Jade’s Fertility Journey
Hi there, my name is Jade and I'm so glad you're here.
This is the space I’ve decided to open up and share something deeply personal—my journey through infertility. It’s a topic that’s often left unspoken, and for a long time, I was quiet about it too. But over time, I’ve discovered the power of sharing. My hope is that by opening up, I can help validate the emotions others may be feeling, and encourage more open conversations around the ups and downs of trying to conceive. This story isn’t just about loss—it’s about resilience, growth, and the strength we uncover along the way.
I’ve experienced three miscarriages, each one in the first trimester. My first loss brought sadness, but I still felt hopeful. Miscarriage, after all, is common—that’s what the statistics say. The pregnancy was a surprise to both my partner and me, and at that point in my life, motherhood wasn’t something I had deeply longed for. I didn’t resist the idea, but I hadn’t envisioned it for myself either. Losing my own mother to cancer at a very young age made the mother-child relationship feel distant, almost unfamiliar. And knowing how much of life is out of our control made me wary of desiring something so vulnerable.
I’ve always loved children. Working with them has brought me immense joy. Their wonder, their humor, the magic in the way they view the world—it filled a space in my heart for a long time. But one day, that changed. My period was late—nothing unusual—but I took a test anyway. It was negative. And I saw a flicker of disappointment on my partner’s face. It caught me off guard. I began to imagine what a wonderful father he’d be. That moment opened a door in my heart. I allowed myself to dream. And for the first time, I realized—I wanted to be a mom.
My second miscarriage hurt differently. It felt like the hope had barely taken root before it was gone. And with it came fear. What if I can’t have children? Still, I clung to hope. But when I saw those two lines again, excitement was mixed with anxiety. That pregnancy ended in another loss, and I found myself spiraling into grief and self-blame. I reached out to my family doctor, knowing something wasn’t right. That’s when I learned my body was struggling to support early pregnancy due to low progesterone. My uterine lining, the doctor explained, was “more of a throw blanket than a duvet.” We were placed on a waitlist for further support, but then we moved—and ended up at the bottom of a new one.
The waiting was the hardest part. Each month without a positive test chipped away at my hope. I felt defeated, jealous, and angry. I withdrew from social media. I’d cry at pregnancy announcements I wanted so badly to celebrate. Eventually, I reached out to someone who had shared their own story. It gave me the encouragement I needed. I started taking matters into my own hands—seeing a naturopath, learning about my hormones, and slowly starting to heal. There were small victories: my cycle regulating, being able to track ovulation without a test. Then, just as I got the call from a specialist to begin treatment—I was already pregnant.
I didn’t know it yet during that first appointment, but I was already carrying the baby I had longed for.
When I found out, I was overjoyed. But fear followed closely behind. After so many early losses, every day of the first trimester felt like walking a tightrope. I was terribly sick, sometimes spotting, and constantly afraid. At 14 weeks, I ended up in the hospital after 24 hours of bleeding. I was terrified. And then—I heard the heartbeat. That sound was everything. I was later diagnosed with placenta previa, which, oddly, brought me relief. There was an explanation.
Pregnancy, while a dream come true, was hard—physically and emotionally. I was grateful, but also exhausted. I felt guilt for not enjoying it more. But in the end, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl who fills my world with light. She is the magic I waited for. And when people ask if we’ll have another, I usually joke, “Not unless my partner can carry the next one.” But the truth is, it’s not the pregnancy that scares me—it’s the fear, and the heartbreak of loss, that still lingers.
My fertility journey might not seem extraordinary—and maybe that’s the point. These stories are more common than we realize. They’re just not spoken about enough. The emotions can be overwhelming. But please know this:
We are not alone.
If you feel called to share your story, or if you have questions our email is always open.