In the Space of Not Knowing: My Embryo Crossroads (and Maybe Yours Too)

This blog post feels a little different for me to write. Usually, when I sit down to share with you, I’m often reflecting on broader themes we encounter on this journey, or perhaps sharing insights from our course content. But today, I want to share something deeply personal, something I’m navigating in real-time, right now. I’m currently standing at one of those significant, heart-aching crossroads that many of us who have walked the path of fertility treatments eventually face: the decision about what to do with our remaining frozen embryos.

And for our family, this decision comes with a beautiful, loving, and wonderfully unique layer of complexity.

You see, it’s not just my heart and my husband Gabe’s heart that are entwined with these precious little sparks of potential. We also have the incredible privilege of considering the hearts and desires of our two younger sons’ biological parents. For those of you who may not know our family’s story, our two wonderful younger boys joined our family through embryo donation. It’s a path that has filled our lives with immeasurable joy, and has also blessed us with a deep, meaningful, and cherished connection with their biological family.

So, as we look at the three remaining embryos – siblings to our sons and their sisters, carrying the genetic legacy of people we love and admire – we navigate this with four distinct, yet interconnected, perspectives. Legally, the decision about these embryos rests with Gabe and I. But legally is only one small part of the equation for us. Our sons’ biological parents are not just distant figures; they are woven into the fabric of our family story. We love them, we value their input immensely, we appreciate their care, their hopes, and their profound connection to these embryos that all four of us, in our own ways, hold so dear.

I’m sharing this with you because I know so many of you are also facing, or will face, your own version of this "what now?" moment with your embryos. And maybe, just maybe, my own wrestling, my own admission of being in this tender space of "not knowing yet," might offer a little bit of comfort or solidarity to someone else out there feeling the same.

I’ve cried tears over this. Real, heartfelt, sometimes confusing tears. Tears of gratitude for what we have, tears of uncertainty for what’s next, tears that acknowledge the sheer weight of what these tiny lives represent. I’ve given it time, so much time, believing that clarity would eventually dawn like a gentle sunrise. There have been moments, fleeting and precious, where I’ve thought, "Okay, I think I feel content with a particular path. I think we’ve found our peace." But then, the gentle tide of emotion shifts, and I find myself back in this space – this space of not quite knowing, or perhaps more accurately, this space of not being quite ready to say a final goodbye to them yet, in whatever form that goodbye might take.

It’s so incredibly complicated, isn’t it? It’s complicated for a million reasons, unique to each of us, yet universally understood by those who have walked this path. It’s complicated by the love we feel, by the hopes we’ve carried, by the sacrifices we’ve made. It’s complicated by the future we envision, and sometimes, by the futures we must gently let go of.

So, if you’re out there reading this, and you too are in that liminal space of "I just don’t know yet," or "I’m not ready," please know this with every fiber of my being: I hear you. I see you. You are not alone in this. Your uncertainty is valid. Your need for more time is valid. Your complicated feelings are so incredibly valid.

The Layers of "Complicated"

For our family, the complication isn't one of conflict, thankfully. It's a complication born of love, respect, and a shared desire to honor everyone involved, especially these potential lives. It's about wanting to make a decision that feels right not just for Gabe and I, but one that also acknowledges the deep connection and loving wishes of our sons' biological parents. How do you weigh that? How do you navigate a decision that legally belongs to you, but emotionally feels shared so deeply?

We have open conversations. We listen. We share our hearts. We acknowledge that their feelings about these embryos – their genetic children – are profound and unique. And they, in their incredible grace, acknowledge our profound love, deep sense of responsibility, and undeniable connection to these embryos, even though the genetic link is to them. It’s a delicate dance of love, respect, and profound consideration. There’s no easy formula, no instruction manual for this specific brand of beautiful complexity.

And beyond our unique situation, there are the universal complexities that so many of us face:

The "More Than Just Cells" Reality: We’ve talked about this before on the blog. These aren’t just microscopic clusters of cells. They are the culmination of an arduous journey, the embodiment of hope, the tangible result of immense physical, emotional, and financial investment. They represent dreams, possibilities, and for many, a deep spiritual or ethical significance.

The Weight of Potential: Each embryo holds the potential for a unique human life. That’s a staggering thought. How do you decide which potential is actualized and which is not? How do you reconcile the desire to give every potential a chance with the realities of your life, your resources, your family structure, or your emotional capacity?

The Finality of Certain Choices: Some options feel so incredibly final. Choosing to thaw and discard, or even donating to research where they won’t result in a live birth, means accepting that these specific embryos will not become the children you might have imagined. That finality can bring a grief all its own.

The "What Ifs": The mind loves to play the "what if" game, doesn't it? What if we regret this? What if we change our minds later? What if our circumstances change? These anxieties can make it hard to land on a decision with confidence.

The Connection to Existing Children: If you have children already, especially if they came from the same batch of embryos or through similar means, the decision about remaining embryos can feel even more poignant. They are potential siblings, a continuation of a precious lineage.

Living in the "Not Knowing Yet" Space

So, what do you do when you’re in this space? When the answer isn’t clear, when your heart feels tender and your mind feels full? For me, right now, it’s about a few key things:

Giving Myself Grace and Permission: I’m actively trying to give myself permission to not have the answer right now. To release the internal pressure that whispers, "You should know by now!" This is a big decision, a sacred one, and it deserves unhurried consideration. Rushing it, forcing it, won't lead to a peace-filled outcome.

Feeling All the Feelings: Instead of pushing away the sadness, the uncertainty, or the occasional waves of anxiety, I’m trying to allow them. To sit with them. To understand what they’re trying to tell me. Journaling helps. Talking to Gabe helps. Sometimes, just a quiet moment acknowledging the emotion without judgment is what’s needed.

Continued Open Communication: With Gabe, absolutely. We check in, share our shifting perspectives, and support each other in our individual processing. And with our sons’ biological parents, we maintain that open, honest dialogue, ensuring they know they are seen, heard, and valued throughout this. This communication doesn't necessarily lead to an immediate answer, but it strengthens our connections and ensures that whatever decision is eventually made, it's made with shared understanding and respect.

Trusting the Process (Even When It’s Uncomfortable): I have to believe that clarity will come, in its own time. It might not be a lightning bolt moment, but perhaps a slow, dawning realization, a gentle settling in the heart. Trusting that we will eventually arrive at a decision that feels right, even if the path there is winding and uncertain, is an act of faith.

Focusing on Gratitude: Amidst the uncertainty, I consciously try to anchor myself in gratitude for the incredible family we already have, for the miracle of our sons, for the loving relationships that enrich our lives. This doesn't make the decision about the embryos disappear, but it does provide a broader perspective of love and abundance.

If You Also Don't Know...

If my words today resonate with your own experience, if you’re also feeling that pull of "not knowing yet," I want to wrap you in a warm, virtual hug from our GrowingMyFamily community. Please know that this space of uncertainty is not a sign of weakness or indecisiveness. It’s often a sign of deep thoughtfulness, profound love, and a true appreciation for the gravity of the decision.

You are not failing if you haven’t figured it out. You are not alone if your heart feels a little heavy or a lot conflicted.

It’s okay to need more time.

It’s okay for it to be complicated.

It’s okay to cry the tears.

It’s okay to not be ready to say goodbye yet.

This journey of deciding about your frozen embryos is as unique as your fingerprint. There’s no universal timeline, no single "right" answer that fits everyone. What matters is that you approach it with honesty, with self-compassion, and with a willingness to listen to your own heart, and the hearts of those you share this journey with.

Perhaps, like me, you’ll continue to live in this space of gentle discernment for a while longer. And perhaps, in sharing our uncertainties, we find a unique kind of strength and connection with each other. Knowing that someone else "gets it," that someone else is also holding that tender, complex weight, can make the path feel a little less lonely.

Thank you for allowing me to share this very personal part of my current journey with you. My hope is that in my vulnerability, you find a reflection of your own strength and the permission to be exactly where you are, with all the beautiful, messy, complicated feelings that come with it. We are, after all, in this together.