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Business Mayor
21-05-2025
- Health
- Business Mayor
What to say – and what not to say – to friends, or colleagues having IVF
It is estimated that one in seven couples in the UK will experience difficulties conceiving, and many will go on to have fertility treatment. The Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority (HFEA) reports that more than 1.3m IVF cycles have been performed in the UK since 1991. I was 32 when I first underwent treatment, and I didn't know anyone else who had been through it. Six years on, a quick headcount of IVF-enduring friends almost reaches double figures; we can no longer consider it rare. If you have friends, family or colleagues in their 30s and 40s, it is highly likely that some will be having IVF (that is not to say that no one younger will be – it is just statistically less likely: the average age is now 36). Kerry Downes: 'There are comments that boost … and others that can sting.' Photograph: Bec Hudson Smith It can be difficult to know what to say to someone who has shared that this is their path to potential parenthood – the outcome possibly exciting, possibly heartbreaking. From my experience of that challenging time, there are comments that can boost and others that, however well intentioned, can sting. Despite having been on the rollercoaster myself, I have still walked away from conversations with friends regretting my choice of words. I think openness is always the best option; if something slips out that your brain later berates you for, then be honest and share your regret. The self-reflection shows that you care how your words are being received, and that you are trying, which is all that can be asked. Otherwise, this would be my advice: What not to say Oh, you're not drinking? The question may seem innocuous, but it is often accompanied by a raised eyebrow, a smug smile or, God forbid, a wink. Most people do not drink alcohol during fertility treatment and acting as if you have just guessed their pregnancy secret will only highlight how upsettingly untrue this is. Kerry Downes: 'I had people clapping with excitement and even congratulating me for starting the process.' Photograph: Bec Hudson Smith Children are overrated anyway The only person allowed to say this is your fabulous child-free-by-choice friend who drinks champagne in sequined outfits while browsing art galleries each weekend, and genuinely doesn't understand all the fuss. Mothers of three who later that day post gushing photos of their children on Instagram should categorically not say this. Why don't you just adopt? Adoption is an incredible thing to do, but it is a very different route to having a family, and a complex process to navigate. When my second cycle of IVF failed, I stayed up drinking red wine and scrolling Instagram for adoption stories through intermittent bouts of tears; they brought me much more comfort than the 1.1m IVF success hashtags. But this was in the private world of my phone; if a friend had suggested I 'just adopt', I would have taken it to mean they thought my pursuit of fertility treatment was foolish and futile. Most people going through IVF will have thoroughly considered all routes to parenthood and suggesting they adopt is unlikely to be enlightening. Rather, it comes across as unsupportive. Who has the issue, then, you or him? I won't gratify this with an explanation, but yes, people honestly ask this. How exciting! This is a difficult one. It is entirely reasonable to feel excited by the thought of your friend becoming pregnant but, for reasons of self-preservation, they will probably be approaching the process cautiously. On average, only 31% of embryo transfers are successful, so there is a careful balance to be had in terms of positive thinking and cautious restraint. I had people clapping with excitement and even congratulating me for starting the process, then telling me I shouldn't think that way if I reminded them of the potential for failure. This sort of toxic positivity left me feeling distanced from the friends who didn't seem to understand my hesitancy towards hope. Well, you never know! Any holidays coming up? Everyone has heard of a couple who had eight rounds of IVF then magically got knocked up on holiday because they 'just relaxed!' This phrase has become so reviled by those trying to conceive that the Big Fat Negative Podcast now sells T-shirts emblazoned with the words. There are myriad reasons why people cannot conceive, and suggesting that lying on a beach might assuage their neuroticism is unlikely to go down well. Read More Gradey Dick ready to earn starters role on Raptors Did you find the donor online? Like shopping! Is there a photo? What nationality are they? Some people going through IVF will use donors, and obviously all same-sex couples will. I asked two of my gay friends for their input when writing this article; I wanted to know if things had landed in the same way – perhaps approaching IVF without years of disappointment already stacked up meant that it really was exciting. But their views reflected my own, with an additional gripe of being asked inappropriately intimate questions about the donors. People are seemingly obsessed with the donor's looks and nationality, asked outright which partner's egg/sperm was being used, and frequently referred to the donors as the mother or father. These are extremely intrusive questions and not appropriate for casual pub conversations with a friend you see once a year. What to say I'm sorry you're having to go through this Reserved for heterosexual couples where there is obviously a more fun route to the end goal, sometimes a simple acknowledgment that it is not an ideal situation is all that's needed. Just ensure you don't slide from empathetic into dramatic pity. I've seen that face and all it does is scream: 'Oh wow, your life sucks!' I'm here for you if there's anything you need It might be offering fridge space to make room for their extensive stash of medication, driving them to a clinic appointment, or posting Hobnobs through the letterbox on a day when they are not up for company. Reminding friends that you are there and ready to show up goes further than you think. Kerry Downes: 'Caring from a distance can feel less confronting and more powerful.' Photograph: Bec Hudson Smith I don't really know much about it Read the room on this one: if someone is telling you through tears that they are starting IVF, then now is not the time for a science lesson – go and do some background reading instead. But I didn't expect friends to know the ins and outs of the process and always appreciated their honesty in telling me so. I'll get this There is no getting away from it: IVF is expensive. NHS funding varies considerably across the UK: the latest figures show that only 24% of cycles in England were NHS-funded, whereas 58% were in Scotland. A single cycle costs about £5,000, and most people will require multiple. People take on second jobs and remortgage their houses to fund treatment. It can be incredibly stressful, so don't make them feel bad if they skip that absurdly priced hen do or suggest dinner at a place with buy one, get one free burgers. Paying the bill for their beetroot smoothie might feel like a drop in the ocean, but it is a kindness that will be noted. Nothing My best friend left a bottle of non-alcoholic wine on our kitchen table with a hand-drawn card of a pineapple, the words 'still 'ere ' carefully inked beneath. A colleague put a card in my tray after I asked my manager to let her know I was starting treatment. We never talked about it, but I read her kind words again and again. When I mentioned that the hormones were making me feel exceptionally blue, my schoolfriends, hundreds of miles away, banded together and sent flowers. Sometimes, caring from a distance can feel less confronting and more powerful. I know someone else going through it, if you ever wanted to talk Many people don't know anyone else going through IVF, so if you can connect two willing people, then do. There is a whole sisterhood of big-hearted, needle-wielding warriors out there and, while comparisons can feel dangerous (how many eggs, what grade of embryos etc), with some care and boundary-setting, these obstacles can be navigated and the benefits reaped. My sister-in-law ended up going through three rounds at a similar time to me. We messaged regularly, about optimal needle insertion angles or the pros of nettle tea, or how we weren't sure how many times we could do this. She was the first person I told when I got two blue lines, even before my husband. Our sons were born two weeks apart.
The Guardian
21-05-2025
- Health
- The Guardian
What to say – and what not to say – to friends, or colleagues having IVF
It is estimated that one in seven couples in the UK will experience difficulties conceiving, and many will go on to have fertility treatment. The Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority (HFEA) reports that more than 1.3m IVF cycles have been performed in the UK since 1991. I was 32 when I first underwent treatment, and I didn't know anyone else who had been through it. Six years on, a quick headcount of IVF-enduring friends almost reaches double figures; we can no longer consider it rare. If you have friends, family or colleagues in their 30s and 40s, it is highly likely that some will be having IVF (that is not to say that no one younger will be – it is just statistically less likely: the average age is now 36). It can be difficult to know what to say to someone who has shared that this is their path to potential parenthood – the outcome possibly exciting, possibly heartbreaking. From my experience of that challenging time, there are comments that can boost and others that, however well intentioned, can sting. Despite having been on the rollercoaster myself, I have still walked away from conversations with friends regretting my choice of words. I think openness is always the best option; if something slips out that your brain later berates you for, then be honest and share your regret. The self-reflection shows that you care how your words are being received, and that you are trying, which is all that can be asked. Otherwise, this would be my advice: Oh, you're not drinking?The question may seem innocuous, but it is often accompanied by a raised eyebrow, a smug smile or, God forbid, a wink. Most people do not drink alcohol during fertility treatment and acting as if you have just guessed their pregnancy secret will only highlight how upsettingly untrue this is. Children are overrated anywayThe only person allowed to say this is your fabulous child-free-by-choice friend who drinks champagne in sequined outfits while browsing art galleries each weekend, and genuinely doesn't understand all the fuss. Mothers of three who later that day post gushing photos of their children on Instagram should categorically not say this. Why don't you just adopt?Adoption is an incredible thing to do, but it is a very different route to having a family, and a complex process to navigate. When my second cycle of IVF failed, I stayed up drinking red wine and scrolling Instagram for adoption stories through intermittent bouts of tears; they brought me much more comfort than the 1.1m IVF success hashtags. But this was in the private world of my phone; if a friend had suggested I 'just adopt', I would have taken it to mean they thought my pursuit of fertility treatment was foolish and futile. Most people going through IVF will have thoroughly considered all routes to parenthood and suggesting they adopt is unlikely to be enlightening. Rather, it comes across as unsupportive. Who has the issue, then, you or him?I won't gratify this with an explanation, but yes, people honestly ask this. How exciting!This is a difficult one. It is entirely reasonable to feel excited by the thought of your friend becoming pregnant but, for reasons of self-preservation, they will probably be approaching the process cautiously. On average, only 31% of embryo transfers are successful, so there is a careful balance to be had in terms of positive thinking and cautious restraint. I had people clapping with excitement and even congratulating me for starting the process, then telling me I shouldn't think that way if I reminded them of the potential for failure. This sort of toxic positivity left me feeling distanced from the friends who didn't seem to understand my hesitancy towards hope. Well, you never know! Any holidays coming up?Everyone has heard of a couple who had eight rounds of IVF then magically got knocked up on holiday because they 'just relaxed!' This phrase has become so reviled by those trying to conceive that the Big Fat Negative Podcast now sells T-shirts emblazoned with the words. There are myriad reasons why people cannot conceive, and suggesting that lying on a beach might assuage their neuroticism is unlikely to go down well. Did you find the donor online? Like shopping! Is there a photo? What nationality are they?Some people going through IVF will use donors, and obviously all same-sex couples will. I asked two of my gay friends for their input when writing this article; I wanted to know if things had landed in the same way – perhaps approaching IVF without years of disappointment already stacked up meant that it really was exciting. But their views reflected my own, with an additional gripe of being asked inappropriately intimate questions about the donors. People are seemingly obsessed with the donor's looks and nationality, asked outright which partner's egg/sperm was being used, and frequently referred to the donors as the mother or father. These are extremely intrusive questions and not appropriate for casual pub conversations with a friend you see once a year. I'm sorry you're having to go through thisReserved for heterosexual couples where there is obviously a more fun route to the end goal, sometimes a simple acknowledgment that it is not an ideal situation is all that's needed. Just ensure you don't slide from empathetic into dramatic pity. I've seen that face and all it does is scream: 'Oh wow, your life sucks!' I'm here for you if there's anything you needIt might be offering fridge space to make room for their extensive stash of medication, driving them to a clinic appointment, or posting Hobnobs through the letterbox on a day when they are not up for company. Reminding friends that you are there and ready to show up goes further than you think. I don't really know much about itRead the room on this one: if someone is telling you through tears that they are starting IVF, then now is not the time for a science lesson – go and do some background reading instead. But I didn't expect friends to know the ins and outs of the process and always appreciated their honesty in telling me so. I'll get thisThere is no getting away from it: IVF is expensive. NHS funding varies considerably across the UK: the latest figures show that only 24% of cycles in England were NHS-funded, whereas 58% were in Scotland. A single cycle costs about £5,000, and most people will require multiple. People take on second jobs and remortgage their houses to fund treatment. It can be incredibly stressful, so don't make them feel bad if they skip that absurdly priced hen do or suggest dinner at a place with buy one, get one free burgers. Paying the bill for their beetroot smoothie might feel like a drop in the ocean, but it is a kindness that will be noted. NothingMy best friend left a bottle of non-alcoholic wine on our kitchen table with a hand-drawn card of a pineapple, the words 'still 'ere' carefully inked beneath. A colleague put a card in my tray after I asked my manager to let her know I was starting treatment. We never talked about it, but I read her kind words again and again. When I mentioned that the hormones were making me feel exceptionally blue, my schoolfriends, hundreds of miles away, banded together and sent flowers. Sometimes, caring from a distance can feel less confronting and more powerful. I know someone else going through it, if you ever wanted to talkMany people don't know anyone else going through IVF, so if you can connect two willing people, then do. There is a whole sisterhood of big-hearted, needle-wielding warriors out there and, while comparisons can feel dangerous (how many eggs, what grade of embryos etc), with some care and boundary-setting, these obstacles can be navigated and the benefits reaped. My sister-in-law ended up going through three rounds at a similar time to me. We messaged regularly, about optimal needle insertion angles or the pros of nettle tea, or how we weren't sure how many times we could do this. She was the first person I told when I got two blue lines, even before my husband. Our sons were born two weeks apart. That Time Everything Was on Fire by Kerry Downes is published by HarperCollins on 22 May (£16.99). To support the Guardian, order your copy at Delivery charges may apply.
Yahoo
20-05-2025
- General
- Yahoo
I met a stranger in a hotel room to try to get pregnant – and fled in horror
As I fled the hotel room, heart pounding and hands sweaty, I clutched my bag and pulled my jacket tightly around me. Overwhelmed with emotion, tears filled my eyes. How had it all come to this? Society tells you that becoming a mother is the most natural progression in a woman's life, but after years of trying, pursuing every route possible, it still hadn't happened for me. So, there I was, leaving my hotel room after a desperate encounter with a sperm donor I'd found online, clinging to one final hope of becoming a mother. It was the summer of 2016, and I had been trying for a baby for four years. Back in 2012, at 37, I was an international destination wedding photographer, living a life many envied – travelling the world and capturing couples at the start of their journey together. But beneath it all, I longed to be a mother. Though in a loving relationship at the time, I knew it wouldn't last. We had never discussed having children and I knew he wasn't the man I would spend the rest of my life with, so I decided to go it alone. I had always wanted to be a mother but as an ambitious young woman my career had always come first. As I neared the age of 40 there was a realisation that although I had the rest of my life to find Mr Right, my time to conceive was limited, and would quickly run out. I researched sperm banks and knew they were regulated by the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority (HFEA), ensuring safety and ethics. However, UK donor information was limited – just a brief medical history and anonymity until the child turned 18. That didn't feel right. I wanted transparency, so I looked beyond the UK and found a Danish sperm bank offering donors from across Europe. Eventually, I chose one from the Netherlands. His profile was everything I had hoped for – detailed medical records, a childhood photo, and a letter explaining why he chose to be an open donor. He was thoughtful, articulate and tall – which felt like a bonus – as I'm tall myself and naturally drawn to tall men. But most importantly, he felt real and safe. A year earlier I had become pregnant the 'natural' way with my current partner, but I had hidden it from him, and then miscarried. However, despite losing the baby, medical tests had shown no issues with my fertility. Once I allowed myself to grieve, I was ready. I confirmed my choice – the Dutch donor whose sperm was stored by a fertility clinic in Denmark. I completed the paperwork, and arranged for the sperm to be shipped to my consultant in London, where it was frozen until I was ready to move forward. There would be enough sperm for multiple attempts, but of course I prayed success would come swiftly. But by 2015, as I approached 40, the toll of four rounds of intrauterine insemination (IUI) and countless trips to London from Hampshire had drained me. I felt time slipping away – I had forever to find Mr Right, but just a few years left to have a child. Each failed attempt left me heartbroken, and aside from my mother's support, I felt utterly alone in the process. The cost of insemination quickly drained my savings – around £10,000 - and my desperation grew. I was single, but putting off any ideas of a relationship until I had settled into my life as a mother. One evening, after hours of late-night searching, I stumbled upon a UK site where men offered their sperm free to women struggling to conceive. I knew the risks but, consumed by my desire to become a mother, I decided to take the chance. It was like a dating site – swiping through profiles, hoping to find a match. I connected with a donor and after exchanging personal details we met for a coffee to get to know each other. While certain personal details had to remain anonymous for our mutual protection, we both shared enough to feel reassured and comfortable moving forward. The one non-negotiable was that we each had to take an HIV test. There were two options to attempt conception – the natural way or through insemination. I made it clear I preferred the latter. A friend who works in a hospital sent me what I needed for the procedure, I put my donor on standby, did my temperature readings every day and waited for the sign that my body was ready. Eventually, the day came to try, and despite the nerves it felt strangely impersonal. We met at a hotel near Waterloo where I'd booked a room, and I left the supplies he needed in the bathroom while I waited anxiously in the lobby. Once he had emptied his sperm into a sterile test tube, he would leave it there for me to then transfer to a pipette and inseminate myself. As he descended the stairs, I rushed past him and up to the room, conscious not to waste any time, not even a second. Afterwards, I called my friend who had sent the supplies to keep me company while lying with my legs up for as long as I could. It was a totally surreal experience with absolutely no emotional connection, but I remember being confident it was going to work. It didn't. We tried again, but this attempt failed too and the disappointment was overwhelming. I knew the odds were stacked against me, having just one chance per cycle and a success rate of around 10 per cent for women my age, but I was determined to keep going, despite the emotional toll. Eventually, I asked my donor if he'd be willing to proceed the 'traditional' way, and he agreed. To boost my chances, I started fertility medications to stimulate ovulation and increase the number of available eggs. Almost immediately I felt the effects – my emotions were in overdrive and my body out of balance. A few weeks later, I ovulated. We met again: same hotel, same purpose. It wasn't romantic, but it wasn't uncomfortable. The process was repeated once again – waiting, hoping, willing it to work, and ending in disappointment. We tried one last time. On that occasion, I noticed his tablet propped up strangely against the wall and a wave of panic hit me – was he filming me? My stomach lurched. Heart pounding, I grabbed my things and fled, shaken to my core. What was I doing? I'll never know if he was planning anything that I hadn't consented to, but it made me realise that I'd put myself at serious risk; anything could have happened. For over four years, my life had been on hold in the pursuit of pregnancy – tracking every cycle, spending my savings, and sacrificing potential relationships and happiness. I sat on the train home, tears falling down my face. I knew it had to stop. Nothing ever prepares you for the emotional weight of that realisation – the sense of loss, the silence, the space where something was meant to be. It made me question my identity, my direction and what purpose could possibly fill the void. I had to make a living and knew I needed something meaningful to pour my energy into. Wedding photography stopped fulfilling me – it felt too painful and no longer brought me joy. Instead, I found myself drawn to the creative world of personal branding, capturing the stories of women building something of their own. That shift felt right, and my new business was steadily growing – until Covid hit in 2020 and everything went quiet. Bookings vanished overnight and, like so many others, I was left staring into the unknown. But in that stillness, something stirred – a desire to create not just for myself, but for women like me: those rethinking their futures, craving connection, support, and a sense of possibility. That's how Brand You 2020 was born: a Facebook community created to empower female entrepreneurs with inspiration, support, and practical guidance. It has since evolved into a collaborative, glossy magazine where women in business share their stories, expertise, and lift each other up – a platform rooted in real experience and collective growth. In many ways, Brand You has become the baby I never had. I've since expanded it into an in-person event, Showtime – a day where like-minded women come together to support one another and learn how to grow their brand and business. On Oct 1 this year, more than 150 women will gather in London to cover every aspect of branding and entrepreneurship. Last week, I turned 50. I've never felt happier or more fulfilled. I'm godmother to five wonderful boys – sons of friends – and I cherish my extended family and beautiful niece and nephew, whom I see whenever I can. I don't resent friends who were lucky enough to have children, nor do I want pity for a life that didn't follow the path I once imagined. My life is rich, positive and full of joy. While I didn't get the life I once dreamed of, I'm deeply grateful for the life I've created. I'm proud of what I've achieved and the community I've built – and I know this journey wouldn't have been possible had I become the mother I once hoped to be. As told to Emily Cleary A quick procedure that involves injecting the highest quality sperm directly into the uterus during ovulation to fertilise the eggs naturally. The process, which often involves the patient taking fertility medication to stimulate ovulation, reduces the time and distance sperm has to travel, making it easier to fertilise the egg. Before being injected, the sperm goes through a process called 'sperm washing' that collects a concentrated amount of healthy sperm from the semen. IUI is often recommended as the first step for couples struggling to conceive because it's less expensive and less invasive than IVF. It costs about $300-$1,000 (£230-£766) without health insurance. The procedure has lower success rates per cycle and is not always suitable for those with severe fertility problems. IUI can also increase the chances of having twins or triplets. A more invasive process that involves externally fertilising an egg with sperm in a lab, before transferring the resulting embryo into the uterus. IVF has a higher success rate than IUI, but it can depend on factors including age and the number of healthy eggs carried in a woman's ovaries. IVF is a multi-step process that can involve about six to eight visits over four weeks. It involves the woman taking medication to mature her eggs and prepare them for fertilisation. The eggs are removed through a minor surgical procedure and mixed with sperm in a lab to help fertilise them. If the sperm has lower motility, they can be injected directly into the eggs. One or more embryos are then placed directly in the uterus. The average cost of an IVF cycle can range from $14,000 to $20,000 (£10,730-£15,330) in the US, depending on factors such as location and additional procedures. Broaden your horizons with award-winning British journalism. Try The Telegraph free for 1 month with unlimited access to our award-winning website, exclusive app, money-saving offers and more.
Telegraph
20-05-2025
- General
- Telegraph
I met a stranger in a hotel room to try to get pregnant – and fled in horror
As I fled the hotel room, heart pounding and hands sweaty, I clutched my bag and pulled my jacket tightly around me. Overwhelmed with emotion, tears filled my eyes. How had it all come to this? Society tells you that becoming a mother is the most natural progression in a woman's life, but after years of trying, pursuing every route possible, it still hadn't happened for me. So, there I was, leaving my hotel room after a desperate encounter with a sperm donor I'd found online, clinging to one final hope of becoming a mother. It was the summer of 2016, and I had been trying for a baby for four years. Back in 2012, at 37, I was an international destination wedding photographer, living a life many envied – travelling the world and capturing couples at the start of their journey together. But beneath it all, I longed to be a mother. Though in a loving relationship at the time, I knew it wouldn't last. We had never discussed having children and I knew he wasn't the man I would spend the rest of my life with, so I decided to go it alone. I had always wanted to be a mother but as an ambitious young woman my career had always come first. As I neared the age of 40 there was a realisation that although I had the rest of my life to find Mr Right, my time to conceive was limited, and would quickly run out. Researching sperm banks I researched sperm banks and knew they were regulated by the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority (HFEA), ensuring safety and ethics. However, UK donor information was limited – just a brief medical history and anonymity until the child turned 18. That didn't feel right. I wanted transparency, so I looked beyond the UK and found a Danish sperm bank offering donors from across Europe. Eventually, I chose one from the Netherlands. His profile was everything I had hoped for – detailed medical records, a childhood photo, and a letter explaining why he chose to be an open donor. He was thoughtful, articulate and tall – which felt like a bonus – as I'm tall myself and naturally drawn to tall men. But most importantly, he felt real and safe. A year earlier I had become pregnant the 'natural' way with my current partner, but I had hidden it from him, and then miscarried. However, despite losing the baby, medical tests had shown no issues with my fertility. Once I allowed myself to grieve, I was ready. I confirmed my choice – the Dutch donor whose sperm was stored by a fertility clinic in Denmark. I completed the paperwork, and arranged for the sperm to be shipped to my consultant in London, where it was frozen until I was ready to move forward. There would be enough sperm for multiple attempts, but of course I prayed success would come swiftly. But by 2015, as I approached 40, the toll of four rounds of intrauterine insemination (IUI) and countless trips to London from Hampshire had drained me. I felt time slipping away – I had forever to find Mr Right, but just a few years left to have a child. Each failed attempt left me heartbroken, and aside from my mother's support, I felt utterly alone in the process. The cost of insemination quickly drained my savings – around £10,000 - and my desperation grew. I was single, but putting off any ideas of a relationship until I had settled into my life as a mother. Meeting men online One evening, after hours of late-night searching, I stumbled upon a UK site where men offered their sperm free to women struggling to conceive. I knew the risks but, consumed by my desire to become a mother, I decided to take the chance. It was like a dating site – swiping through profiles, hoping to find a match. I connected with a donor and after exchanging personal details we met for a coffee to get to know each other. While certain personal details had to remain anonymous for our mutual protection, we both shared enough to feel reassured and comfortable moving forward. The one non-negotiable was that we each had to take an HIV test. There were two options to attempt conception – the natural way or through insemination. I made it clear I preferred the latter. A friend who works in a hospital sent me what I needed for the procedure, I put my donor on standby, did my temperature readings every day and waited for the sign that my body was ready. Eventually, the day came to try, and despite the nerves it felt strangely impersonal. We met at a hotel near Waterloo where I'd booked a room, and I left the supplies he needed in the bathroom while I waited anxiously in the lobby. Once he had emptied his sperm into a sterile test tube, he would leave it there for me to then transfer to a pipette and inseminate myself. As he descended the stairs, I rushed past him and up to the room, conscious not to waste any time, not even a second. Afterwards, I called my friend who had sent the supplies to keep me company while lying with my legs up for as long as I could. It was a totally surreal experience with absolutely no emotional connection, but I remember being confident it was going to work. It didn't. We tried again, but this attempt failed too and the disappointment was overwhelming. I knew the odds were stacked against me, having just one chance per cycle and a success rate of around 10 per cent for women my age, but I was determined to keep going, despite the emotional toll. Taking fertility medication Eventually, I asked my donor if he'd be willing to proceed the 'traditional' way, and he agreed. To boost my chances, I started fertility medications to stimulate ovulation and increase the number of available eggs. Almost immediately I felt the effects – my emotions were in overdrive and my body out of balance. A few weeks later, I ovulated. We met again: same hotel, same purpose. It wasn't romantic, but it wasn't uncomfortable. The process was repeated once again – waiting, hoping, willing it to work, and ending in disappointment. We tried one last time. On that occasion, I noticed his tablet propped up strangely against the wall and a wave of panic hit me – was he filming me? My stomach lurched. Heart pounding, I grabbed my things and fled, shaken to my core. What was I doing? I'll never know if he was planning anything that I hadn't consented to, but it made me realise that I'd put myself at serious risk; anything could have happened. For over four years, my life had been on hold in the pursuit of pregnancy – tracking every cycle, spending my savings, and sacrificing potential relationships and happiness. I sat on the train home, tears falling down my face. I knew it had to stop. Nothing ever prepares you for the emotional weight of that realisation – the sense of loss, the silence, the space where something was meant to be. It made me question my identity, my direction and what purpose could possibly fill the void. I had to make a living and knew I needed something meaningful to pour my energy into. Finding a new obsession Wedding photography stopped fulfilling me – it felt too painful and no longer brought me joy. Instead, I found myself drawn to the creative world of personal branding, capturing the stories of women building something of their own. That shift felt right, and my new business was steadily growing – until Covid hit in 2020 and everything went quiet. Bookings vanished overnight and, like so many others, I was left staring into the unknown. But in that stillness, something stirred – a desire to create not just for myself, but for women like me: those rethinking their futures, craving connection, support, and a sense of possibility. That's how Brand You 2020 was born: a Facebook community created to empower female entrepreneurs with inspiration, support, and practical guidance. It has since evolved into a collaborative, glossy magazine where women in business share their stories, expertise, and lift each other up – a platform rooted in real experience and collective growth. In many ways, Brand You has become the baby I never had. I've since expanded it into an in-person event, Showtime – a day where like-minded women come together to support one another and learn how to grow their brand and business. On Oct 1 this year, more than 150 women will gather in London to cover every aspect of branding and entrepreneurship. Last week, I turned 50. I've never felt happier or more fulfilled. I'm godmother to five wonderful boys – sons of friends – and I cherish my extended family and beautiful niece and nephew, whom I see whenever I can. I don't resent friends who were lucky enough to have children, nor do I want pity for a life that didn't follow the path I once imagined. My life is rich, positive and full of joy. While I didn't get the life I once dreamed of, I'm deeply grateful for the life I've created. I'm proud of what I've achieved and the community I've built – and I know this journey wouldn't have been possible had I become the mother I once hoped to be. As told to Emily Cleary IUI vs IVF: How the different fertility treatments compare Intrauterine insemination (IUI) A quick procedure that involves injecting the highest quality sperm directly into the uterus during ovulation to fertilise the eggs naturally. The process, which often involves the patient taking fertility medication to stimulate ovulation, reduces the time and distance sperm has to travel, making it easier to fertilise the egg. Before being injected, the sperm goes through a process called 'sperm washing' that collects a concentrated amount of healthy sperm from the semen. IUI is often recommended as the first step for couples struggling to conceive because it's less expensive and less invasive than IVF. It costs about $300-$1,000 (£230-£766) without health insurance. The procedure has lower success rates per cycle and is not always suitable for those with severe fertility problems. IUI can also increase the chances of having twins or triplets. In vitro fertilization (IVF) A more invasive process that involves externally fertilising an egg with sperm in a lab, before transferring the resulting embryo into the uterus. IVF has a higher success rate than IUI, but it can depend on factors including age and the number of healthy eggs carried in a woman's ovaries. IVF is a multi-step process that can involve about six to eight visits over four weeks. It involves the woman taking medication to mature her eggs and prepare them for fertilisation. The eggs are removed through a minor surgical procedure and mixed with sperm in a lab to help fertilise them. If the sperm has lower motility, they can be injected directly into the eggs. One or more embryos are then placed directly in the uterus. The average cost of an IVF cycle can range from $14,000 to $20,000 (£10,730-£15,330) in the US, depending on factors such as location and additional procedures.
Yahoo
26-03-2025
- Health
- Yahoo
Most fertility patients offered treatments that ‘don't work'
Most fertility patients are being offered treatments that are not proven to increase the chance of success, a report has said. Almost three quarters of fertility patients are being offered unnecessary add-on treatments, nearly all of which 'are not proven to increase the chance of having a baby', the fertility regulator has said. The report by the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority (HFEA) into the experiences of 1,500 patients in the UK also found that 51 per cent of those seeking donor sperm received it from overseas. Most patients cited increased choice and more information about the donor as the reasons why they chose foreign sperm. The HFEA said that in the UK a donor's sperm can only be used to create up to 10 families, but the 10-family limit does not apply abroad. The report also highlighted long waits for some patients – particularly those seeking NHS care. Around a quarter of patients had used donor eggs, sperm or embryos in treatment. Of the 73 per cent who were offered 'add-on treatments', only 52 per cent had the effectiveness explained to them, while 37 per cent were told about the risks. The report found add-on treatments such as the use of endometrial scratching – when the lining of the womb is scratched before an embryo is implanted – had decreased last year, but was still being offered. It also found the use of a so-called 'emerging technology' known as pre-implantation genetic testing for aneuploidy – the checking of embryos for abnormalities in the number of chromosomes – increased to 13 per cent in 2024, even though the HFEA said there is 'insufficient evidence' of its effectiveness at improving the chance of pregnancy. Julia Chain, chairman of the HFEA, said: 'It's disappointing to see a significant number of patients are still using add-ons and emerging technologies, and particularly disappointing that only half of patients had the effectiveness explained to them, let alone the risks. 'We regularly remind clinics that, according to our Code of Practice, they must give patients a clear idea of what any treatment add-on involves, how likely it is to increase their chance of a successful pregnancy, cost, risks, and link to our public ratings system. 'We will continue to remind clinics about improving clarity and communication for patients.' The report also found that most patients began treatment seven months to a year after first seeing their GP about their fertility problems. But 16 per cent of patients waited over two years. NHS-funded patients reported longer wait times in starting treatment compared to those who paid privately. Some 53 per cent of private patients started treatment within a year compared to 35 per cent of NHS patients. The regulator said that its data shows that the number of NHS-funded treatment cycles is falling, and stood at just 27 per cent in 2022. Ms Chain said the regulator was also 'concerned that NHS-funded patients are waiting longer than self-funded patients to start fertility treatment'. 'The delays faced by NHS patients highlight ongoing issues relating to the provision of specialist care for women,' she said. 'As part of our response to the Government's 10-year plan, we want to see a much shorter time for patients to begin fertility treatment once they have received advice or a referral from their GP.' A Department of Health spokesman said: 'It is unacceptable fertility patients are being offered unnecessary treatments that will not help them in their goal of becoming parents. 'We are working to improve access to NHS fertility services for all who need it. 'We are also currently considering advice from the HFEA about priorities for law reform covering their regulatory powers, including their potential role in digital clinics.' Broaden your horizons with award-winning British journalism. Try The Telegraph free for 1 month with unlimited access to our award-winning website, exclusive app, money-saving offers and more.
