The early mornings. The ultrasounds. The bloodwork. The meds. And all the waiting. This entry is about the routine, the feelings, and the small flickers of hope that show up, even when we’re tired.

This morning felt familiar. The drive before sunrise. The quiet waiting room. The soft click of another vial being labeled with our name. And then the ultrasound—the cold gel, the dim room, the screen lighting up. It’s wild how something so clinical can hold so much hope. We lie there, watching the screen, wondering: Is there a good follicle? Are we getting closer? No answers yet. Just more waiting.

It’s our second time doing this. Same forms. Same questions. Same steps. But our hearts feel different now. We carry what didn’t work last time. We remember how it felt to believe and not get the ending we hoped for. And still, here we are.

We’ve never had to build our lives around a lab before, but now it’s part of our routine—ultrasounds, bloodwork, timing meds just right. Hope, we still have.

Then comes the call. Our lab results are in. This time, we’re told to take three pills a day for five days and then come back for another round of bloodwork and an ultrasound. We’re waiting to see when we can take the trigger shot. The call comes in Friday night at 9:30 p.m. It’s go time.

But this time, we switch things up. Instead of standing in the bathroom like before, my husband and I decide to try something new. We lie flat on the kitchen floor, overthinking the exact spot the needle should go. Is it here? A little to the left, right above the hip bone? We laugh. We smile at each other. We pause. We do it.

The weekend passes, and just like that, Monday morning we’re back at the doctor. Another ultrasound. More bloodwork. Waiting again to hear if the pills and the shot helped with my ovulation. Another phone call. The follicles are growing. We’re cleared. We’re told to come in Wednesday morning for the IUI procedure—to place his wonderful collection inside.

I lie flat on the table. The nurse goes over the routine: she’s going to place a cold catheter inside me. I might feel some pain. Now she’s going to insert his collection. I might feel a pinch. My husband and I hold hands. We hope.

After the procedure, my nurse says something that makes us both laugh: “You’re all done. But remember, you’re pregnant until proven not.” We look at each other and instantly think, dun dun—cue the Law & Order music.

But even in all of this, there’s kindness. The nurses—they’ve been our light. We laugh. We hug. We cry sometimes. And then we hear it again, just like before: “Good luck, mama.” We smile. We say thank you. Because even if we don’t feel like mamas yet, the word still means everything.

This round feels more emotional. My feelings are all over the place—crying over anything, everything. Hormones, yes, but also just the weight of it all.

And my husband, he’s a good one. He’s been my steady, my number one, the strength I lean on. Always right there, calm when I’m falling apart, holding space when I don’t even know what I need. I wouldn’t want to walk this journey with anyone else but him. One test, one needle, one laugh at a time.

If you’re starting again too, we’re still in the middle of it. We see you. You’re not alone.

Thank you for walking with me today. If you’re still waiting, we’re waiting with you.

Until next time, breathe, walk gently, and hold onto hope. 💛