Welcome to IVF This, Episode 181: IVF and Longing

Hello, hello, hello, my beautiful friends.

Today we’re going to talk about something that so many of us feel on this journey, but we rarely name it clearly or allow ourselves to fully understand it. And that something is the ache.

I like to name it longing. Some call it yearning.  But it’s that deep, low hum of desire that lives somewhere in our bodies. Sometimes it’s in the chest, sometimes it’s in the belly. Sometimes it’s a throb, sometimes a pull, sometimes a wave that takes your breath away. It’s hard to describe, and even harder to carry.

But if you’ve experienced infertility, or you’re going through IVF, you know exactly what I mean when I say Longing. 

What Is This Ache, this longing?

I want to start by being really clear about what I’m talking about here. I’m not talking about despair—although that might be part of your experience. I’m not talking about hopelessness, or anxiety, or the obsessive spiraling our minds sometimes do when we’re stuck in the waiting. I’m not even talking about depression or devastation—although again, all of those feelings are real and valid.

I’m talking about something a little quieter. More persistent. It’s that deep yearning for something that feels just out of reach.

It’s not frantic, and it’s not passive either. It just is. It’s always there. Waiting. Whispering.

I think of the ache as what happens when love has nowhere to go. When your desire to mother, to nurture, to hold a baby in your arms, lives inside you but has no physical outlet. No tangible evidence that it’s working. No proof of progress. Just that ache.

And it shows up in so many ways. You might feel it when you walk past the baby aisle at Target. When a friend announces their pregnancy. When you hear a child’s laughter in a restaurant. When you’re staring at an empty nursery that you decorated with so much hope.

Or even when everything is going “fine,” and you're still waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

The Biology of Yearning

Mary-Frances O’Connor, a neuroscientist and author of The Grieving Brain, talks about how yearning is one of the most primal ways our brains try to meet our attachment needs. When we’ve attached to something—or someone—our brain does everything it can to keep that bond intact.

Even if the thing we’re longing for doesn’t exist in the physical world yet. Even if it’s a dream. An idea. A future.

This is part of why infertility and IVF are so uniquely painful. Because we’re grieving something that hasn’t happened. We’re attached to a hope. A vision. A version of ourselves. A child who lives in our hearts but not yet in our arms.

So our brain sends these little messages: Find them. Don’t give up. Keep going. Stay close.
Even when we’re exhausted. Even when we feel broken. Even when we know, intellectually, that we can’t control the outcome.

That ache? That’s our brain’s way of loving. Of protecting. Of holding on.

The Problem Isn’t the Ache—It’s What We Make It Mean

Now here’s where I want to pause for a moment—because this part is really, really important.

The ache itself is not a problem.

It’s what our brain does with the ache that often causes the most pain.

You know what I mean, right?

You feel that ache and suddenly your brain kicks into gear:

• “Why do I still feel like this? I should be over it by now.”

• “This is never going to go away. I’m going to feel this way forever.”

• “Something’s wrong with me that I can’t just let go.”

• “This is proof that I’m too sensitive, too desperate, too broken.”

And suddenly, what started as a quiet wave of longing becomes a tidal wave of shame and self-judgment.

The ache itself is tender. The thoughts we stack on top of it? Those are the real bruises.

Can We Tell a Different Story?

So I want to offer something here. Just a gentle, loving invitation.

What if the ache isn’t something to fight or fix? What if it’s something to witness? To honor?

What if, instead of resisting it or trying to numb it out, we said to ourselves:

“Oh. This is the part where I ache. Of course I do. This is the part of the story where my heart is open and waiting. Where I feel the absence of something I love so deeply it hurts.”

This is not a sign that you’re doing something wrong.

This is a sign that you’re alive.

That you’re still loving.

That you haven’t given up on the hope of what could be.

The ache doesn’t make you weak. It makes you brave. It means your heart is still reaching for what matters most to you, even when it’s hard. Even when the outcome isn’t guaranteed.

And my beautiful friend, that is something to be proud of.

Let’s Not Pathologize Our Humanity

There is so much pressure in our culture to be strong. To bounce back. To “stay positive.” And that pressure can make us feel like the ache is a failure. Like it’s evidence that we’re not coping well enough.

But it’s not.

You ache because you care. You ache because you have hope. You ache because you’re human.

It’s okay to feel that way. It doesn’t mean you’re stuck. It doesn’t mean it will always feel this intense. But even if it does come and go in waves, that’s not a sign that something’s wrong.

It’s just a sign that you’ve opened your heart to something real.

A Reframe to Carry With You

So the next time the ache shows up—and it will—try this:

Place your hand over your heart, or your belly, or wherever you feel it. And just say:

“This is the ache. It’s part of loving something I don’t have yet. And it means I’m still loving, still hoping, still trying.”

Let yourself breathe into that. Let yourself soften into it. Even just a little.

You don’t have to wrestle the ache. You don’t have to outrun it. You can meet it like an old friend. Like a wave that visits, then recedes.

Because it will. Even if it comes back again tomorrow, it will recede. And you will still be here, standing. Whole. Worthy. Enough.

Final Thoughts

So that’s what I wanted to offer you today, my loves.

We don’t need to pathologize the ache. We don’t need to hide it, or judge it, or fear it. We can simply allow it. Recognize it. Name it. And speak to ourselves with compassion when it shows up.

Because the ache isn’t proof that we’re failing. It’s proof that we’re alive. That we’re connected. That we’re still reaching for something beautiful.

It’s brutiful. Brutal and beautiful, all at once.

And you, my beautiful friend, are doing an amazing job holding it all.

Be kind to yourself this week. Be tender with the ache.

You’re not alone.

OK, that is what I have for you today. Have a great week and I will talk to you soon.