I grew up in a small Midwestern town in a middle-class, divorced family. My family is huge. Parents, stepparents, siblings, and step-siblings are just the beginning of a family that has been in the same town for several generations. We married other large families in the area, further expanding our connections. I was basically surrounded by family members anywhere I went. It felt safe and secure to know I had familial support in every aspect of my life.
I met my husband in high school at our college signing day, where we committed to play sports at different colleges. He went to Indiana University, and I attended a small school in Kentucky. After college we chased his dream of playing professional baseball.
Dating at a young age and throughout college as athletes, we often found ourselves with each other’s families. We really valued it, and the plan was to always have our own kids one day. For us, timing was everything.
Minor-league baseball has high demands and very little pay. Not to mention he was gone for eight to nine months, sometimes more, out of the year. Because of this, we made a conscious decision to not get pregnant until we deemed it the right time. We guaranteed it.
But when that time came, we found ourselves unable to get pregnant.
This year, 2020, marks five years since we started trying to conceive. Everything had begun to fall in place for us to have a baby. The timing was finally right. We tried naturally for eight months but were unsuccessful. Concerned, we made appointments with our respective doctors and learned that my husband’s sperm quality and count were below levels needed to get pregnant naturally.
I met my husband in high school at our college signing day, where we committed to play sports at different colleges. He went to Indiana University, and I attended a small school in Kentucky. After college we chased his dream of playing professional baseball.
Dating at a young age and throughout college as athletes, we often found ourselves with each other’s families. We really valued it, and the plan was to always have our own kids one day. For us, timing was everything.
Minor-league baseball has high demands and very little pay. Not to mention he was gone for eight to nine months, sometimes more, out of the year. Because of this, we made a conscious decision to not get pregnant until we deemed it the right time. We guaranteed it.
But when that time came, we found ourselves unable to get pregnant.
This year, 2020, marks five years since we started trying to conceive. Everything had begun to fall in place for us to have a baby. The timing was finally right. We tried naturally for eight months but were unsuccessful. Concerned, we made appointments with our respective doctors and learned that my husband’s sperm quality and count were below levels needed to get pregnant naturally.
Photo: Courtesy of Alexis Rosenbaum
The suggestion was to jump right into our first in-vitro fertilization cycle (IVF). IVF can cost upwards of $30,000 per cycle and is a very unnatural procedure. For those unfamiliar, IVF means that the female’s body is pumped full of hormones to overstimulate egg production. The eggs are retrieved (via a needle that is guided through the vagina and into the follicles), fertilized in a petri dish with a sperm sample provided by the male partner, and then transferred back into the woman’s uterus for hopeful implantation. Injections and doctor appointments occur almost daily.
We didn’t have that kind of cash lying around, and I think part of me was in disbelief about the whole thing, so we decided to try up to three rounds of Intrauterine Insemination (IUI). IUI is less invasive (and way cheaper, usually less than $5,000) and involves placing sperm inside a woman’s uterus to facilitate fertilization. Basically, the sperm sample is put through a cleaning process and then shot into a woman’s uterus via something akin to a turkey baster. But after two failed IUIs, we decided to take a step back.
From a very early age, I can remember people telling me about the family I would have one day. Fertility was not a question in my family—having children was inevitable. But you can’t prepare for the unknown or unexpected. I was still in a bit of shock at that point, but also really young, and I wasn’t that dedicated to getting pregnant yet. I remember feeling really fearful of the stories I was hearing from women facing the same situation—they were so sad.
It seemed as if women who couldn’t conceive children had lost all sense of self-worth, and I didn’t want that. I knew I was capable of having any life I wanted, with or without kids. Looking back now, I know it was the fear pretending to protect me from experiencing loss. But what if the same thing that was protecting me was also getting in the way of me experiencing one of the most incredible human experiences—the ability to grow a living and breathing thing?
After nearly two years of trying to conceive and the two failed IUIs, we took some time off. Honestly, though, you never really stop trying, even if the odds are zero. Danny had just retired from baseball and was home full-time for the first time in almost 10 years. He took a job in New Jersey, and we sold everything we had to move to Hoboken. A fresh start.
It was in Hoboken that I really found myself. It was new; it was city living; it was so much fun! I walked everywhere, built a new community of friends, and launched my current business, Rosebud CBD. Things were going really well. Again, it felt like good timing.
We didn’t have that kind of cash lying around, and I think part of me was in disbelief about the whole thing, so we decided to try up to three rounds of Intrauterine Insemination (IUI). IUI is less invasive (and way cheaper, usually less than $5,000) and involves placing sperm inside a woman’s uterus to facilitate fertilization. Basically, the sperm sample is put through a cleaning process and then shot into a woman’s uterus via something akin to a turkey baster. But after two failed IUIs, we decided to take a step back.
From a very early age, I can remember people telling me about the family I would have one day. Fertility was not a question in my family—having children was inevitable. But you can’t prepare for the unknown or unexpected. I was still in a bit of shock at that point, but also really young, and I wasn’t that dedicated to getting pregnant yet. I remember feeling really fearful of the stories I was hearing from women facing the same situation—they were so sad.
It seemed as if women who couldn’t conceive children had lost all sense of self-worth, and I didn’t want that. I knew I was capable of having any life I wanted, with or without kids. Looking back now, I know it was the fear pretending to protect me from experiencing loss. But what if the same thing that was protecting me was also getting in the way of me experiencing one of the most incredible human experiences—the ability to grow a living and breathing thing?
After nearly two years of trying to conceive and the two failed IUIs, we took some time off. Honestly, though, you never really stop trying, even if the odds are zero. Danny had just retired from baseball and was home full-time for the first time in almost 10 years. He took a job in New Jersey, and we sold everything we had to move to Hoboken. A fresh start.
It was in Hoboken that I really found myself. It was new; it was city living; it was so much fun! I walked everywhere, built a new community of friends, and launched my current business, Rosebud CBD. Things were going really well. Again, it felt like good timing.
Photo: Courtesy of Alexis Rosenbaum
We started to explore IVF again. We met with our doctor, did all the preliminary testing, and kicked it off in late 2017. The process was taxing—a lot of needles in the abdomen, the butt, and multiple weekly blood draws. I’ve faced a lot of challenges in my life and understood that perspective is everything. A lot of people have it a lot worse with medical issues. Mine was a choice. Still, I didn’t allow myself to feel the experience or process any emotions. I just focused on what I could control and hoped for the best.
I had produced over 22 follicles—15 fertilized, and seven made it. After genetic testing, we landed with only one viable embryo. One. That meant we had one chance for this cycle, and then we’d have to start all over again. Typically, couples get a few embryos that can be frozen and used down the road in a transfer-only cycle.
Our nurse accidentally told my husband the sex of the embyro. He was so excited to tell me when I came out of the doctor’s office, but I just cried in frustration in the car. I was so upset to know the gender of something that may never end up being ours. I had separated myself from this process—it was the only way I could get through it—and now our nurse had made it real.
By April of 2018, we found out the cycle was unsuccessful. I remember my husband’s reaction was so opposite of mine. He was devastated, while I felt cold and unfazed. Numb, I guess. I just moved on and dove into work.
The day we found out we were not pregnant, I immediately started exploring other options. I called a friend of mine who was going through adoption. I wanted to know the details and what the process looked like. I’m so thankful for what she shared, because it applies to just about everything. When we face obstacles, the grass always looks greener on the other side. She shared that adoption comes with its own obstacles, its own cost and timeline. It’s not any easier or quicker. Her advice was to do what felt right and to not make any rushed decisions because of wanting to “fix” this.
That year we went to a foster-care information session to learn about the process, but ultimately my husband wasn’t ready. It wasn’t a lack of interest—he just hadn’t given up on biological children yet, and as his life partner, I had to meet him where he was. So we waited.
I had produced over 22 follicles—15 fertilized, and seven made it. After genetic testing, we landed with only one viable embryo. One. That meant we had one chance for this cycle, and then we’d have to start all over again. Typically, couples get a few embryos that can be frozen and used down the road in a transfer-only cycle.
Our nurse accidentally told my husband the sex of the embyro. He was so excited to tell me when I came out of the doctor’s office, but I just cried in frustration in the car. I was so upset to know the gender of something that may never end up being ours. I had separated myself from this process—it was the only way I could get through it—and now our nurse had made it real.
By April of 2018, we found out the cycle was unsuccessful. I remember my husband’s reaction was so opposite of mine. He was devastated, while I felt cold and unfazed. Numb, I guess. I just moved on and dove into work.
The day we found out we were not pregnant, I immediately started exploring other options. I called a friend of mine who was going through adoption. I wanted to know the details and what the process looked like. I’m so thankful for what she shared, because it applies to just about everything. When we face obstacles, the grass always looks greener on the other side. She shared that adoption comes with its own obstacles, its own cost and timeline. It’s not any easier or quicker. Her advice was to do what felt right and to not make any rushed decisions because of wanting to “fix” this.
That year we went to a foster-care information session to learn about the process, but ultimately my husband wasn’t ready. It wasn’t a lack of interest—he just hadn’t given up on biological children yet, and as his life partner, I had to meet him where he was. So we waited.
Photo: Courtesy of Alexis Rosenbaum
By February of 2019, my pace of life had gone from a sprint to full throttle. I found myself in Forbes, and my business was thriving as a one-woman show. I was on my way to an event in NYC for fashion week, and my mom called to check in on me. In the middle of a subway station, I burst into tears. I was absolutely exhausted, and the grief I had otherwise ignored had moved from mental to physical. I couldn’t move forward, not another inch.
I closed up my booth at the event and went home. Grief totally overcame me. I’d lost my rhythm, my creativity, and my passion for everything. I pushed through what I could with home renovations and work requirements, but I mostly focused on sleeping, eating, and moving through what I was feeling.
Grief is another unknown. It’s different every time you experience it, so you can’t prepare. It hit me so aggressively through imposter syndrome and amplified unhandled childhood grief that I had always been too young to truly process. I questioned and doubted myself. How did I get here? How would I manage this business and my life while also having a family? Was I even fit to be a good mother?
A huge part of me also grieved the possibility of not having biological children or experiencing childbirth. I needed to walk through what my life would look like from every possible scenario: IVF, adoption, foster to adopt, or going kid-less. I also considered my environmental impact. I felt shame in wanting to have my own kids when there are kids who are yearning for families.
As the year went on, I grew stronger and felt readier for our next move. Friends of ours had started to see a fertility specialist in our area, and we made appointments. In early March of this year, we were finalizing preliminary testing and preparing to begin our second IVF round only to find ourselves in the middle of a nationwide shutdown and pandemic. Businesses have closed, the stock market is all over the place, and we felt that this isn’t the best time to be in and out of doctors’ offices.
Today we are waiting for things to feel a bit more stable and to have clarity on what the future looks like. I feel confident that I am going to be an incredible mother, whenever and however it happens. Family has always been about being around those who make you feel at home. It is about sharing love, and my husband and I have an enormous amount of love to share.
Photos: Courtesy of Alexis Rosenbaum
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I closed up my booth at the event and went home. Grief totally overcame me. I’d lost my rhythm, my creativity, and my passion for everything. I pushed through what I could with home renovations and work requirements, but I mostly focused on sleeping, eating, and moving through what I was feeling.
Grief is another unknown. It’s different every time you experience it, so you can’t prepare. It hit me so aggressively through imposter syndrome and amplified unhandled childhood grief that I had always been too young to truly process. I questioned and doubted myself. How did I get here? How would I manage this business and my life while also having a family? Was I even fit to be a good mother?
A huge part of me also grieved the possibility of not having biological children or experiencing childbirth. I needed to walk through what my life would look like from every possible scenario: IVF, adoption, foster to adopt, or going kid-less. I also considered my environmental impact. I felt shame in wanting to have my own kids when there are kids who are yearning for families.
As the year went on, I grew stronger and felt readier for our next move. Friends of ours had started to see a fertility specialist in our area, and we made appointments. In early March of this year, we were finalizing preliminary testing and preparing to begin our second IVF round only to find ourselves in the middle of a nationwide shutdown and pandemic. Businesses have closed, the stock market is all over the place, and we felt that this isn’t the best time to be in and out of doctors’ offices.
Today we are waiting for things to feel a bit more stable and to have clarity on what the future looks like. I feel confident that I am going to be an incredible mother, whenever and however it happens. Family has always been about being around those who make you feel at home. It is about sharing love, and my husband and I have an enormous amount of love to share.
Photos: Courtesy of Alexis Rosenbaum
Want more stories like this?
The Best Beauty Advice Our Moms Ever Gave Us
The Most Amazing Love Stories We’re Watching and Reading Right Now
The One Thing Keeping Me Calm in Quarantine—Candles Shaped Like Food