The Life I Thought I’d Have — and the One I’m Building Instead

In my last post, I shared that I was heading into another IVF cycle. What the future holds is still unknown. For now, the focus is on staying as calm as possible and taking the steps that are within my control.

With that in mind, this post shifts slightly away from the IVF process itself. As a classic overthinker, I’ve spent a lot of time considering everything that surrounds this decision — the hopes, the worries, and the expectations I didn’t realise I was carrying as I move towards solo motherhood.

At the beginning of this process, there was a real sense of excitement. Choosing to do this on my own felt empowering. Listening to podcasts and hearing other women talk openly about their experiences helped shape that confidence.

That feeling hasn’t disappeared, but it has matured. I’m very aware of how fortunate it is to even have this option — to become a mother without having met the right partner at the right moment. With that awareness comes honesty, especially as I reflect on what solo motherhood really means for me.

Sometimes — not always, but enough to notice — there’s grief for the life I thought I would have. I imagined having a partner to share the news with, someone to come to appointments, someone who knew every thought as I navigated it all. Support from friends and family has been invaluable. Still, I sometimes think about what that partnership might have been like.

Growing up, I didn’t have a clear example of a two-parent relationship. My parents were divorced, and while I had a loving and stable upbringing, that dynamic wasn’t something I experienced firsthand. I think that’s why, for a long time, I found myself wondering what a two-parent family might be like. Not from a place of lacking anything — more from curiosity about a life I hadn’t known.

When solo IVF was first mentioned during an appointment about egg freezing, I wasn’t ready to hear it. I remember leaving that consultation feeling completely taken aback. In not so many words, this person had gently suggested that the future I’d always assumed would happen — meeting someone first, then building a family together — might not unfold that way. It was confronting, and I wasn’t prepared for it.

After that appointment, egg freezing and IVF stayed firmly in the background. I didn’t rule it out completely, but I told myself I’d put more energy into dating instead. If I really applied myself, met the right person, surely things would fall into place.

And date I did. Not endlessly, but with genuine effort. In my thirties, though, the pool of available partners felt smaller. Many of the men I met were newly single after marriage and already had children. On paper, they often said they were open to a relationship as well as having more children. But, in reality, that didn’t seem to be the case. They’d already done that part of life.

Over time, the process became discouraging. I started to question what I was really searching for. Was it a partner — or was it the desire to become a parent?

At one point, a past connection resurfaced. We were not at all compatible, but the shared desire for a child made it feel worth exploring. Maybe we could be two friends raising a child together. It didn’t take long to realise that shared goals aren’t enough without shared values. That avenue came to an end fairly quickly.

What this process highlighted for me was this: the work required to really know myself, understand what values are important to me, and choose the right partner simply didn’t align with my fertility timeline.

The more pressure placed on that timeline, the further it moved from something that felt right. Settling was never going to be an option — I knew that would end up being a disaster long-term.

Once that became clear, the focus shifted. It stopped being about what I was losing and became about how I wanted to move forward.

This post isn’t about giving up on love or partnership. It’s about redefining family — letting go of the version of life I once expected, where everything happened in a particular order, at a particular pace.

There is a sense of loss in that, and it deserves to be acknowledged. But there’s also clarity. Letting go doesn’t mean closing doors. It means allowing life to take a shape I didn’t originally plan — and trusting that it can still be full, meaningful, and mine.

💕 Thank you for reading — and for being part of this space where IVF stories are shared honestly.