Life as a single, independent woman was fantastic. I had no desire to change it—until, at 36, an overwhelming longing for a child consumed me. It came out of nowhere, intense and undeniable. Listening to my soul, I decided to explore the possibility of having a child on my own.
The first step was testing my fertility. I had no reason to believe there would be issues—my periods were like clockwork, and I had no known medical concerns. But after a routine AMH (Anti-Mullerian Hormone) blood test, I was shocked to learn I had a very low ovarian reserve. A specialist confirmed my worst fear: “You have zero to no chance of falling pregnant with your own eggs, even with IVF.”
I went home and sobbed, my heart aching in a way I had never experienced before. This was my right as a woman. And I hadn’t even had the chance to try.
Months passed in despair before I sought out a leading IVF specialist. His words were different, filled with hope: “If you get a period every month, you have an egg. All you need is one good egg. Go out there and try—on your own or with a partner. Just don’t waste time.”
As luck would have it, I reconnected with an old flame, and our spark reignited. Fast forward six months: I missed a period. I peed on a stick, convinced it was impossible. We weren’t exactly trying, but the withdrawal method was hardly foolproof.
The girl with a low ovarian reserve was pregnant.
It felt like a miracle. I was excited, not fearful, and naively assumed everything would be fine. I continued working, going to my weekly trapeze classes, staying out late with friends, and navigating arguments with my partner about what life would now look like. He was in denial.
At every appointment, I cherished the sound of my baby’s heartbeat. At my 10-week scan, my doctor assured me the baby was growing well. But soon after, something shifted. It felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I lost my appetite, started shedding weight, and when I placed my hands on my belly, I felt emptiness.
Days before my 12-week scan, I started spotting. The nurse reassured me it was normal— “old blood from a previous period.” But when I arrived for my scan, the doctor took one look at me and said, “You look very thin. Let’s take a look at your baby.” I held my breath as he placed the foetal Doppler on my stomach. Silence. Deafening silence.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Your baby is no longer growing. There’s no heartbeat.” “What does that mean?” I asked, already knowing the answer. “You will miscarry soon.”
I wanted to scream. What did he mean? My baby was still inside me. I wasn’t ready to let go.
I barely remember how I left the clinic, only that as I stood at the reception desk, the staff member said, “Today’s scan will be $225, thanks.”
I handed over my credit card, numb, and stepped out into the sunshine. People were laughing in the park, eating their lunches, living their lives as if the world hadn’t just shattered. My baby was gone, and no one even knew.
That night, the cramps began. I lay in bed, the pain unbearable, but the pain in my heart was worse. Then the bleeding started. I crawled to the bathroom, sat on the toilet, and felt large clots leave my body. I knew. That was my baby.
I couldn’t bring myself to look. Instead, I sat on the cold floor, sobbing until I couldn’t take the pain any longer. At the hospital, they rushed me into surgery for a curettage. As they wheeled me into the operating room, I cried. When I woke up, I cried again. It was over. Hope was lost.
A doctor reassured me: “You’re healthy. There’s no reason you can’t fall pregnant again.” But what he didn’t tell me was how I would blame myself. How I would grieve. How I would question everything—if only I hadn’t gone to trapeze classes, if only I had ignored my boyfriend’s denial and focused on myself, if only I hadn’t told the world I was pregnant at six weeks.
For weeks, I barely ate or slept. I drowned in guilt. I had one chance, and I blew it. I would never be a mother. I hated myself.
My boyfriend, grieving in his own way, eventually told me to get up and go to work. I resisted, but his tough love pushed me forward. I put on makeup, walked out the door, and pretended to be okay. It lasted a few hours before the grief choked me. I locked myself in a bathroom stall and cried. Then I ran home, put on my pyjamas, and stared at the wall for days.
Friends and family didn’t know what to say. “It’s nature’s way,” they offered. “These things happen.” Some avoided me altogether. I felt completely alone.
One day, my dad reached out. When he saw me, he pulled me into a tight embrace. “I love you,” he whispered. “Let me carry this for a while so you can rest.” I sobbed in his arms, finally feeling safe.
The next day, I made an appointment with my doctor. He reassured me: even if I had wrapped myself in cotton wool, the outcome wouldn’t have changed. It was chromosomal. Not my fault.
Five months later, I was stronger. I was healing. I was ready to try again. But my boyfriend struggled. He wanted a baby but hated the pressure of timed sex. Eventually, we agreed on insemination. He made his deposit at the clinic, and we waited for the sperm test results. Meanwhile, I realised I would be ovulating while he was interstate, visiting my brother.
On 12/12/12, after a night together, I experienced sharp cramps. For a brief moment, I wondered—had it happened? Then I dismissed the thought, afraid of disappointment.
On Christmas Eve, we received the sperm test results: low quality, wrong shape, low count. Devastated, we wondered—do we keep trying together or part ways so I could pursue single motherhood?
On my birthday, 28 December, I woke up feeling… different. I was 12 days late. I peed on a stick. Double lines. Pregnant. The best birthday gift I could have imagined. I kept it a secret, too scared to hope. At five weeks, I experienced intense cramps and heavy bleeding.
I rushed to the hospital, convinced I was miscarrying again. But when the doctor performed an ultrasound, she smiled. “Listen,” she said. The sound of my baby’s heartbeat filled the room. I had been carrying twins. I lost one. But my other baby was strong.
For nine months, I held my breath. Fear overshadowed joy. But on 11 September 2013, I finally exhaled. My 4.1kg baby girl was placed in my arms. I heard her cry, smelled her skin, and stared into her perfect face.
My journey to motherhood wasn’t easy, but it was mine. And in the end, it brought me the greatest gift of all.