Tracy Marie Taylor

After days of back-and-forth, of quiet thinking and late-night talks with Anh, I finally make my decision. "I want to try Dr. Chen's suggested medication adjustments, but combine them with some of the holistic approaches she mentioned," (Em muốn thử điều chỉnh thuốc theo gợi ý của bác sĩ Chen, nhưng kết hợp với một số phương pháp toàn diện mà cô ấy đã nhắc đến,) I tell him one evening. "I'm not ready for IUI yet. I want to give my body a chance with these new adjustments and some natural support." (Em chưa sẵn sàng để làm IUI. Em muốn cho cơ thể chúng ta một cợ hội với những thay đổi mới này và một số hỗ trợ tự nhiên.) 

Anh nods, eyes soft, like he already knew. Then his mouth curves into that familiar grin—the one that always gives him away. "So, you're saying we still get to do the baby-making the old-fashioned way? Thank goodness. I was worried I'd be replaced by a turkey baster." (Vậy là, em đang nói rằng chúng vẫn sẽ ‘tạo em bé’ theo cách truyền thống? Lại trời. Anh còn tưởng rằng mình sẽ bị thay thế bằng một cái ống tiêm.) 

I laugh, swatting his arm. "Anh! Be serious. But yes, we're sticking with timed intercourse for now." (Anh này! Nghiêm túc đi. Nhưng vâng, chúng ta vẫn sẽ giữ cách tính thời gian như trước.) 

He wraps me in a hug, still smiling. His chest vibrates gently with laughter, and for a second, everything feels lighter. "Hey, I'm just glad some things aren't changing. Making a baby should be fun, right?" (Này, anh chỉ vui vì một số thứ vẫn không thay đổi. Tạo em bé nên là điều thú vị, đúng không?) 

I shake my head, but I’m grinning too. "You're impossible," (Anh thật là,) I say, but I'm smiling too. "But yes, that part stays the same." (Nhưng vâng, phần đó thì vẫn giữ nguyên.) 

The next day, I call Dr. Chen to share my decision. She listens carefully, then says, "Alright, Mai. We'll adjust your Letrozole dosage and increase the Metformin as we discussed. And I think incorporating acupuncture and nutritional counseling could be very beneficial alongside these changes." 

My first acupuncture session is with Dr. Linh, a Vietnamese-American practitioner whose calm energy fills the room before she even speaks. She welcomes me in Vietnamese first, then switches to English to explain the process. 

"We're working to balance your qi, your life force," she says. "This should help regulate your cycle and create a more hospitable environment for conception." 

I lie still, needles gently resting in my skin, and let myself breathe. No buzzing phone, no app reminders, no charts. Just quiet. Just me. 

For the first time in months, I feel in my body—not tracking it, not correcting it. Just being with it. 

Later that week, I meet with Sarah, a nutritionist Dr. Chen recommended. She’s soft-spoken but sharp, asking questions no one’s asked before—about digestion, sleep, cravings. She puts together a meal plan built around balance: leafy greens, berries, fish, warm broths.. "These foods can help manage your PCOS symptoms and support overall reproductive health," she explains. 

I throw myself into the new routine like it’s a second job—but one I actually want to show up for. My days become a rhythm: morning meds, afternoon acupuncture, mindful meals, slow-breath meditation before bed. I tell myself I’m being disciplined, intentional. But underneath that is something else—relief. Relief that I can even do this. That I don’t have to clock into a shift or spend my nights folding laundry in a breakroom. If I were working full-time right now, none of this would be possible. The supplements, the appointments, the stillness—it all runs on time I didn’t have to fight for. I think about the women in my support groups who are juggling all of it—shots in the bathroom between meetings, ultrasounds squeezed in before night shifts. How do they do it? How does anyone? I carry these questions with me into each quiet hour, aware that this ease I’m building my healing on isn’t shared by everyone. And maybe that’s why I hold it so tightly—because I can. Because we can. 

I start inviting Anh into parts of the routine, trying to turn the solitude into something shared. Even fertility yoga. We wobble through poses, laugh when we fall over, and somehow, the air between us feels lighter. 

Weeks slip by. Then months. 

And slowly, I start to feel... different. My energy picks up. My skin clears. My cycle, once unpredictable and chaotic, starts to find its rhythm. 

One evening, we’re cooking dinner together—stir-frying rainbow chard and bok choy, checking things off Sarah’s approved foods list—when I realize I’m smiling. Not the small, polite kind. A real one. The kind that lives in your body, not just your face. 

"You seem happier," (Trông em có vẻ hạnh phúc hơn,) Anh says, eyes crinkling. 

I nod, stirring the vegetables. "I feel more like myself," (Em cảm thấy là chính mình hơn,) I admit. "Like I'm not just a collection of symptoms and test results." (Như em không chỉ là một tập hợp của các triệu chứng và kết quả xét nghiệm nữa.) 

But as my next cycle creeps closer, I feel the old tightness return. That familiar voice whispering, What if it’s still no? 

At my next session with Dr. Linh, I confess it. All of it. The hope, the fear, the weight of waiting. 

She smiles gently as she places a needle at the center of my forehead. "Healing takes time, Mai. Your body has been through a lot. Be patient with yourself." 

I try to hold on to Dr. Linh’s words, let them settle in me the way they’re meant to. But that night, lying awake while the city hums quietly outside, I reach for my phone. 

I open the app. Pages and pages of data—temps, symptoms, moods, meals—stare back at me like proof of everything I’ve tried. Everything I’ve done. 

And still… nothing. 

I don’t even hear Anh come in. 

He finds me curled up, hunched over the screen, tears sliding down my cheeks without permission. He doesn’t ask anything. He just wraps his arms around me, holds me like he’s trying to keep all the broken parts from spilling out. 

"Maybe," (Có lẽ,) I whisper into his chest, "maybe it's time to consider ramping up the medical treatment again." (Có lẽ đã đến lúc cân nhắc tăng cường điều trị y tế rồi.) 

Anh pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. "Are you sure? You've been doing so well with this approach." (Em chắc chứ? Em đang làm rất tốt với cách điều trị này.) 

I nod, slowly. "I feel better, yes. Healthier, more balanced. But... I'm still not pregnant. And I'm scared of waiting too long, of missing our chance." (Em cảm thấy tốt hơn, đúng. Khỏe mạnh hơn, cân bằng hơn. Nhưng… Em vẫn chưa mang thai. Và em sợ phải chờ đời quá lâu, sợ sẽ bỏ lỡ cơ hội của chúng ta.) 

He doesn’t speak right away. Just holds me tighter. Then: "Okay," he says softly. "If that's what you want to do, we'll do it together. But let's not discard everything we've learned these past few months, okay? We can integrate this holistic approach with more intensive medical treatment." (Nếu đó là điều mà em muốn, chúng ta sẽ làm cùng nhau. Nhưng đừng vứt bỏ tất cả những gì mà chúng ta đã học được trong vài tháng qua, được chứ? Chúng ta có thể kết hợp phương pháp toàn diện này với phương pháp điều trị mạnh hơn.) 

As I lean into him, something loosens. Not the sadness—that’s still there—but something else too. 

Gratitude. For him. For how he never pushes, never pulls. Just walks beside me. 

And somewhere under the weight of it all, a small flicker of hope. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe this time, my body’s ready to meet the moment halfway. 

I pick up my phone again—this time not to scroll, not to overthink, but to act. I tap through the clinic’s portal, fingers steady as I schedule the appointment with Dr. Chen. 

As I press confirm, I rest my hand gently on my belly. Thank you, I whisper in my head—not for being perfect, but for still showing up. For healing in ways I didn’t expect. For trying. 

"Okay," I tell Anh, my voice calm, clearer than it’s been in weeks.. "Let's tell Dr. Chen we’ve decided to move on to IUI. But we're keeping the acupuncture and the healthy eating. Deal?" (Hãy báo với bác sĩ Chen rằng chúng ta đã quyết dịnh chuyển sang IUI. Nhưng chúng ta vẫn sẽ giữ nguyên liệu trình châm cứu và chế độ ăn lành mạnh. Được chứ?) 

He grins, eyes lighting up. "Deal. And hey, even though ramping up our treatments means incorporating the turkey-baster, that doesn't mean we can't continue the old-fashioned way too!" (Được. Và này, dù tăng cường điều trị có nghĩa là kết hợp sử dụng ống tiêm, nhưng không có nghĩa là chúng ta không thể tiếp tục theo cách truyền thống!) 

I laugh, the sound catching me by surprise. It bubbles up from somewhere soft and real. He always finds a way to meet me where I am—and lift me just a little higher. 

"You're impossible," (Anh thật là… không thể chịu nổi,) I say, rolling my eyes—but I’m smiling too. And this time, it feels like a real beginning. "But yes, we'll make sure to keep things... balanced." (Nhưng vâng, chúng ta sẽ đảm bảo giữ mọi thứ… cân bằng.) 

As we settle into bed, the lights low and the room quiet, I stare up at the ceiling and wonder what comes next. What hurdles. What waiting. What decisions we haven’t even imagined yet. 

But for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel afraid. I feel steady. Not just a patient ticking off boxes or a body under observation, but me—mind, body, spirit finally moving in the same direction. 

And with Anh next to me—cracking jokes during injections, making tea during meltdowns—I know we’ll face whatever comes. Together. 

Because somehow, in the middle of charts and meds and second opinions, we’ve built something stronger than a plan. We’ve built a way forward.