Two dads and a dream

No fact of the week on this one; but a photo near an ocean that bought about calm and collective thought.

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Well, the title calls it doesn’t it. We know all of you have been waiting for our outcome, some of you have already actively followed up. I’ve been drafting this post over several days; really since we found out about our outcome on Tuesday.

At this stage, there’s a lot in the air, also not helpful that I (Gary) was out of the state. In saying that, in times like these I find it helpful to ground myself in lived experience of others, the logical and tangible conclusions of research and evidence, and really exploring how my and others’ emotions map to these.

For now, reflection is important. In fact, psychologists often note that taking time to step back and process experiences can actually improve resilience and mental health. It’s not about wallowing or replaying what went wrong but about giving the mind space to make meaning. One study even found that structured reflection after setbacks can reduce stress and depression markers; proof that pausing to think can be healing in itself. So, this post is more reflective than anything else. A summary/word vomit of everything felt, read, and absorbed over the last three days.

As Carl Jung once wrote, “Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakens.” That rings especially true for us right now. Reflection is helping us balance the hope we carried with the reality we’re living. And, if nothing else, those hours spent in counselling and psychology sessions have given us the tools to do this gently; not as self-criticism, but as honest, compassionate reckoning with what’s happened.

The Call We All Knew Was Possible

On Tuesday morning, our surrogate did the blood test we’d been waiting (and quietly dreading) for. It felt like every part of us had been tuned to that single result. We had spoken openly about this possibility ahead of time: that despite all the preparation, all the science, all the hoping, it still might not work.

In leading up to this, we tried to get ready. Sam and I had talked about it late at night, in counselling sessions, in passing conversation, and as a focus topic itself. We were self-aware and also advised by professionals that we need to imagine both outcomes. We told each other that if it wasn’t meant to be this time, it wouldn’t break us. We hoped hard, yes. We sent out positive energy, crossed fingers, whispered encouragement into the universe. But we also braced ourselves with realism, because optimism without realism can be a cruel trick. In a way, that preparation softened the blow.

We also know our surrogate and her wife were carrying hope alongside us. They wanted this to succeed too for us, for the effort and emotion that’s gone into reaching this point, and for the future we’ve all been trying to build together. That collective hope added its own kind of weight to the moment, because disappointment doesn’t just ripple back to us, it lands with everyone who had believed in the “yes.”

When the call came, the words “not pregnant” landed with a quiet finality. Realistically, I don’t think any of us were blindsided. In hoping that it would work, meant that some part of us would have had always known that not working was a possible outcome; but that didn’t take away the sting. It’s one thing to understand the risk in your head; it’s another thing entirely to feel it echo in your chest.

Despite the outcome, we didn’t fall into theatrics. No dramatic collapse, no Hollywood moment (cue Hollywood sad music with a zoom out scene of someone sitting alone, some tears, and a fade-to-black ‘cut’ scene). But there was still a loss, subtle but heavy. A loss of expectation, of the imagined future we’d been carrying in the background of our days leading up to this day. The conversations we’d had about how to share the news, the little flashes of what “if this works” might look like – all of that evaporated in an instant. What remained was quieter: a heaviness in the room, a cup of tea that didn’t taste like comfort, the weight of a phone call replaying in our minds long after it had ended.

Expectations, Loss, and That Invisible Shift

In the last few days, the emotions haven’t been dramatic, but they have been present. We’ve spent months preparing, planning, and talking about what could be. The disappointment isn’t loud, but it’s there – a quiet shift in how the days feel, a sense that something we had been carrying forward together has had to be put down.

We do find ourselves grieving the little stories we had started to build: the “maybe this time,” the “if it works, here’s how we’ll share the news,” the “how we’ll start setting things up.” Those were real conversations, and stepping back from them leaves a gap we both notice. It’s a loss that isn’t about what was, but about what might have been.

There’s also the weight of expectations from others; family, friends, even the professionals supporting us. Everyone had hoped for a different outcome, and that adds another layer to carry. It’s not overwhelming, but it does sit in the background as part of this process.

Research shows that this kind of disappointment is incredibly common in IVF, yet it’s often underacknowledged. Studies describe it as a form of ambiguous loss; a grief that doesn’t have a clear event or ritual attached to it but is nonetheless deeply felt. One paper noted that couples often report emotions like sadness, guilt, frustration, and helplessness after a failed transfer, even when they’ve tried to prepare themselves for the possibility. Others have described it as “silent grief,” because there’s rarely a clear space to express it openly.

What we’ve noticed is that our own feelings reflect that description. There hasn’t been a breakdown or a dramatic moment, but there has been a heaviness. A quiet awareness that the path we thought we might be walking right now has shifted, and we need to recalibrate. IVF creates such strong expectations because every step (the injections, the appointments, the waiting) feels like it must surely lead to a result. When that result doesn’t come, the gap between effort and outcome can feel enormous.

At the same time, many couples talk about the resilience they eventually find in this stage. A review of IVF experiences in BMJ Open (it’s a journal – I’ve lost the link) found that while initial reactions to failed cycles included disappointment, sadness, and anger, people also described growth over time: learning to set more balanced expectations, leaning on each other, and finding ways to redefine hope. That resonates with us too because while the grief is real, so is the steady reminder that hope, and disappointment often walk together in this journey.

How This Ripples Through Everyone

One thing we’ve been reminded of this week is that outcomes like this don’t just affect us. They ripple outward. Our surrogate and her wife were also invested in this journey; they had carried hope alongside us, and they too were waiting for a result that didn’t come. Disappointment doesn’t just land in one place; it finds its way into every corner where expectation lived.

The same is true for our families and friends. Many of them have walked quietly beside us through this process, careful not to intrude but eager to see it succeed. When the news was shared, there was a collective sense of “oh.” Not devastation, not despair, but a subtle letting go of the same little stories we had been holding. It reinforces that while this is our journey at its core, it exists in a wider circle of people who care about us and want this future for us too.

Research shows that failed IVF cycles often affect not just the intended parents but also partners, surrogates, and support networks. A 2022 study in Reproductive Biomedicine found that surrogates often experience complex emotions when a cycle doesn’t succeed: empathy for the intended parents, a sense of disappointment, and sometimes even feelings of responsibility, despite knowing intellectually that it isn’t within their control. Similarly, families and close friends frequently describe a kind of “second-hand grief,” where they carry the sadness of those they love but don’t always know how to express it.

That feels familiar to us now. The ripple effect is quieter than our own experience, but it’s there in the careful texts, the pauses in phone calls, the way people search for the right words. And just like us, they are balancing hope with disappointment, wanting to support us while also holding their own feelings about what could have been.

What all of this reinforces is that IVF isn’t an isolated process. It isn’t just about embryos and transfers and tests. It’s a web of people, emotions, and expectations, all tied together by hope. When science says “no,” it’s not just two dads who feel it, it’s the village around them too.

Back to the drawing board, and what lies ahead

Now that this attempt has come to a close, the question shifts to what comes next. Saying “we’ll just try again” might sound simple, but anyone who has walked this road knows it isn’t. IVF is not a single step but a whole structure; months of saving, planning, and aligning lives around professional, medical, and biological timelines. To reach the point of transfer again would mean rebuilding much of that scaffolding: securing donor eggs, coordinating with clinics, preparing our surrogate, and managing the financial, physical, and emotional toll that comes with it.

Sam and I have already started those conversations. Not in a rushed or panicked way, but in the steady way you do when you understand what’s involved. Do we want to try again, and if so, when? Can we manage it financially, given the realities of donor egg availability and the costs of purchase? What would another cycle look like? What trade-offs might we accept? What pace do we want? What does it mean for us as a couple, and how do we make sure that this pursuit doesn’t consume every other part of our lives? These are not easy questions, but they are necessary ones.

What feels especially important right now is recognising that moving forward doesn’t have to mean moving quickly. Many people who experience failed cycles including intended parents in surrogacy arrangements, describe the need for a pause before trying again. It’s not a sign of weakness, but of wisdom. BMJ Open research has shown that patients who take time to reflect and access counselling after failed IVF cycles report lower stress and better emotional adjustment before beginning again (2020). Similarly, in the same study I mentioned earlier in Reproductive BioMedicine exploring surrogacy experiences found that both intended parents and surrogates felt the impact of unsuccessful transfers, and that space to process was seen as vital for maintaining trust and resilience across everyone involved (2022).

There’s also evidence that LGBTQ+ couples, while facing unique challenges in assisted reproduction, often show resilience by leaning on the strength of their relationships. One recent study published in Human Reproduction, noted that same-gender couples reported lower depressive symptoms and stronger relationship wellbeing compared to heterosexual couples undergoing assisted reproduction (2023). That rings true for us: part of why we can pause is because we know our foundation is solid. Stepping back gives us the space to gather strength as a couple, and to make sure any next step is taken with clear heads and steady expectations.

So yes; the pause matters. For us, it isn’t about giving up. It’s about giving ourselves the breathing space to reflect honestly on what this means, and how we want to move forward. If we do choose to try again, we’ll do it with more clarity and resilience. And if we choose a different path, it will be because we’ve taken the time to decide what feels right for our family story.

Closing thoughts

This wasn’t the outcome we had hoped for, and sitting with that has been its own quiet challenge. But as we’ve learned, reflection matters just as much as action in this process. Taking time to pause isn’t wasted time; it’s part of how people in our shoes find the strength to keep going, in whichever direction feels right.

Hope hasn’t disappeared; it’s simply taken a different shape. We don’t know yet if the next chapter is another round, another approach, or something we can’t quite picture yet. What we do know is that we’ll make that decision together, and that whatever comes next will come with the same love and commitment that brought us here.

We also know this journey doesn’t just belong to us. Many of you reading have been invested too – cheering from the sidelines, asking for updates, quietly willing this to succeed. Sharing a “no” means sharing disappointment with all of you as well. But we want you to know that your support doesn’t go unnoticed; it makes the harder days feel a little less heavy. If nothing else, we hope our honesty helps shine a light on what this process is really like, so that others walking a similar path, now or in the future, might feel a little less alone.

So, for now, we’re sitting with both truths: this cycle ended with “no,” but our story hasn’t ended. And in its own way, that feels like enough to carry us, and all of you with us, forward.

And to our future offspring/spawn; we still want you, more than anything. We don’t know when or how you’ll come into our lives, but we believe that you will. The road might be longer or more winding than we first thought, but we’ll keep moving forward until we get there. One day, when you read back on these words, we hope you’ll see not just the hurdles, but the steady love and determination that carried us through.

Signing off with gratitude for the support around us and hope still in our pocket for what’s next.

Gary & Sam ✨❤️🤍