The familiar weight settles in my chest before the test even finishes. One line. Again. I sit on the edge of the tub, staring, like maybe if I look long enough it’ll change.
Two cycles. Two months of timing everything, logging every symptom, willing my body to cooperate.
Anh is next to me in seconds. He doesn’t say much, just takes my hand, warm and steady.
"We'll try again," he says quietly. "We're not giving up."
I nod, but there’s a lump in my throat I can’t quite swallow.
I log the result in the app—it chirps gently, like it’s trying to cheer me up—and immediately pulls up suggestions for our next appointment: ask about dosage, timing, possible adjustments. I don’t feel ready, but we go anyway.
The next day, we sit across from Dr. Chen. Her office feels more serious today, the silence between us filled with too many unspoken things. She studies my chart, eyes narrowing in focus.
"I know this isn't the outcome we were hoping for," she says gently, "but I want you to know that it's not uncommon. Fertility treatments often require some fine-tuning."
I nod. The words sting less than I expected—they land softly, like she means them. "What do we do now?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
Dr. Chen leans in slightly, her voice calm but deliberate. "I'd like to suggest some adjustments to your treatment plan. First, we might consider adding Intrauterine Insemination, or IUI, to increase your chances of conception."
She begins explaining the process—timed ovulation, washed sperm, a thin catheter guiding everything into place.
"Additionally," Dr. Chen keeps going, her voice calm but packed with details—medication timing, monitoring appointments, what to expect during the actual IUI procedure. "if the Letrozole isn't proving effective, we could switch to Clomiphene Citrate. It works similarly but might be more effective for you."
I nod along, doing my best to follow. My fingers twitch, wanting to type everything into the app, to make it neat and trackable. But I stop myself. I need to be here—listening, absorbing.
"Lastly, we might consider increasing your Metformin dosage. This could help better manage your insulin resistance, which is a key factor in PCOS."
Dr. Chen must see it on my face that I am overwhelmed, because her tone softens. "I also want to mention some holistic approaches you might consider alongside your medical treatment. Some patients find these helpful in managing both the physical and emotional aspects of fertility treatment."
I perk up at that. This sounds like something my mom would approve of. "What kind of approaches?"
"Well, acupuncture has shown some promise in helping regulate menstrual cycles," Dr. Chen explains. "Many of my patients also find it helpful for stress reduction."
I nod slowly, already picturing the little shop my mom used to take me to in Ho Chi Minh, the faint smell of herbs and the steady clink of porcelain cups. Maybe there’s a way to bring a piece of that into this journey, too.
"Additionally, I'd recommend looking into Cognitive Behavioral Therapy," Dr. Chen continues. "The emotional stress of infertility can be intense, and CBT can provide you with tools to manage that stress."
Anh squeezes my hand, gentle but firm, and I realize—he’s not just listening to Dr. Chen. He’s been watching me, probably worrying more than he lets on.
"Lastly," Dr. Chen smiles gently as we wrap up. "I'd suggest meeting with a nutritionist who specializes in fertility nutrition. They can help you focus on anti-inflammatory foods, which can be beneficial for PCOS management."
As we step out into the hallway, the air feels cooler, sharper. My mind is buzzing—so many options, each one layered with what-ifs.
The new medical plan is more aggressive—higher odds, tighter timelines, more pills, more scans. But the holistic options... they whisper to something softer in me. A part that’s tired of numbers and charts. A part that just wants to feel whole.
"What do you think?" (Anh nghĩ sao?) I ask Anh as we walk toward the car, keys already in his hand.
He’s quiet for a beat, thoughtful. "Both approaches have merit," (Cả hai cách đều có ưu điểm,) he says finally. "The ramped-up treatment might give us faster results, but the holistic approach could be beneficial for your overall health. It's your body, em. What feels right to you?" (Phương pháp điều trị tăng cường có thể mang lại kết quả nhanh hơn, nhưng cách tiếp cận toàn diện có thể có lợi cho sức khỏe tổng thể của em. Đây là cơ thể của em, em ạ. Em cảm thấy cách nào phù hợp với mình?)
I rest my hand on my stomach, fingertips warm through the fabric. I feel caught between two kinds of hope—one wrapped in science, the other in ritual and breath and slowness.
Back in the car, I open the app. The screen lights up with today’s entry—cycle notes, medication logs, appointment summary. And then the question: Next step?
I stare at it.
Do we lean into the medical path, trust the data, push harder?
Or step back, make space, try to reconnect with something quieter, more rooted in my body, my culture, my intuition?
I close my eyes and inhale deeply.
Whatever we choose, it won’t just shape how we try to become parents—it’ll shape how we care for ourselves in the process.
I exhale, slow. A decision is coming. I can feel it.