“Six IUIs, three-and-a-half rounds of IVF, two miscarriages, over £55,000 spent, one frozen embryo and a frozen vial of sperm, and countless needles later, I’m still trying.”

Four years. That’s how long I’ve been on this journey. Four years of hoping, trying, grieving, and starting over. I’m on what the world has so naffly coined a solo-mother-by-choice path, though the “mother” part feels as elusive as it is certain in my head. It’s a journey riddled with sharp corners and pit stops. If only I could wear a badge, a bold round emblem of my stats, so the world could see how much I’ve tried. A badge that says, “Six IUIs, three-and-a-half rounds of IVF, two miscarriages, over £55,000 spent, one frozen embryo and a frozen vial of sperm, and countless needles later, I’m still trying.”
I wish I could nod at others wearing their own badges—acknowledging their triumphs, heartbreaks, and perseverance. Like bus drivers do.

I know my body now better than I ever wanted to. It’s mapped out in my mind like an Excel spreadsheet—every hormone level, follicle count, and procedural detail logged. And I love spreadsheets. But this isn’t a hobby. Somewhere in a freezer is my last embryo, a tiny cluster of cells that represents my deepest hopes. It feels both like a lifeline and a ticking clock. It’s accompanied by a lone round of sperm I’ve banked—insurance, though the policy feels less than promising. This is a story about trying, but also of time slipping away. I’m 41 now, and that knowledge—the sense of a rope unraveling—sits with me every day.
The highs and lows have been surreal. The first time I got pregnant coincided with the first time I tested positive for COVID—a bizarrely 2020 milestone. My clinic’s staff—my nurse and doctor, who know my name, quirks, and stats—were as thrilled as I was. That’s the thing: they’ve been there through it all, every heart-wrenching result and cautiously optimistic embryo transfer. I know they care more than they’re supposed to, and I’m grateful for their kindness in a system that can otherwise feel like a production line.

“I see their joy as a flag of hope, even when it catches in the short breath just before I start crying”

Not everyone understands this journey. People try, in their own way. Some are curious, some are proud of me, and some shrink back, unsure how to meet my grief head-on. And then there are my comrades—fellow travellers on this painful path—who, despite their own hard-won successes, hesitate to share their good news with me. They worry it will sting too much. But I see their joy as a flag of hope, even when it catches in the short breath just before I start crying—not in front of them, of course! They get it, the layers of pain and longing, and their concern touches me deeply. I’ve learned that I can cry and feel happy for them at the same time, but that wasn’t obvious when it first happened.

Some pockets of people, on the other hand, don’t get it at all. It’s hard to explain what it’s like to feel the idea of being a mother slip further and further out of reach. Or to navigate the quips—like the advice from my drunken cousin that I should just sack it all off and head to a pub for a one-night stand.

Then there’s the well-meaning flippancy that I’m sometimes guilty of. To a stranger, I can perform my story with humour and lightness, basking in the pride and relief of an audience that listens kindly. But the sadness always catches up with me, and I’ll wobble out of the conversation, overwhelmed by the reality I momentarily held somewhere else. That’s not on them, though. That’s me, juggling my pride and grief in the same breath.
Even between treatments, I’m still on this journey. I’m either saving up money, mourning a loss, or coaxing my body back to some semblance of normalcy after weeks of needles, hormones, and emotional whiplash. There’s no off switch, no pause button. And yet, it’s during these in-between times that people sometimes assume I’m “done.” As if the absence of immediate action means the end of the road. If only my badge could clear up that misunderstanding too.

Some of the hardest moments feel almost bureaucratic in their cruelty. Like when a nurse at the NHS EPU told me, after a miscarriage, that “for all she knew, I might not have even been pregnant.” My privately funded treatment, a prerequisite when you’re solo, meant my pregnancy wasn’t on their system.

I have also found myself laughing at the weirdest and darkest moments. Like the time I regaled my pregnant best friend, who had supported me through that day’s clinic visit, with a frivolous TikTok about how children shouldn’t outnumber parents if you want a quiet life—all while laughing on the tube after we’d just found out I’d miscarry twins.
And yet, through it all, I have people who hold me up. The family I live with and the family who’ve embraced how different this is to their friends’ grandchildren stories, and the best friends who are on the end of a phone or a train at a moment’s notice. They’ve stood by me every step of the way, their heartbreak for me visible even when they try to hide it. They remind me that I’m not alone, even when the journey feels isolating and the word “solo” sits so proudly at the start of the solo-mother-by-choice title.

I wish I could wear a badge—not unlike the “Baby on Board” badges I’ve longed to earn

For four years, I’ve been in a cycle of trying, grieving, healing, and trying again. My body has rarely had the chance to simply be. And through it all, I’ve held on to the belief that it’s worth it.

That belief is something I wish I could share more openly. I wish I could wear a badge—not unlike the “Baby on Board” badges I’ve longed to earn—that declares my stats and story. It’s not the story I expected to tell, but it’s mine. And if I ever do get to wear that “Baby on Board” badge, it will come with a proud understanding of what it took to get here. Until then, I’ll keep going. Because I know I want to be a mum.

Written by Alex McCorkindale