Heard IVF Is A Rough Ride? Here's 20 Reasons Why (So You Can Better Support Your Friend Going Through It)
PLUS tips on what to say to people having IVF.
I share personal updates on Instagram: @solofertility40s
If you’ve got people in your life trying to grow a family through assisted reproduction, particularly people who are both solo and over 40, here’s the truth: they’re probably among the bravest people you know.
Not brave in the plucky, inspirational quote kind of way.
Brave in the “injecting themselves before a client meeting, or in the car, while mentally calculating their overdraft” kind of way.
To undertake IVF, you tap into an inner source of courage. One you may not have realised you had.
The fuel for such a gruelling process is the indescribably powerful urge for a child. It's a biological imperative that some people feel as strongly as the need for warmth and love, and the things that make us human. It’s this urge that drives you, despite the enormity of the process.
Perhaps you’ve heard it’s a rough ride? Let me explain why.
1. It starts as an administrative and statistical headache.
You might assume that paying £250 for a one hour consultation buys clarity. Wrong. The doctor might show up late, speak in acronyms and seem distracted.
If you’re a +40 woman, you’ll probably hear about the terribly low live birth outcomes, based on average stats. (But remember, you’re an individual.)
According to the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority, success rates using your own eggs drop to 4.3 per cent after the age of 44, and to under 1 per cent beyond 45.
It’s easy to feel it's all a failure before you've even started.
2. Then you start injecting strong hormones.
Expect around 15 injections per cycle.
More if you’re using certain medications to prevent early ovulation. Plus the ‘trigger shot’ to stimulate ovulation once eggs are mature enough.
Sleeplessness, skin breakouts, mood dips, hair loss. The hormones can be overwhelming. This is PMT on steroids.
You try while knowing it could all be for nothing.
3. The never-ending wait, laced with uncertainty.
Waiting for your period. For your scan. For your blood test results. For your embryologist to call. For your motherhood dreams to be fulfilled.
If the clinic’s admin is scattered or unpredictable, it makes this stage even more stressful.
4. The unhelpful input from people who’ve never been through it.
“There’s always adoption!” (Usually from someone who naturally conceived their own.)
Check the bottom of this post for tips on what (not) to say.
Related read: The Worst IVF Advice? It Usually Comes From Women Who’ve Never Done IVF
5. Or worse: you get radio silence.
You celebrated their pregnancy announcements, new homes and marriages.
But when you need support the most - tumbleweed. Or the occasional phone call, if you’re lucky.
(This was my experience.)
6. The haemorrhaging of money.
Thousands evaporate. And it’s not just one cycle. At 40+, three or more may be required. (Plan for three - it’s a bonus if it happens sooner.)
But sure, tell me more about your kitchen renovation.
7. The clinics that run like chaotic start-ups.
Late emails, untranslated medical forms, errors on prescriptions, and zero emotional bandwidth.
The message is clear: just give us your money and don't ask too many questions.
8. The sperm donor rabbit hole.
Do you pick based on height? Blood group? Whether he likes hiking? His childhood photo or his recent one? Fully anonymous (or opting for countries like Spain that are fully anonymous by law)?
All the time, grieving the loss of the partner you thought you'd have for family-building.
(For sure, some women are solo by choice - but the cost of sperm from the large banks, and sourcing your donor, can make the journey feel even harder.)
9. You still have to do your job.
Smiling on Zoom while bloated and bruised from the injections. Having to go into the office while suppressing tears over your Day 5 blastocyst report. Gritting your teeth when you see a missed call from your clinic.
You get on with it, because you have no other option. You're the only one funding this.
10. Then the failures start stacking up.
Aneuploid embryos. Chemical pregnancies. Doctors relaying crushing news as if casually commenting on the weather, in quick conversations they turned up late for.
And after a failed cycle?
Typically, you’re on your own. The doctor’s only hastily shared ‘advice’ might be “just use donor eggs”. (This happened to me, twice.)
11. The 2am thought loops.
No partner to lean on. Just you, wondering if this is ever going to work. Overwhelmed with all the big decision making, and the financial pressure.
Then up at 7am for work after a sleepless night.
Related read: Your Digital Fertility Helper: The Tool That's Easing My Late-Night Angst
12. Your mental health unravels.
You forget what fun feels like. You're trying to live clean. No drinking, no late nights, Mediterranean meal plans.
In the absence of joyful activities, your mental health takes a hammering. Your life becomes one long held breath. You don’t feel like socialising, but the isolation further crushes your mood.
The downward spiral might be prevented if you’re lucky enough to have supportive friends.
13. You lose people.
Friends drift. Dating feels surreal or irrelevant (or as I discovered, impossible). The old you fades under the stress and striving and uncertainty.
Why does it seem impossible for someone to just ask “Are you ok?”
Then you drift from friends who show so little curiosity with your difficult journey.
You can quickly find yourself feeling very, very alone.
14. Another surprise pregnancy announcement.
You're happy for them. But also crushed. When will it be your turn? Will it ever come?
You put a card in the post and try not to cry. You buy gifts for others’ new humans.
And perhaps retreat further from the world, as a coping mechanism, and for self-protection.
15. You expect to be endlessly strong.
Because you “chose” this. As if that removes the pain.
Other people rarely realise you're struggling. You maintain a brave face but inside, you're crumbling under the pressure of it all.
Unless you hire a therapist (additional expense) there may be no one to turn to, especially if friends are distant.
16. Social events become war zones.
“You just need to relax.” “Have you tried acupuncture?” “Maybe it’s not meant to be.”
(You realise keeping quiet about your fertility journey has its benefits.)
You maintain an air of cool and hide the fact you’re no longer drinking alcohol. Suddenly you’re living a double life, which adds to the pressure.
17. The comparison trap.
Everyone else seems to have it easier. Younger. More eggs. A partner. A baby shower.
But you're solo and over 40, and wondering what happened.
Yes, it’s empowering and a choice you made, but two narratives can co-exist. You rationalise the decision as “Baby now, romance later.” But it’s still hard.
Related read: The Unlock That Helped Me Say Yes To Solo Motherhood
18. The dopamine starvation.
No phone calls after your egg retrieval - even when you're abroad, and alone.
(Thankfully a truly brilliant woman made herself available after my retrieval. She knew from her own experiences I might need to speak to someone. I did. And we spoke for over an hour.)
You focus on trying to remain functional, cook, eat, sleep and work, under waves of anxiety.
Moments of pleasure are a rarity.
19. Rage fatigue.
You're angry at the system. The big business controlling your ovaries and playing God with your motherhood dreams. The friends who vanished.
You're tired of being sold to by dodgy fertility influencers. But mostly, angry at how cruel biology or life circumstances can be.
Where was the education aged 30 that you should freeze your eggs? (Not that I had the funds at that age.)
20. No clear end point.
There’s no timeline, milestone or promise.
Just the relentless loop of blood tests, embryo reports, and internal scans. You could quit. Or perhaps finances terminate your journey.
But then what? Grieve a child you never met? Accept that your body’s final fertile years were spent in a medical fog?
Some doctors discuss a protocol strategy but many don’t. So ending treatment can be as hard as starting, and there might be little expert support in making these tough life-changing decisions.
What (Not) to Say to Someone Having Fertility Treatment
Don’t say: “It only takes one.”
Do say: “I know this must be exhausting. I’m here.”
Don’t say: “My friend tried [insert herbal nonsense]…”
Do say: “Would it help to talk or distract yourself today?”
Don’t say: “At least you don’t have morning sickness!”
Do say: “I can’t imagine how tough this is. Want to grab a coffee?”
More tips:
Don’t say anything that starts with “at least.”
Do send a message on scan days, transfer days, beta days.
Mark their calendar with them. Let them feel seen.
Final thought
If someone you know is going through fertility treatment, assume they’re carrying the emotional weight of a freight train - particularly if they are solo and over 40.
And then choose kindness. Quiet, consistent kindness. It costs less than an IVF consultation and means far more.
Talk to them. Ask what support they would benefit from. Weekly check-ins? A walk in the woods? A swim in the local lido together?
Sometimes it’s not about words - just your quiet presence might be enough.
FREE: Resources page on Solo Fertility 40s with my favourite webinars, articles, forums and podcasts. I’m adding to this all the time so keep checking back.
FREE: 10 Important Questions for Your Fertility Consultation
Sarah x
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Someone has said every one of these comments to me! I empathise with every thing you have said & have experienced it unfortunately. 😔