The Five Left Behind

When I started IVF, I was focused on one thing: getting pregnant.

That was the mountain. That was the goal. I put everything into it—money, energy, my body, my mental health. We did genetic testing, we followed every protocol, and somehow, through the exhausting miracle that is assisted reproduction, it worked. More than once.

Now, I have children. They’re here, and they’re healthy, and I am wildly in love with them.

But even as I parent them—through sticky fingers and preschool pickups and middle-of-the-night wake ups—there’s something else quietly present in the background.

The embryos. The ones still frozen.

They Aren’t Just Leftovers

I never imagined this part would be so emotional. Back when we were still in the thick of fertility treatment, the embryos felt like a numbers game. The more, the better. Insurance against the unknown.

But that’s changed now. Because I’ve seen what one of those embryos can become. I’ve seen what they can survive. And how they can thrive.

And now I have a small group—still frozen. Still waiting. Still technically full of possibility.

I haven’t been able to make peace with what to do next.

So Many Choices. None of Them Simple.

I’ve read all the literature. I’ve gone down every rabbit hole. The “options” are always laid out like they’re logical. Like they’re boxes to check.

• Keep them frozen for now.

• Donate to another family.

• Donate to research.

• Compassionate transfer.

• Discard.

But none of them feel logical when it’s your own embryos. When you know what they might be. When they represent both a scientific process and the tiniest glimmer of a heartbeat that could someday be heard.

We’re not planning to try for another child. I’m older now. Tired, grateful, full. I think we’re done.

And yet—I don’t feel done.

I Thought This Part Would Be Easier

Before having kids, I think I would’ve been able to make this decision quickly. The embryos would have felt like potential, sure, but not much more than that.

But now? Now I know how miraculous it is that even one of them became a living, breathing person. Now I know how precious that possibility is.

There’s this lingering weight I carry when I think about families still struggling—friends, even—who haven’t been able to get a single healthy embryo. People who would give anything for the chance I have stored in a freezer.

And that just complicates everything more. I’ve considered donation, but even imagining the logistics or emotions of that path leaves me overwhelmed. Especially if it involved someone I know. That opens a door I’m not sure I can walk through. And they probably wouldn’t want that either.

Living in the In-Between

The truth is, I’m still holding on.

Not because I’m saving them for later. Not because I want more children. Not even because I believe I’ll ever use them again. But because letting them go in any way—any way—feels like something I haven’t emotionally caught up to yet.

So they stay frozen. Waiting. Not quite forgotten. Not quite future.

I know keeping them indefinitely isn’t a long-term plan. It’s expensive, yes, but that’s not even what’s bothering me. It’s the not knowing. The not choosing. The way this unfinished chapter lingers, like a pause I can’t quite move past.

If You’re Also in This Place…

If you’re sitting with frozen embryos and a tangled heart—please know I get it.

This part isn’t talked about enough. There are no right answers. Just decisions made with whatever love, grief, and intuition you can summon at the time.

Some days, I feel confident I’ll know when the time is right to decide.

Other days, I wonder if I’ll ever feel that way.

And maybe that’s okay, too. Maybe what these embryos really represent isn’t just the possibility of life, but the complicated truth of what it means to have hoped so fiercely for something that you now get to hold.

But not all of them can be held. Some just have to be remembered. And honored. In whatever way makes sense—for me, for you, for any of us standing in this strange space between science and soul.