After weeks of turning it over in my mind, I decide to step back from treatment and focus on my mental health. It feels like admitting defeat, but Anh doesn’t see it that way. He holds me close as I dial Dr. Chen, my voice steady even as my hands shake.
Finding someone who understands the intersection of trauma and infertility is harder than I expect. Most providers talk around the grief or try to flatten it into neat stages. But eventually, I find Dr. Linh Phan. During our first session, I speak in fragments—some English, some Vietnamese—words tumbling out in no particular order as I try to explain what’s happened and what still hurts.
"Mai," she says gently, "based on what you've shared, I believe you're dealing with depression and PTSD. These are normal responses to the trauma you've experienced, but they require proper treatment."
The diagnosis lands with a strange mix of relief and resignation. There’s a name for this—this hollow, persistent ache—but that doesn’t make it easier to hold.
Dr. Phan prescribes an SSRI and what follows isn’t dramatic or linear—it’s slow, clumsy, often frustrating. Adjusting to medication. Unpacking what happened without breaking down. Relearning how to sit with uncertainty without spiraling.
But eventually, things shift. Not all at once, but enough that I start to notice them—the way my chest loosens when Anh laughs, the warmth of sunlight through our window, the rhythm of a clean block of code compiling without errors. Tiny proofs of life.
Six months in, I sit beside Anh on the couch, our laptops open but forgotten. "Em nghĩ mình đã sẵn sàng," (I think I'm ready,) I say. "Sẵn sàng để thử lại." (Ready to try again.)
He studies my face, quietly, like he’s reading code for a bug he can’t quite name. But I know what he’s asking. "Em chắc chứ? Không cần phải vội vàng." (Are you sure, em? There's no rush.)
I nod. It’s not certainty exactly—but it’s the closest I’ve felt to it in months. "Em chắc chắn. chúng ta hãy gọi cho bác sĩ Chen." (I'm sure. Let's call Dr. Chen.)
A week later, we’re back at Dr. Chen’s office. The lobby is exactly as I remember—disinfectant, soft jazz, the low murmur of nurses at the desk. But something in me jolts. My chest tightens. My palms go clammy. The air feels thin.
Dr. Chen greets us warmly, but her voice comes through like a glitchy speaker—distorted, far off.
I feel myself shutting down. "Mai? Mai, are you okay?" Dr. Chen asks, concerned.
Anh’s arm wraps around me, steadying. We leave without speaking. I don’t say a word until we’re in the car.
Then I break.
"Em nghĩ em đã sẵn sàng," (I thought I was ready,) I gasp, the words catching between sobs. "Em tưởng em đã ổn hơn rồi." (I thought I was better.)
Anh holds me close, murmuring soft reassurances I can’t fully process, but need all the same. "Không sao đâu, em. Quá trình hồi phục không phải lúc nào cũng là một đường thẳng. Điều này không thể xóa đi tất cả những tiến bộ mà em đã đạt được." (It's okay, em. Healing isn't linear. This doesn't erase all the progress you've made.)
When the tears finally ebb, what’s left is a clarity I hadn’t expected. I’m not ready. Not yet. Not entirely. Moving forward with treatment now would mean ignoring everything my body and mind are still trying to tell me.
"Em không thể làm được," (I can't do it,) I whisper, voice barely audible, like saying it too loud might make it less true. "Chưa thể. Có lẽ… có lẽ không bao giờ." (Not yet. Maybe... maybe not ever.)
Anh nods, eyes steady. No pressure. Just presence. "Vậy thì chúng ta sẽ tìm cách khác. Cùng nhau." (Then we'll find another way forward. Together.)
On the drive home, a quiet settles between us—disappointment braided with relief. This isn’t the return I imagined when I started therapy. But maybe it’s something else. Not a step back. A pivot.
In the days that follow, I drift toward the codebase like muscle memory. I lose myself in logic trees and symptom logs, tweaks to the UI that only I would notice. Our app, once a mirror of our journey, begins to stretch into something more. Less personal diary, more shared blueprint.
"Em biết không," (You know,) Anh says one evening, glancing over at my screen, "Chúng ta có thể mở rộng ứng dụng. Thêm các tính năng hỗ trợ sảy thai, hỗ trợ đối phó với các khía cạnh cảm xúc của những khó khăn trong sinh sản." (we could expand the app. Add features for pregnancy loss support, for navigating the emotional aspects of fertility struggles.)
His words land gently but firmly—like something clicking into place. For the first time in months, I feel it: direction. A reason to build that isn’t just survival. "Chúng ta có thể tạo ra một loạt các ứng dụng," (We could create a whole suite of apps,) I say, the idea already unfolding in my mind. "Một ứng dụng theo dõi chu kỳ, một ứng dụng cho thai kỳ, một ứng dụng hỗ trợ sảy thai…" (One for tracking fertility, one for pregnancy, one for loss support...)
We dive back into the app, not out of urgency this time, but intention. Each commit, each feature push feels like more than a task—it’s a reclamation. A way to take what broke us and offer something steadier to others.
We start reaching out—to therapists who specialize in reproductive trauma, to OBs and REIs willing to share insight, to moderators of online support groups who’ve been holding space long before we ever knew how much we’d need it. Their feedback shapes our next sprint.
We build in a mental health tracker. A legal navigation tool, state by state. A filter for clinics that disclose abortion policies upfront. Quiet tools for heavy moments.
Months pass. The app evolves—more users, more features, more reach than we ever thought possible. We’re invited to speak on panels, to consult with clinics, to sit at tables we used to only dream about. And in between the noise of it all, messages trickle in. Real people, real stories. Users who say the app made something easier. Less lonely. A little more bearable.
One night, I’m sorting through feedback when I find a message that stops me cold. Just a few lines, but it hits somewhere deep:
"Your app helped me through the darkest time of my life. It made me feel less alone. Thank you for creating this."
I turn the screen toward Anh. I don’t have to say anything. "Chúng ta làm được rồi," (We did this,) I say softly. "Chúng ta đã biến nỗi đau của mình thành một điều đẹp đẽ." (We took our pain and made something beautiful from it.)
He slides closer, wrapping an arm around me, pressing a kiss to my temple. We sit like that, quiet and full.
And in that stillness, I feel it settle in me: our path didn’t end where we thought it would. But maybe that was never the point. Maybe building something that holds others—something that says, “You’re not alone”—maybe that’s its own kind of legacy. One we never saw coming, but one we can be proud of.