The storm cannot last forever. Hold on to each other, keep asking, keep trying. When the rain lets up, the rainbow will mean even more because you stayed long enough to see it. They were teenagers in a pickup, dreaming out loud about a shared future. By their mid-twenties, Rachel and Nick believed those daydreams would fit neatly into real life. In 2017, they started trying for a baby with an open-handed attitude. If it happened, great. If not, they would wait. Rachel carried a quiet worry. Her mom had PCOS, and she suspected the same road might be ahead.
After a year with no two pink lines, Rachel asked her doctor what might be wrong. She was told she was young and should not worry. No tests. No plan. A second doctor later tried Clomid without checking why her cycles were off. Two rounds brought no ovulation. When Rachel mentioned an upcoming move, the doctor said she had to choose between moving and getting pregnant. She decided to leave the practice instead.
Another year passed. A new doctor finally asked the right questions, ordered bloodwork, and did an internal ultrasound. On the screen, her ovaries showed a ring of tiny follicles like a strand of pearls. PCOS. It stung, but it was also a relief. At least they knew the name of the thing in their way. When that office suggested repeating the same old protocol, Rachel looked elsewhere. In 2020, a reproductive endocrinologist ran the whole panel: hormones, antibodies, dye studies, and genetics for her and Nick. Results were either normal or supported PCOS. They tried medicated cycles, then moved to IUI. Their first IUI brought their first positive test. She surprised Nick with a tiny onesie, and they let themselves believe. Days later, the call came: chemical pregnancy. The second IUI ended the same way.
They tested for clotting disorders. Nothing. The doctor suspected a genetic issue at fertilization and recommended IVF so embryos could be created and tested. Insurance covered nothing. Family and friends stepped in, helping fund what they hoped would be the last leg of a long journey. In January 2021, Rachel started injections and learned to do the shots herself. Nine days, many appointments, and missed work hours later, retrieval brought forty eggs; twenty-two fertilized; seven reached day five; five tested regular, three boys, and two girls. They prepped for transfer. The first embryo did not stick. The doctor adjusted the plan and added baby aspirin. Rachel guarded her heart; Nick held steady.
On a June morning they transferred another embryo and named it Peach. The first blood tests looked good. Then, at six weeks and five days, they saw the flicker of a heartbeat, a tiny light pulsing at one hundred thirty-one beats per minute. They cried. They told the family. There were hugs and happy tears in kitchens and living rooms. At nine weeks and three days, the room went quiet. No heartbeat. Peach had stopped growing a week earlier. Rachel heard the words but could barely breathe around them. Grief came in waves for the baby and the life they had already pictured. There was no neat lesson to pull from it, only the truth that loss is heavy and comes in many forms.
Their doctor was honest and kind. There was no silver lining to replace what was gone, but they had reached farther than before and still had three embryos waiting. Rachel leaned on a circle that held her up, Nick, their families, and a community she’d found online by telling her story. Some days hope felt like a lifeline; others felt like an empty word. She kept going anyway. She thinks back to those teenagers in the pickup and smiles. The route to parenthood did not look like the version they had drawn on the dashboard. It has been filled with needles, early morning ultrasounds, good news that turned to silence, and people who showed up when they were needed most. She has learned to ask hard questions, walk away from dismissive answers, and leave room for joy and heartbreak in the same week.
