My name is Tayla. I am a nurse.
I'm also a failure. I am brittle, and I am broken, but I am brave, and I live in hope. I am infertile.
I don't know what this is. A journal entry? A public service announcement? I honestly have no idea. But what I do know is that I need to say this, and you need to hear it.
But be warned: this is real, this is raw, and this is definitely not PG.
Let me give you the lowdown: living with infertility is a half-life. It is not just the emptiness in your heart and in your arms where you hope so desperately to hold a baby, nor is it the grief that comes in 28-day cycles; it is the day-to-day things you miss out on, the practices and routines that you give up while you wait in the world of 'just in case'.
Watch: Bianca Dye on the last egg retrieval from her "emotional 2 years of IVF". Story continues after video.
For two years I've removed anything that could be harmful to a growing baby from my life.
I've barely had a drink, I've disrupted my skincare routine (to the detriment of my skin might I add. Hormones + stress = pimples and wrinkles), I've stopped playing team sports - a constant in my life since childhood that has bolstered my mental and physical health and my social life.
Slowly but surely, my husband and I have withdrawn from our normal activities and learned to exist as a shell of our former selves.
Once, I was renowned for my inappropriate sense of humour; for being the life of the party. Now I find myself uncomfortable in these spaces, unsure how to behave or where I fit in. I'm too old for the party crowd, yet I don't quite fit with my age group, AKA the mums and bubs club.
I live in the grey; the round peg that doesn’t quite fit in the square hole. Compounding this unintended social withdrawal is the ever-present fear of catching the dreaded spicy cough and the impact that would have not just on our health, but on our fertility treatments – another month derailed, more money down the drain.