We walked hand in hand into our ‘preconception’ appointment that day. It was May 20th, 2012. I had already been on prenatal vitamins for months, just to be safe. I wanted to do everything ‘right’. I still remember our excitement as we told our doctor we were ready to start a family-we had already begun a beautiful life together and my mind and my heart were full as we dreamed about the life that lay ahead of us.

A year later, our hearts, once full of excitement and possibility, were broken. The doctor at Boston IVF had just told us that if it hadn’t happened yet, our chances were about 3% that it would. We were determined to do whatever it took to start family and, so, the endless tests ensued. The result of weekly appointments and hundreds of dollars seemed to have landed us no closer to our dream; doctors could find nothing wrong with either one of us. “There’s no reason it hasn’t happened, they said, “It just hasn’t”.

We discussed our options and decided to try IUI. Doctors told us this procedure only had a 15-20% success rate, but we were optimistic. The daily doses of Clomid took its toll on me; the fainting and the nausea were the tolerable symptoms. “One day at a time-you can do this.” Joe would say, and he was with me every step of the way. But, $1,500 and two failed IUIs later told us our journey was far from over.

Then, we waited. We waited a whole year. We tried to let our hearts heal and we saved every penny we could to pay for the $12,000 IVF procedure (insurance doesn’t cover this ‘elective’ in Maine). Somehow, the days passed slowly and quickly at the same time. While each day we waited was full of longing and desperation, I also awoke every day thinking the possibility of great things to come. In March 2015, we went back to Boston IVF to finalize our IVF plan. We decided to wait until the summer when I’d be out of school and could fully commit to the process.

July 2, 2015 was my very first IVF shot. This day marked the beginning of the nearly 100 shots I would endure over the next couple of months. The first was the worst. I covered my eyes and grit my teeth as Joe counted, “1, 2, 3”. When the first one was over, I cried. I cried hard. I still don’t know if it was because I was relieved it was over, or if it was because, that day, I saw something in my husband I never knew existed, but made me love him even more. We were in this together, every step of the way. Over the next couple of weeks, I went to the doctor four times a week for ultrasounds and blood samples. Finally, it was time for the egg retrieval. I woke up that morning full of anxiety. “How many eggs will they get?”, “How much pain will I be in after?”, “Will the anesthesia make me sick?” My mind was racing. Joe rubbed my hand (too hard--like he always does when he knows I’m nervous and he’s trying to comfort me) the whole way there.

Nine eggs retrieved. Five days later, one was implanted. Two days after that, the call that none of the other embryos had survived. Next, the struggle to remain positive while the overwhelming emotion of doubt and grief washed over us. If this one embryo didn’t work, we were back at square one.

Well, it didn’t work. We'd start again right away, we decided. We met with the doctor to discuss what had gone wrong and as difficult as it was, we felt confident that round two would be "it" for us. We took one day to grieve and then promised ourselves we would have a positive outlook as we began round two.

The shots started again almost immediately and with the doses nearly doubled, I came to dread 5:00 when Joe would get home and we would trudge upstairs, syringes and vials in hand. Only a few days in, my stomach was bruised and tender to the touch. We avoided going out not only because of the emotional toll this process had taken on us, but also because it was, well, difficult to wear pants.

The next couple weeks of August were eerily reminiscent of July. I would spend many of my days alone while Joe was at work, not quite ready to face the world. I would count down the hours until he would be home and it would be time or my next shot, dreading it and wishing for it at the same time. These were lonely days filled with too many emotions to recount.

When it was time for the second egg retrieval, I was nervous and apprehensive, but during times of idleness, my mind still saw what my heart wanted so badly. Would this be it for us? Would I wait two weeks and get that call from a nurse with a voice so full of excitement I would know the results couldn't be anything but positive? The day of the second egg retrieval I awoke from anesthesia crying uncontrollably. I (vaguely) remember apologizing to the nurses surrounding my hospital bed for my sobs and they, of course, said, "It happens all the time, honey."

I found myself in the midst of those same uncontrollable sobs just ten days later. It was September 12, 2015 when we found out our second round had failed, too. Where were we going to go from here? Out of money, out of courage, out of hope.

Over two months later, we're still picking up the pieces of our lives. With so very much to be thankful for, there is still so much missing. While I wake up every single day in a beautiful, warm home, with the most wonderful, loving husband next to me, there is a piece of me missing; a piece I don't know for sure will ever be there. I look in the mirror, preparing myself for a day with twenty eight year-olds, and I wonder if I will ever have one of my own to love as much as I do the ones who I spend my days with now.

It has taken us over three years to share this story, and I'm still not sure we're ready. I worry. I worry that once people know what my life is really like, they'll look at me with sadness in their eyes and only see me for what I am missing. I worry that they'll judge me and I will, as a whole, become something less than all that I am. While this struggle is a huge part of our lives, it does not define us.

The last three years has taught me more than I may have learned in my whole life. It has taught me kindness and patience, steadfastness and courage, and it has taught me that there is nothing more powerful in this world than love and hope. We don't know where this journey will take us next, and right now, we're not even ready to find out. But, there are reasons why, after three years, we have decided to share our story: If you're going through this struggle, it can feel like one of the loneliest, most isolated times of your life. Brene Brown talks candidly about shame being one of the foremost emotions that drives our actions as humans. We need to stand together and realize that infertility, no matter the cause, is not a foundation for shame. This is our story and it needs to be heard.

As for us...we'll make it. We have each other, we have each other every step of the way (for better or for worse, remember?) We will continue this journey the same way we started it, hand in hand and with hope in our hearts.