By Ayo Jones
One woman’s raw, honest journey through hope, heartbreak, and that familiar ache of “Why not me?”
Dear Diary,
Ayo’s Diary Entry: Month 16
Today I got another text.
Another scan photo.
Another “We weren’t even trying!” announcement.
I smiled at the screen, typed “OMG! So happy for you!!! ” and then—I threw my phone across the bed and curled up into myself like a dying star.
Because the truth?
I’m not happy. Not today.
I’m tired.
I’m tired of acting like I’m okay.
Tired of holding my breath each month.
Tired of tracking, testing, googling, praying, smiling, pretending.
This is what nobody tells you about trying to conceive (TTC) in your 30s—it’s a full-time job. One that pays in tears and doctor bills.
I Thought It Would Be Easy
I’m Ayo. 34. Married. Semi-stable.
And I always imagined I’d have a baby by now.
You know, the classic checklist:
- Graduate ✅
- Career ✅
- Marriage ✅
- Baby ❌
The math seemed simple.
But my womb didn’t get the memo.
It started out romantic. My husband and I were like, “Let’s see what happens.” No pressure.
Three months passed.
Then six.
Then twelve.
Then the doctor raised her eyebrow and said that phrase I now hate—“advanced maternal age.”
I’m Happy for Them. But Also, I’m Not.
Everyone else seems to be catching pregnancies like colds.
I scroll through Instagram and it’s like:
- “We’re expecting! ”
- “Our rainbow baby is here”
- “Surprise! Twins!”
Meanwhile, I’m over here in the comments, typing “congratulations” with tears in my eyes and cramps in my belly.
My best friend just had her second.
My colleague’s on maternity leave.
Even my cousin who swore kids weren’t for her is due in March.
I’m not bitter. I swear I’m not.
I’m just broken. A little numb. A little lost.
The Lonely World of TTC
There’s a kind of quiet grief that follows you when you’re TTC.
It’s not loud like death. It’s not dramatic like heartbreak.
It’s more like a constant background hum. A waiting. A wondering. A whisper:
“Will it ever happen for me?”
And no one talks about it.
You don’t get sympathy cards when your period comes again.
No one brings flowers when your IVF fails.
There’s no support group for the ache of being the only one at the baby shower without a baby.
You’re expected to be patient. Gracious. Strong.
But most days, I’m just… trying to survive.
Ayo’s Diary Entry: Month 17
It’s cycle 17.
Ovulation day came and went. We did all the right things. Again.
Now I’m in the two-week wait—a special kind of hell where every sneeze feels like a symptom and every bathroom trip ends in disappointment.
I caught myself googling “earliest signs of implantation” for the hundredth time.
Then I closed the tab and cried in the bathroom.
Because I know how this story ends.
My body knows the script too well.
The Things I Wish People Knew
If I could sit every well-meaning person down and just say it straight, it would go like this:
- Please stop saying “Just relax and it’ll happen.”
Trust me, I’ve tried relaxing. I’ve meditated, journaled, done yoga, even tried herbal teas that taste like tree bark. Relaxing doesn’t solve blocked tubes or low AMH. - Don’t tell me to enjoy my sleep while it lasts.
I’d give up every hour of sleep for a healthy baby in my arms. - Don’t assume you know my story just because I haven’t shared it.
Silence doesn’t mean nothing’s happening. It often means too much is happening.
The Moment I Almost Gave Up
There was a day—after our second failed IUI—that I walked into the bathroom, looked at the test, and saw another single line.
Just one.
I sat on the floor, still in my nightgown, and sobbed until my lips went numb.
I didn’t want to eat. I didn’t want to shower. I didn’t want to be touched.
And for the first time, I thought: “Maybe this just isn’t for me.”
But then—three days later—I walked into the clinic again.
Because hope is stubborn.
Because something inside me still believes.
What Keeps Me Going
Some days, it’s hard to find a reason.
But other days, I remember:
- The dream I had of holding a baby girl, skin like mine, eyes like her father’s
- The way my husband squeezed my hand when I cried at the last appointment
- The journal entries filled with prayers and plans and love letters to the child we haven’t met yet
And most of all—I keep going because I’m not alone.
There are women like me. Like you. Like us.
We cry behind closed doors and smile in group photos.
We nod politely when people say, “Enjoy your freedom!”
We carry grief in our bones and hope in our hearts.
If You’re Reading This and You Feel It Too…
Then let me say what I wish someone had told me 17 cycles ago:
You’re not crazy for crying every time you see a pregnancy announcement.
You’re not weak for needing a break.
You’re not less of a woman because your path is winding.
And you are not alone.
This story? This ache? It’s real. It’s valid.
And it deserves to be told.
Signing Off, but Still Believing
So this is where I’ll leave today’s diary entry.
No plot twist. No miracle. Just me..
Still trying. Still hoping. Still healing.
I don’t know what the next month will bring.
But I know this: I will keep showing up for myself.
And if you’re walking this same road, I hope you will too.
With all my heart,
Ayo Jones
