, overwhelmed, or emotionally raw — especially as you juggle your normal life alongside this big, uncertain step.

Feel all the feelings.

They are valid. They deserve to be heard.

And remember to embrace rest — to do the small things that bring you comfort and joy.

We need to be realistic, yes.

But let’s not let go of hope.

Hope is powerful.

Putting positive intention out into the world can change everything.

Right now, you are exactly where you’re meant to be.

You are not too late.

Journaling Prompts for This Stage

  • What feelings am I noticing most strongly right now?
  • How can I be kind to myself today?
  • What small moments of comfort or peace can I hold onto?
  • What hopes or intentions do I want to carry forward — even quietly?
  • If I could speak kindly to myself in this moment, what would I say?

Affirmation

“I am allowed to feel uncertain and hopeful at the same time. I am walking my path, one gentle step at a time.”

What if I Don’t Get to Be a Mother?

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A quiet reckoning before the consultation

There’s a question I try not to ask too often —

but it lives under everything right now:

What if I don’t get to be a mother?

That sentence is hard to even write.

It’s not what I believe — not what I want to believe.

But as our first consultation approaches, the fear is rising.

What if the doctor says it won’t be possible?

What if time has already run out?

What if the thing I’ve longed for more than anything… doesn’t happen?

It feels like standing at the edge of something —

a ledge between hope and heartbreak.

And I don’t know yet which way I’ll fall.

Sitting with the Ache

I’ve learned there’s a particular ache that comes with not knowing.

It’s not sharp or sudden — it’s the kind of ache that lingers quietly.

The kind you carry in your chest, behind your ribs, where all your deepest longings live.

Some days, it’s easy to stay busy — to tidy, to plan, to scroll, to pretend.

Other days, I feel the weight of it the moment I wake up.

That silent wondering: What if this isn’t the path that leads to a baby?

It hurts.

And still — I sit with it.

Not to dwell, but to make space for it.

To stop fighting what is, even if I wish it were different.

There’s no easy way to hold this ache.

But pretending it doesn’t exist doesn’t make it go away.

So I let it be here, in the quiet.

I breathe through it.

I whisper kind things to myself when the fear grows loud.

This ache isn’t weakness — it’s love, unspoken.

It’s hope with nowhere to land yet.

And even when I feel fragile, I remind myself:

I can be soft and strong at the same time.

To the One Who’s Wondering…

What if I don’t get to be a mother?

It’s a question I try not to say too loudly — even in my own mind.

I keep it tucked away, like something fragile. Or dangerous.

But it’s there. Especially now, before we’ve had our first consultation. Before anyone has said yes or no, maybe or we’ll see. It lingers quietly in the background.

What if this doesn’t end the way I hope?

What if my dream has a different shape than I imagined?

What if this longing stays… unanswered?

I don’t know how to hold those questions yet.

And maybe I don’t have to.

Maybe I’m not meant to.

Right now, it’s enough just to acknowledge the ache.

To say — even softly — that this is hard.

That the uncertainty is heavy.

That not knowing is its own kind of grief.

I don’t have answers.

I don’t know what the future holds.

But I do know this:

You are not alone if you’re asking this question too.

There’s space here for you.

For your fear.

For your aching hope.

For your wondering.

We can sit with the not-knowing together.

We don’t have to rush to a silver lining.

We don’t have to call this “meant to be.”

We can just be here — holding space for both the dream and the doubt.

Because both are real.

And both are allowed.

🌿 If this post resonated, I’ve been creating some quiet support for this part of the journey — gentle affirmations and journaling prompts for those tender, uncertain moments.

I’ll be sharing them first via my email list when it opens.

You’re so welcome to join when the time feels right.

Until then, take what you need, and carry it gently.

What It Means to Bloom Slowly

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There’s a part of me that wants to rush.

To fix everything, plan everything, know everything — now.

To have the answers, the baby, the beautiful life I’m hoping for.

To be already there.

But this journey — this path to motherhood, this unfolding of a vision, this becoming — keeps asking me to slow down.

It reminds me, over and over, that some things can’t be hurried.

Healing can’t.

Grief can’t.

Hormones, bodies, dreams — they bloom in their own time.

And so must I.

Lately I’ve been learning to make peace with the pace of things.

To sit with the not yet.

To plant seeds even when I’m unsure they’ll grow.

To believe that resting, waiting, wondering — these too are part of blooming.

The world often tells us we should already be there.

Already pregnant.

Already successful.

Already certain.

But I’m learning that becoming takes time. And it’s allowed to.

🌿 Bloom + Flourish is unfolding slowly too.

Not everything is open yet.

Not every petal is ready.

This space is growing at the same gentle pace I am — one post, one moment, one quiet act of courage at a time.

If you’re in a season where nothing feels certain or clear — you’re not broken.

You’re blooming slowly.

And there’s beauty in that.

We don’t have to be fully formed to be full of life.

We don’t have to bloom fast to bloom deeply.

And even if no one sees it yet — the roots are growing.

🌸 The petals will bloom slowly here, too.

If you’re growing gently, you’re right on time.

🌱 Which petal are you drawn to right now?

You’re welcome to follow along as they unfold — one quiet step at a time.

Leave a comment, message me, or just take what you need and carry it gently.

The Petals Will Bloom Slowly

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This collective begins with just one path — my own journey through IVF and the longing to become a mother. But gently unfolding behind that story are seven petals. Each one represents a space I hope to grow into, and grow with you.

Bloom + Flourish Collective isn’t launching all at once.

It’s blooming gently — petal by petal.

Just like we do.

Here’s what’s coming:

🤍 The Path to Motherhood 🌸

A sacred beginning.

IVF, hope, loss, longing — and quiet courage.

💚 Grow Into Yourself 🌿

Come home to who you are.

Honor the changes that shape you.

🤎 Intentional Living 🕊️

Find meaning in the everyday.

Small rituals. Soft rhythms. A slower pace.

❤️ Creativity & Courage 🎨

Create, reflect, and speak your truth — even when your voice trembles.

💜 Lifelong Learning 📚

Stay curious.

Let books, courses, and challenges help you grow from within.

💛 Rooted Together 🌳

You don’t have to grow alone.

Community holds what we cannot carry ourselves.

💙 Bloom Into Action 🌍

Small acts of kindness can shift the world.

Let’s do good, together.

Each petal is its own path — and together, they form the shape of this collective.

Only The Path to Motherhood is open right now, but the others are waiting quietly.

They’ll bloom slowly, over time.

Which one speaks to you most?

Laura

Bloom + Flourish Collective

Want to follow as the petals bloom?

✨ Join me on Instagram and Facebook.

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Why the Bloom + Flourish Collective Exists

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I believe I’m meant to be a mother.

But I’m not there yet.

For a long time, I wandered with quiet questions tucked beneath my skin:

Am I behind? Am I broken? Am I still becoming?

I’ve always felt there was more for me — a life full of love, purpose, and deep-rooted connection. But the path hasn’t been straightforward.

I started the Bloom + Flourish Collective in the in-between.

It’s part blog, part journal, part gentle rebellion against the idea that we have to have it all figured out before we begin.

This space begins with my fertility journey — the tests, the waiting, the hope — but it’s blooming into something much more.

A place where women can grow alongside each other through any season of life. A place to be real, rise gently, and flourish together.

The Vision: Growing Something Beautiful, Together

I dream of a collective that feels like a soft landing and a quiet spark.

Where women can:

  • Share the honest parts of their stories
  • Reconnect with themselves
  • Learn, create, and rest
  • Take small, beautiful actions that ripple outwards

Over time, this space may grow into courses, seasonal journals, symbolic milestones, and even giving back — like collective fundraising or care packages for women on this path.

But for now, it’s a seed planted in the soil of hope.

We are growing something slowly, intentionally — and together.

The Seven Petals of the Collective

(coming into bloom — one by one)

Each petal represents a path you can explore.

Not all are open yet — this collective is growing slowly, just like we are.

| 🌿 The Path to Motherhood | IVF, fertility, grief, and the quiet strength of hoping to become a mother. (Now blooming) |

| 🌼 Grow Into Yourself | Navigating identity, transitions, and self-worth with gentleness and curiosity. (Coming soon) |

| 🕊️ Intentional Living | Meaningful habits, seasonal rhythms, and small daily rituals that nourish. (Coming soon) |

| 📚 Lifelong Learning | Books, courses, and challenges that spark growth, reflection, and joy. (Coming soon) |

| 🎨 Creativity & Courage | Affirmations, journaling, and brave self-expression — especially in uncertain times. (Coming soon) |

| 🌳 Rooted Together | Peer support, shared wisdom, and growing in community with others on the path. (Coming soon)|

| 🌍 Bloom Into Action | Kindness, fundraising, and small acts that make a difference when the world feels overwhelming. (Coming soon) |

🌱 Start with what’s here now: Before the Bloom

A gentle, honest look at what it means to begin this journey — step by step.

What This Space Is — and Isn’t

This is a space for…This isn’t…
Healing, honesty, and slow personal growthQuick fixes, pressure, or perfection
Fertility stories and beyondJust another polished influencer blog
Creativity, reflection, and grounded hopeToxic positivity or spiritual bypassing
Community and shared actionComparison, competition, or judgment

A Note to You

If you’ve found your way here, I don’t believe it’s by accident.

Maybe you’re trying to become a mother.

Maybe you’re in a season of searching.

Maybe you’re just looking for something softer and more real.

Wherever you are — there’s a place for you in this collective.

You are not too late. You are not too much. You are not alone.

Let’s grow something beautiful, together.

🌸

Laura

Preparing My Body to Carry a Baby

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There’s so much about this journey that I can’t control.

But preparing my body — that’s something I can do.

I’m heavier than I want to be, and that’s not always easy to sit with. But I’m also proud of what I’m doing right now. I’m moving more, eating more intentionally, and slowly watching my body begin to change — not through punishment, but through care.

I want to feel strong and healthy no matter what happens next.

But if I do get pregnant — I want to give myself the best chance possible to carry that pregnancy well.

This isn’t about chasing perfection. It’s about doing what I can to feel ready — physically, emotionally, and in the quiet ways that matter.

The Changes I’ve Made

Right now, I’m showing up for myself each day — not perfectly, but intentionally.

I move my body every single day.

Some days it’s gentle — a stretch, a walk. Other days, I push myself a little further. But every day, I do something.

I’ve been drinking at least two litres of water a day, which helps me feel more awake and balanced. I’m also more mindful of what I eat and how I eat. Tracking my calories has helped me feel aware and in control — not in a rigid way, but as a form of accountability. I was surprised at how far off my guesses were, and how much stronger I feel with a clearer picture.

I’ve also started taking folic acid and vitamin D, to gently support my body as I prepare for pregnancy. And I’m prioritising sleep — aiming for seven hours a night to feel rested and more emotionally steady.

One of the biggest changes I’ve made is protecting my mental health.

I’ve been consciously keeping things manageable — not taking on too much, setting clearer boundaries, and allowing space for quiet when I need it. There’s no room for unnecessary stress right now, and I’m learning to honour that without guilt.

Some days I miss a habit. Some days I feel tired.

But the consistency is building, and I feel the difference.

This is not about doing it all right — it’s about showing up, one choice at a time, because I believe I’m worth that care.

And because I want to meet whatever comes next feeling ready.

What I’m Learning Along the Way

I used to think that “self-care” meant candles and face masks — something soft and surface-level.

But lately, I’m learning that it’s something deeper. It’s discipline. It’s kindness. It’s showing up for myself when no one’s watching.

This journey has reminded me: I can do hard things.

I’m learning how to build habits that support me, not just for now, but for the future I hope for.

It’s not about punishing my body — it’s about partnering with it. Listening to it. Strengthening it.

I’m also learning that growth doesn’t have to be loud.

Sometimes it’s just doing the same small thing again today. And then tomorrow. And the day after that.

There’s something powerful about choosing to care for myself in this way.

It helps me feel a little more ready. A little more rooted.

Even when there’s still uncertainty ahead — this care gives me something to hold onto.

A reminder that I’m preparing not just for a baby, but for motherhood.

And that begins with learning to mother myself, gently and with love.

Gentle Advice for Others

If you’re preparing your body for the possibility of pregnancy, I want to say this:

You don’t have to do it all.

There’s no perfect checklist. No one way to be “ready.”

Start small. Pick one thing that feels doable — drink more water, move your body gently, go to bed a little earlier — and let that be enough for now.

It’s okay if your version of preparation looks different from someone else’s.

This isn’t a race. And it’s not about punishing your body — it’s about supporting it.

You’re allowed to feel both strong and uncertain.

You’re allowed to care for yourself without knowing what’s next.

Every small step is a seed you’re planting.

A way of saying: I believe in what’s possible.

💛 If you’re taking steps to care for your body right now — no matter how small — I see you.

This part of the journey can feel so personal, so quiet, and so invisible to others. But every choice you make to support yourself matters.

I’d love to hear what’s helping you feel strong or grounded lately. You can share in the comments or come find me on Instagram @bloomflourishcollective.

And if you’d like some gentle support sent your way, I’m putting together an email with affirmations and journal prompts for this part of the path — especially for those of us navigating the quiet wait, preparing ourselves for what’s to come.

My email list will be opening soon, and I’ll share it first with those who’ve been walking this alongside me.

Let’s keep growing — gently, bravely, and together.

The Weight of Hope

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There’s a kind of hope that glows quietly — and then there’s the kind that lingers like a weight you carry every day.

Hope can be heavy.

It settles in my chest — not as a lightness, but as a quiet, aching weight.

Not painful, exactly. Just… persistent.

I almost don’t want to name it.

My hope for motherhood feels too sacred to say out loud — too fragile.

What if I jinx it? What if I let myself believe too much, and it doesn’t work out?

I want to believe — but I’m scared to trust it fully.

As if speaking it out loud might cause it to slip through my hands.

So I don’t speak of it often.

But it’s always there — humming beneath everything.

When I see a pregnant woman pass me in the supermarket.

When a baby’s cry cuts the air, and my body tightens in a way I didn’t invite.

When parents are laughing in the playground and something stirs in me so deeply it almost hurts.

Hope pulses in those moments.

It’s quiet, but it’s fierce. And sometimes it’s too much to carry — and yet I carry it still.

Maybe you know that kind of hope too — the kind that lives quietly in the background, even on the days it hurts to hope at all.

Hope doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it arrives suddenly — a flutter in my stomach, or a flash of an image in my mind: me, with a round belly, hand resting gently. It can take me by surprise, rushing through me with a wave of emotion I didn’t expect.

It tends to visit in the quiet moments. When the house is still. When I’m not focused on something else. That’s when the thoughts rise — soft, but distracting. They pull me away from what I’m doing and into what might be.

I’ve learned not to resist them, but not to stay in them either. I notice the feelings. And then, if I need to, I reach for something else — something grounding. A task, a walk, a breath.

In those moments when the thoughts start to spiral, I’ve learned to turn toward what steadies me.

Sometimes, that’s fiction — fantasy stories that lift me into another world for a little while. Other times, it’s movement. I’ve started a new fitness routine, slowly building strength as I gently prepare my body for what I hope will come.

It’s not just about changing my body — it’s about reminding myself I can do hard things. That I’m stronger than this waiting. That I can meet the future with steadiness, whatever it holds.

I’m lucky to have people who love me. My husband, close friends, family. But these feelings — the real weight of hope — they’re hard to put into words. Sometimes they feel too big. And sometimes they feel too precious. So I hold them close. Quietly. Privately. Like something sacred.

Maybe that’s what hope is — not loud or certain, but something we carry quietly. Something we honour in our own way, even if no one else can see it.

If you’re carrying the weight of hope too, I want you to know:

I see you.

It’s hard.

But you are strong — even if you don’t feel it all the time.

Hope and fear are two sides of the same coin on this journey.

They arrive together, tangled and inseparable.

But I believe this: hope is stronger than fear.

Fear pulls us down.

Hope lifts us — even if just a little.

Even when it’s fragile.

Even when it hurts.

Hope means we care.

Hope means we’re still here, still moving forward, even when it’s slow.

It means doing the next little step — making the call, going to the appointment, getting through the day — even while carrying the uncertainty.

You can be scared and hopeful at the same time.

You don’t have to choose.

If this is you — if you’re holding quiet hope in your chest and wondering what comes next — I’m walking this with you.

Let’s take the next step together.

🌿 I’m putting together a gentle collection of affirmations for hopeful hearts — soft words to carry you through the waiting.

If you’d like to receive it when it’s ready, you’ll be able to join my email list soon. I’ll share it first with those who’ve been walking this path beside me.

How I’m Taking Care of Myself Right Now

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Self-care, for me, isn’t bubble baths or pedicures — at least not right now.

It looks more like sticking to the routines that bring me comfort. Making time for the things that help me feel like me. Not taking on too much. Saying no when I need to. It’s about being honest with myself about what I can handle — and making space to rest, even when the world feels busy.

This fertility journey has been a prompt — a gentle nudge — to look after myself more intentionally.

I’ve been working on reducing stress at work, letting go of unnecessary pressures that I don’t need to carry, especially now. I’ve also started getting fitter, losing weight, and focusing on what my body can do — not just what I want it to do in the future. It’s not about chasing perfection. It’s about strengthening myself for what’s ahead.

I have a history of anxiety, and keeping it under control feels more important than ever. That means doing the small things I know help — even when I don’t feel like it. Routines. Gentle movement. Managing overstimulation. Trying new habits I’ve seen online and keeping the ones that feel good.

I don’t think self-care can be done “wrong.”

It’s personal. It’s evolving. It’s less about being soft and more about being steady.

What’s Supporting Me at the Moment

Right now, I’m building gentle routines that help me feel stronger — physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Mornings begin slowly, with a warm cup of tea and a scoop of collagen stirred in — a small ritual that feels both nourishing and grounding. I give myself space to wake up gently before the day begins.

I’m taking daily supplements and moving my body with more intention — usually through a mix of Pilates, strength workouts, and aiming for 10,000 steps a day. My Apple Watch helps keep me motivated, reminding me that every step is part of a bigger goal — to feel ready, strong, and steady.

I’ve also been returning to fiction, letting myself escape into stories that soften the noise in my head. It’s become a calming way to reset — a quiet anchor when the waiting feels too loud.

And then there’s care of another kind — connection.

Every so often, I’ll spend the night at my mum’s just to feel looked after for a while. Or I’ll visit my best friend and watch an episode of our favourite show — something familiar, light, and shared. These moments don’t fix everything, but they soften the edges.

These small things — routines, movement, connection, quiet joy — are what’s supporting me now. They’re not dramatic or shiny. But they remind me that I’m here, taking care of myself in the ways I can.

How I’m Reframing This Season

I don’t want to feel stuck.

That’s the thought I keep coming back to.

Because this isn’t just waiting — it’s growing.

I’m learning that patience isn’t passive.

It’s a form of strength. A quiet determination.

I remind myself often: I’m not behind. I’m not too late. I’m exactly where I need to be.

This is still part of my becoming — not a pause, not a delay, but a part of the process.

The waiting has taught me to focus more clearly on what matters.

To take care of myself more gently.

To root myself in what is real and meaningful.

It’s easy to feel like everything is on hold during a fertility journey — as if life is just ticking by until you get the answer you’re hoping for. But I don’t want to live in that mindset.

I can wait and still grow.

I can be longing and still be present.

I can be more than this one part of my story.

This season is shaping me — slowly, quietly — into someone stronger and more grounded.

And that counts for something.

🌿 If you’re also in a season of waiting, you’re not alone.

I’m walking this path too — learning how to care for myself, hold onto hope, and keep growing through the unknown.

I’ll be sharing more gentle reflections, affirmations, and journaling prompts in the coming weeks. If that sounds like something you’d find helpful, I’d love to share them with you.

My email list will be opening soon, and you’ll be the first to know when it does. Until then, I’m sharing regularly here and on Instagram @bloomflourishcollective.

Let’s grow through this, together.

A Quiet Step Forward

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My first appointment – thoughts, feelings, and what to expect

A Moment in the Waiting Room

I’m sitting in the waiting room for my first appointment. It feels very real now. Quiet. Clinical. A strange calm mixed with nerves.

Part of me feels like I shouldn’t even be here—like it shouldn’t take this much to do something so natural. I didn’t imagine this would be part of my story.

And yet… it is.

I’m just here. Waiting. Feeling everything. Wanting to be hopeful, but also protecting myself just a little.

There are lots of other people here—older, younger, couples, individuals. All types. All going through their own version of this journey. It’s strange and comforting at the same time.

This is a quiet step forward. A beginning. I don’t know exactly what’s ahead, but I’m here, and that means something.

What the First Appointment Is Like

The appointment was more efficient than I expected—calm, clear, and over fairly quickly.

First, I had a transvaginal scan. If you’re unfamiliar, it’s an internal ultrasound used to get a clearer picture of your reproductive health. You need to have an empty bladder for this, which feels a bit counterintuitive if you’re used to pregnancy scans that require a full one.

The scan itself took around 5–10 minutes. It was mostly pain-free—just one point that felt a little uncomfortable, but nothing unbearable. The person doing the scan was efficient and professional, which helped it feel less awkward.

After that, they took blood tests, including one to check AMH (Anti-Müllerian Hormone)—a key marker of ovarian reserve. It all felt very clinical but in a reassuring way. No fluff or emotion, just a step forward.

After the Appointment – What I’m Processing Now

I feel tired, but grateful to have taken a step forward.

It’s not a dramatic change—I’m not walking out with answers or a plan—but just showing up and getting through it feels meaningful. Something has begun.

I’m still apprehensive. The results will take time, and I won’t speak to the consultant for another two weeks. That waiting is hard. There’s so much I don’t know yet.

But for now, I’ve done what I can. I’ve turned up. I’ve started.

And that’s enough for today.

💭 Journaling After Your First Appointment

If you’ve just had your first fertility appointment — or are preparing for one — it might help to pause and reflect.

Here are a few journaling prompts that helped me process it all:

  • How did the experience feel in my body — physically and emotionally?
  • What thoughts or fears came up before, during, or after the appointment?
  • What would I say to myself with compassion right now?
  • What do I want to remember about this moment?
  • What small step might support me while I wait?

There’s no right way to do this. Just give yourself space to notice how you feel, without judgement. Sometimes a few gentle questions can help you honour the moment, even if it didn’t bring answers.

A Note for Others Starting Out

If you’re reading this because you’re about to go to your first appointment, I just want to say: I see you. It’s okay to feel nervous, unsure, or even like you shouldn’t have to be doing this at all.

But showing up takes courage. Even sitting in that waiting room is something to be proud of.

Here are a few things I learned from today that might help:

  • You’ll need an empty bladder for a transvaginal scan – a small but important detail.
  • The scan is quick—5 to 10 minutes—and mostly pain-free, though you might feel a bit of discomfort at times.
  • Blood tests are likely, including one for AMH (a marker of ovarian reserve), and possibly others depending on your clinic.
  • You might not get answers right away. Some clinics require a follow-up consultation before discussing next steps. Waiting can be hard—try to be gentle with yourself during this time.
  • You can ask questions. It’s okay if you don’t understand everything at first—bring a list if you’re nervous you’ll forget.
  • It’s normal to feel a mix of emotions. Even if nothing dramatic happens during the appointment, it can still feel like a big moment inside.

You don’t need to be brave every second. You just need to keep going, one small step at a time. And every step forward matters more than you know.

If you’re just starting out too, or you’ve already been on this path for a while, I’d love to hear from you.

You can leave a comment below or connect with me on Instagram  or Facebook @bloomflourishcollective.

Sometimes just knowing someone else understands makes all the difference.

We’re not alone in this—even when it feels like it. 💛