For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a mother.
As a child, they called me mother hen—always tending to the little ones, always the caretaker. As I grew, I was the fun aunt, the one who cradled babies in my arms and felt the quiet pull of something more. A longing. A certainty.
One day, I would have my own.
Being married to a woman, I knew the journey would look different. But science had made it possible, and I thought—it’s just a matter of time, a matter of money. A process, yes, but a straightforward one.
How naive I was.
The Road is Long
You don’t realise, at first, how many people need help to have a baby (according to Fertility Society of Australia, it's around 1 in 6 couples). Not until you step into the world of fertility treatment- where waitlists stretch on for months, where appointments, tests, and consultations become a second job.
And in those early days, you start searching. For answers. For hope. For IVF success stories that sound like yours. Just hoping to find yourself in one.
We had a plan.
I was four years older than Laura, and I was desperate to carry a child. We thought we'd go straight to IVF—skip the low-success rates of IUI, go all in. We have the money, we’ll just do it, and it will be fine.
And then, sitting across from our doctor—after months of waiting, bloodwork, ultrasounds—he looked at me and said:
"You won’t be able to do IVF."
I remember the words hitting me like a wave—sudden, heavy, pulling me under.
"You’re in perimenopause," he continued. "Your ovarian function is that of a 50-year-old woman. You only produce one egg a month. IVF requires at least four."
He was a man of science. A numbers man. And the numbers told him that I would not be able to carry a child using my own eggs. That our best chance was for Laura to carry.
But I was not a numbers person.
I was a mother.
I was a mother before I had a child. Before I held him in my arms. Before I even knew if he would exist.
So we tried.
We attempted round after round of treatment, only to be met with disappointment. My body couldn't develop enough eggs. Cycles were cancelled before they even had a chance to begin.
We'd hold our breath with each new attempt, only to have it slip through our fingers before we could even hope. The waiting. The resets. The feeling of time slipping away.
And yet, I still believed.
The Desperate Search for Hope
I became obsessed with fertility research. Diminished ovarian reserve. Perimenopause. Miracle protocols. I read forums, joined groups, found a community of women trying to fight statistics.
I tried everything.
Supplements, Chinese medicine, acupuncture, hormonal protocols.
I begged my doctor to let me try IVF, just once.
"I will accept it if it fails," I told him. "But I want to try."
So he agreed.
Months passed.
My ovaries remained silent.
One egg. That’s all I could produce.
I switched doctors. And that decision changed everything.
My new doctor sat across from me and said:
"The odds are not in your favour. But I am willing to try."
And those words changed my life.
The One Egg That Could
One egg.
Not mature at retrieval.
Given 12 hours to develop. And it did.
Then, the wait to see if it would fertilise.
And it did.
Then, the excruciating five-day wait to see if it would reach blastocyst stage—the point where they could transfer it.
On day three, the embryologist called.
"It’s struggling," she said. "It’s 12 hours behind. It might not make it."
The next day, another call.
"Still behind. We’re not sure if it will survive the night."
I waited for the phone call telling me not to come in.
It never came.
I went in.
"Your embryo is still behind," my doctor said. "But let’s give it a chance. Let’s see if your body can do the rest."
And two weeks later, two pink lines.
My one egg.
My one shot.
My son.
Just a few cells. But already everything.
Why I Photograph Newborns with My Whole Heart
Jack is now three years old.
I listen to his laugh, watch his little hands grasp toys, feel the weight of him curled against me.
And I think about the doctor who was willing to try.
If I hadn’t switched doctors, my son wouldn’t be here.
If I had accepted the numbers, if I had let science dictate what was possible, if I had listened to the first man who told me “no”—I would not be sitting here, watching my little boy play.
And that thought is too big, too overwhelming, too impossible to hold.
That’s why, when I photograph newborns, I don’t just take pictures.
I see the miracle.
I see the years of waiting, of hoping, of whispered prayers and silent grief.
I see the parents who held their breath for two pink lines.
I see the ones who fought to get here.
Because I was them.
And that’s why every tiny detail matters. The curl of their fingers, the softness of their cheeks, the way their head fits perfectly in your hands.
I know how fleeting this moment is.
And I know how much it took to get here.
To the Woman Who is Still Waiting
If you are reading this, and you are still waiting—I see you.
If you are exhausted, if you are clinging to hope with shaking hands, if you are told “your chances are low”—I see you.
I don’t know what your outcome will be.
But I know this:
If there is still a fight in you, keep going.
Find the doctor who is willing to try.
Because sometimes, all it takes… is one.
One egg. One yes. One IVF success story.
And that one egg can change your life forever.
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