The Grief Before The Hope: From Infertility to Adoption - Love Beyond Biology: Our UK Adoption & Parenthood Journey

One of my frequent daydreams had always been the big reveal of my pregnancy. I imagined the joy on my family’s faces, the tears, the hugging, the laughter. I’d mentally stage it over and over- This month it’ll happen, and I’ll tell them at Christmas… No, maybe on my birthday. That would be perfect. What I didn’t know then was that this would become the beginning of The Grief Before The Hope: From Infertility To Adoption—a chapter that would reshape everything I thought I knew about parenthood, love, and resilience.

Each month passed, and so did each imagined moment. There was no announcement. No tiny socks in a gift box. No surprising Mitchell with a positive pregnancy test. Just silence. And the weight of that silence grew heavier every time.

When you’re facing infertility, people often say to keep it to yourself. Don’t tell too many people. You don’t want to be constantly asked or watched. But I couldn’t keep it in anymore. The pain had filled every corner of my mind, and I was tired of pretending I was fine.

I remember the day we told our family. We sat them down and simply said, “We want to have a baby, but it’s proving difficult.” I didn’t cry, didn’t go into every detail, just opened the door a little. That small bit of honesty felt huge, like taking off a backpack I didn’t even know I was carrying.

We’ve always been a family that values openness, and I’m so grateful for that. My parents, my sister, and my in-laws- we don’t do secrets. We tackle things head-on. Still, saying it out loud, admitting that something so personal wasn’t working, was terrifying. It made it real.

A Day That Changed Everything

We had planned a girl’s night out. Me, my sister, my mum, and my mother-in-law. It happened to fall on the same day as our fertility results appointment. Looking back, it seems naive to think I could just go out after something so potentially life-changing.

If I’m honest, I had a gut feeling something was wrong. Maybe with me. With Mitchell. With both of us. But I didn’t want to believe it. As a bounce-back, unwaveringly positive kind of girl, it wasn’t in my nature to get disheartened. I didn’t do defeat. But that day, defeat showed up anyway.

When the doctor said the words, “It’s unlikely to happen naturally”, I felt my body go cold. It wasn’t just disappointment. It was a physical ache, like something inside me cracked.

“Wait two years for surgery and try IVF if we can save any eggs.”
“The likelihood of conceiving naturally is extremely low.”
“We can try and do something for the pain.”

Super helpful that last one. It only took ten years.

We left the hospital. I was sobbing. Mitchell, ever the steady hand, held it together for my sake. My sister, who worked at the same hospital, met us as we were leaving. She didn’t need to ask what happened, she could see it all over our faces. She hugged me. Mitchell gently helped me into the car.

We drove straight to my parents’ house. I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts. I needed the comfort of home, of people who wouldn’t try to fix it, just sit with us while it hurt.

When The Silence Hits

What followed was one of the darkest months of my life. I didn’t bounce back, didn’t fake a smile or say “It’s fine.” I grieved. Fully, messily, and without apology.

Grief is a strange thing when you’re grieving something that never was. There was no funeral. But something had ended, the version of our lives we had hoped for. I mourned the pregnancy I had already imagined. The bump I had already pictured. The ultrasound pictures that would never come.

It was like losing someone I’d never met but already loved deeply.

My Endometriosis Diagnosis

I’ve lived with endometriosis for years.

The pain is unbearable, nauseating, exhausting, and completely disruptive to everyday life. It affected my work, my relationships, my energy, and yes, my fertility

It was revealed I have stage 4, also known as deep infiltrating endometriosis. This form of endometriosis burrows deep- it can invade organs like the bowel, bladder, ovaries, and even nerves. DIE is one of the most severe types of endometriosis, and often requires advanced imaging (like MRIs) or even exploratory surgery to be properly diagnosed. For many of us, that diagnosis comes after years of being told its “normal” or “just hormonal.”

Endometriosis was one of the quiet culprits behind our infertility. But like so many women, I endured it in silence because I was taught that pain was just “part of being a woman.” If you’re navigating endometriosis too, Living Well With Endometriosis is a compassionate, informative read that helped me understand my own body better.

I’ll be writing more about my endometriosis journey soon, because it deserves space of its own. If you’re navigating it too, please visit Endometriosis UK for resources, helplines, and support groups.

The Quiet Strength of Men In Infertility

Mitchell was incredible.

I think it’s always difficult for men in this situation. Society expects them to be the rock, the fixer, the one who “stays strong.” But infertility affects both partners.

Mitchell was quietly strong and endlessly patient. He was carrying his own grief- the disappointment, the helplessness. He never let his own pain overshadow mine. But it was there, just quieter.

There’s so little space for men to process infertility. Their emotions are often overlooked or minimised.

We later found out that the infertility wasn’t just “me” or “him”- it was both of us. In a strange way, there was comfort in that. There was no blame, no resentment, just this shared, quiet understanding that we were navigating it as a team. It didn’t make it easier, but it made it less lonely. We were both the problem, but also each other’s solution, and that felt kind of poetic in its own way.

The Love That Carries Us

Our family and friends showed up in ways I’ll never forget.

In times like this, you find out what your people are made of. They didn’t try to offer solutions, they were just there. I didn’t need advice. I needed kindness and acceptance. And I received it in abundance. We were and still are extremely thankful and fortunate for these people.

That was all we needed.

From Grief to Hope: Finding a New Path Through Adoption

Eventually, I started to come back to myself. Slowly. Getting out of bed felt easier. I laughed at a show. I went for coffee. Mitchell and I started to talk about what came next- not with clarity, not with confidence, but with curiosity.

We began asking: If not this, then what?

It’s strange how grief makes space for hope when you let it run its course. I think I needed to hit rock bottom to stop clinging to the idea that our story had to look a certain way. Letting go of the dream of a biological child wasn’t about giving up- it was about opening up. And slowly, that openness started to shine a light on something new: adoption.

Supportive Resources That Helped

These are some of the tools, books, and comforts that genuinely helped during the hardest parts of our journey — from infertility to healing, self-care, and adoption preparation.

The Art of Waiting – A beautifully written memoir on fertility, choice, and what it means to wait.
Living Well With Endometriosis – Clear, compassionate guidance for managing symptoms and understanding your body.
No Matter What by Sally Donovan – An honest, hopeful account of adoptive parenting that gave us courage.
Self-Care Journal – A gentle way to track your thoughts, emotions, and energy through tough seasons.
Mindfulness Cards – Daily prompts to help stay grounded when everything feels uncertain.
Reusable Heat Pack – Small comfort on the hardest endo days — a literal and emotional warm hug.

Some of the products linked here are affiliate links, which means I might earn a small commission (at no cost to you). I only recommend things we’ve genuinely used and loved. Thank you for supporting this space.

If you’re just starting to look into adoption, I really recommend exploring Coram Adoption and Adoption UK. Both offer fantastic advice, webinars, and real-life stories that can help you feel a little less overwhelmed. These organisations were huge sources of reassurance for us, especially in those early, information-heavy days.

The Chapter Before The Light

This chapter- our infertility chapter, will always be one of the hardest. But I don’t look back at it with anger or sadness anymore. I look back with tenderness for the girl who hoped so hard. For the couple who held each other through impossible sadness. For the family and friends who surrounded us when we felt like we had nothing left.

Infertility changed me. It forced me to sit in silence with my pain. But it also revealed a strength I didn’t know I had and a community of love that carried me when I couldn’t carry myself.

This chapter is called grief, but it’s also the chapter that made space for hope. And that hope is where our story truly began.

With love,

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