Seetal Savla is freelance writer and fertility patient advocate. Having experienced multiple failed IVFs and losses before becoming mum to a daughter, she is passionate about sharing her story to support others on a similar journey and reduce the stigma surrounding fertility issues in South Asian communities. You can follow her story on Instagram.
When was the moment you wanted to become a mother? Was it always clear for you?
It will sound very strange to many, but the moment I realised that I really wanted to have a baby was during my first miscarriage. Due to the pressure to procreate from family, the community and society following marriage, I became increasingly resistant to motherhood, and the idea that that seemed to be the sole purpose of a married South Asian woman’s life. Over time, I convinced myself it wasn’t for me. It was only when I became pregnant and suffered a loss a few weeks later that I understood what I truly wanted.
You share your journey of conceiving via IVF and then naturally – what were the challenges and joys you experienced along the way?
The first time I saw a positive pregnancy test was the only time I have ever felt pure joy. Back then, I had no reason to believe there would be any complications and so assumed I would have a healthy baby in nine months’ time. My subsequent loss robbed me of that innocence.
By the time I conceived via IVF, I had racked up four failed cycles using my own eggs, plus a cancelled donor egg IVF cycle. Hope was therefore in very short supply. The best way to describe how I felt was cautiously optimistic. Having overcome several obstacles to reach this stage – finding a new donor, travelling solo from Berlin back to my London clinic during lockdown and undergoing a transfer in the first week of starting a new job – I dared to dream that this might be the start of a new chapter in my story. That said, I was all too aware how quickly things could change for the worse, which led to constant anxiety, particularly ahead of scans. My worst fear sadly came true during one of them.
Five months after that devasting day, I found out that I had conceived naturally. It took me a couple of weeks to take the test because I was so scared. If it was positive, I thought it was only a matter of time before I received the same bad news. I had only just started to feel slightly stronger after the loss and was afraid of having to rebuild myself again. However, if it was negative, I would have felt like a fool for thinking our luck had turned.
As the pregnancy progressed without any issues, I slowly started to accept this precious reality. With the help of my therapist and friends who had also experienced pregnancy after loss, I learned to acknowledge the fears and anxieties without letting them overshadow the joy. Since this was probably the only pregnancy I will enjoy to term, I wanted to fully embrace it. That said, I didn’t allow myself to buy anything for my baby until I felt it was safe to do so. For me, that moment came at 24 weeks’ gestation when I knew that she would have a fighting chance of survival if she came early. Similarly, a baby shower was never part of my plan because I could not celebrate the birth before it happened.
What advice would you give to other mothers who may be considering or going through the process of IVF and natural conception?
If you are considering going down the IVF route with a partner, I would advise you both to have all the basic fertility tests done to rule out any potential problems. If the results do reveal any areas of concern, they can be addressed before starting treatment instead of wasting your time, money and energy.
You also need to feel comfortable with your clinic and consultant. Many host open days, which is a good opportunity to ask questions and get a feel for the space for free. If you like what they offer, you can then book a consultation to get more personalised guidance.
IVF is emotionally, physically and mentally gruelling, so it’s vital to make sure you have the support you need. If you cannot or do not wish to confide in loved ones, there are so many resources available to guide you through this challenging journey. I personally found it easier to talk to people in the TTC (Trying to Conceive) community on Instagram than family and friends. They had walked, or were walking, a similar path to me and validated my feelings instead of inadvertently dismissing them by offering quick-fix solutions or reaching for platitudes. There are also plenty of fertility-themed podcasts, books, online forums and support groups, and in-person events. I found speaking to a therapist to be hugely beneficial, but often there are many barriers to access, from finances to cultural obstacles.
Making nutrition and lifestyle changes, combined with holistic treatments such as acupuncture, can also have a positive impact on your chances of success. While I never made any drastic changes during treatment, overhauling habits and routines can help you reclaim control at a time when everything feels very unstable.
Finally, the question I was asked the most when I shared that I had conceived naturally was what I did I do differently? The answer is nothing. I wish I could give a better answer with concrete advice that people could implement for themselves, but the truth is that I was still recovering from my miscarriage and wasn’t thinking about trying to get pregnant at all. In fact, it was quite the opposite – I was learning to accept a childless future. I used to hate being told I would conceive if I just stopped trying because it minimised my struggles. Given that that’s what happened, I sometimes feel guilty for becoming a ‘success story’.
In what ways did your emotional and mental well-being play a role in both conception methods? How did you navigate any potential stress or anxiety during these times?
During my first two cycles, I felt so overwhelmed that I went into operational mode, putting all my emotions to one side. From my third round onwards, I felt more empowered thanks to the valuable friendships I had made, as well as the advocacy work that I had started doing in the fertility space. I was more confident in my choices and knew what kind of support I needed whenever I felt stressed or anxious.
Being more in tune with my feelings and establishing a solid support network made it easier to cope with the highs and lows of trying to conceive. Documenting my initially successful cycle online (I recorded a video diary series in partnership with a pharmaceuticals company, all of which can be found on my Instagram reels feed) enabled to me to have more conversations about what I was experiencing in real time, which was a great source of comfort and hope for me when I was worried.
While I enjoyed the process of being so open, it was hard to announce the loss. So many people had been rooting for us and I felt like I was letting them down. When I got pregnant again, I decided not to make it public knowledge because I wanted to fully focus on my mental, emotional and physical health. My head was a loud place for many months, so I needed pour all my energy into calming it down for myself and my growing baby. I achieved this through weekly therapy sessions, gentle walks and long conversations with friends.
Can you speak about the decision to donate your embryos, how did that first come to topic with your partner and what’s the process for this?
After our daughter was born, my husband and I decided that we could not face undergoing any more IVF. We still had two frozen embryos stored in our London clinic, but we both agreed that this was the end of the road for us. If someone could have promised that our next round would have been successful, we would have started over from scratch. But since that was impossible to predict, we could not put ourselves through it all again.
Our options were therefore to discard our remaining embryos or donate them to research or another couple. After much consideration, we chose the latter because we wanted to give another family the chance to make their dreams come true. South Asian donors are few and far between for many reasons, particularly in the UK, so we wanted to use this opportunity to make a small difference.
Unfortunately, despite giving her consent, our donor later informed our clinic that she had changed her mind. We therefore opted to donate our last two embryos to research.
It is worth noting that these were the options available to us at the time. Embryos can only be donated to science if clinics are participating in ongoing research projects. Donating to another couple may not be feasible if the donor or partner withdraws their consent. In my experience, most people either continue paying for storage to delay making this difficult decision or let them go because thinking about their precious embryos being involved in scientific experiments or becoming babies in another couple’s arms is unbearable.
Can you speak about the societal stigmas around fertility and culturally?
In my culture, anything related to female health – from menstruation to menopause – is considered taboo. From a very early age, South Asian girls are conditioned to desire marriage and children because married women who become mothers are seen as the highest symbols of success. If a couple are unable to start a family, our patriarchal society tends to blame the woman; it probably would not even cross their mind that her husband may have issues. She then becomes the subject of gossip, which brings shame on both her side of the family and her husband’s. This finger-pointing can make her feel like a complete failure at a time when she needs the most support.
The fear of judgment can therefore prevent people from being open about their fertility struggles. I thought long and hard about sharing my story publicly because I was afraid of people saying that I was embarrassing my family by publishing something so private, or doing it for attention. However, instead of criticism, I received so many messages of solidarity and gratitude from friends, family and strangers who had suffered, or were still suffering, in silence due to these stigmas. Seeing someone who looked like them speaking out about miscarriage and IVF made them feel less lonely on their own journeys.
What’s the postpartum traditions like in India within your family? Did you incorporate into your own postpartum?
Traditionally, a month or so before a baby is born, an Indian woman returns to her mother’s home (or her mother may stay with her if that is more practical). Once the baby has arrived safely, both mum and baby remain at home for 30-40 days. During this time, the new mother is cared for by her mother and female relatives, giving her plenty of time to recover and bond with her baby. Along with daily massages, she is fed a special diet to help with postnatal healing, boost her immunity and increase her milk supply.
Although I could have gone back to the UK shortly before my due date, I decided to stay in Berlin. The postpartum period would have been much easier had I done that, but I wanted to give myself the space and time I needed to adapt to motherhood in my own way. Having found a midwife who I liked and trusted (which is never a given in Berlin!), plus having my husband around, seemed like enough support at the time. Our parents were keen to come over straight after the birth, but I asked them to wait for a few weeks.
Unfortunately, he had to work more than we had anticipated during his paternity leave, which made it harder for me to recover physically and emotionally. However, his parents visited us when Meghna was three weeks old, followed by my parents three weeks later, so that was a big help. They all made sure we were well fed, as well as looking after her while we went out for lunch alone. My special diet included vegetable curries with millet flour flatbreads, savoury snacks made from sesame seeds, fenugreek seeds and nuts and hot drinks with various spices and seeds.
What were the most significant lessons or insights you gained from your unique journey of conceiving? How have these experiences shaped your perspective on motherhood?
The main one is that the grief of loss, both miscarriages and failed IVFs, will be my lifelong companion. A common misconception is that if your journey ends with a baby, all the pain is instantly forgotten, but nothing could be further from the truth. That said, grief and gratitude can co-exist.
Knowing the pain of loss in various forms has impacted the way I parent. For so many months, I was afraid of unintentionally harming her, e.g. I did not dare to bathe her. Once she became mobile, I was overprotective, and the way I reacted whenever she bumped herself or fell was overdramatic. I realised that I needed to control my emotions otherwise I was jeopardising her ability to explore the world around her, test her limits and trust her instincts. It is hard to take a step back, but I never want to curtail her curiosity.
While I find being a mother in my early 40s to be tough, one of the advantages is that I am more patient than I would have been in my previous decade. I do my best to validate my daughter’s feelings and experiences, even when setting firm boundaries, because they matter to me. My aim is for her to feel respected as a person: I may be her mum, but she is also teaching me many lessons. This approach differs greatly from the way I was raised. In my culture, children are generally not encouraged to express their emotions or opinions, and holding their parents to account is deemed highly disrespectful.
How was your postpartum? What was the most challenging part and the most blissful part?
It was both beautiful and brutal! As I was induced and then had to have a C-Section, I spent almost a week in hospital. In mid-2022, many Covid restrictions were still in place and so my husband was only allowed to spend a few hours with Meghna and I during the day. At night, I was left to my own devices. Of course there was a night team, but they were understaffed and could not help me as often as I needed them to. While most of them were nice, there was one nurse who berated me for not feeding or changing my daughter promptly. Both were impossible as my milk had not come in yet, and I was hooked to a drip and catheter, so I could not get out of bed. It still upsets me that I was unable to advocate for myself in that moment, but I did raise a complaint the following day.
I could not wait to go home, but I remember feeling so frightened as soon as I left the safety of the hospital. It took me some time to truly bond with my baby because in addition to the utter exhaustion, I felt like a stranger in my own body. I also found it difficult to comprehend that I actually had a living baby in my arms after six years of trying. Then the baby blues hit me hard, so the first couple of months were discombobulating.
Just as I was feeling more comfortable in my new role, I started losing fistfuls of hair. At one point, it was so bad that I considered cutting it all off (it was mid-length) to avoid having to throw away huge clumps every time I washed my hair. The loss eventually slowed down, but my hair is much thinner than it was, which still gets me down.
And now for the beautiful parts! Gazing at my gorgeous girl in the early hours of the morning when the world was sleeping; feeling her warm skin on mine during all the couch cuddles; dressing her in the first outfit I allowed myself to buy for her; finally being able to breastfeed her without any aids (I battled with a low supply); carrying her around everywhere and having her close to me; seeing the first smiles and hearing her laugh.
What advice would you give your younger self?
This is a tough question! I would start with block out the external voices and dial into my internal one. Explore my fears and anxieties in a non-judgemental way. I will never know if I could have become pregnant and stayed pregnant earlier if I had actively tried to do so. However, I wish I had been open to the idea of starting a family sooner instead of shutting it down the way I did. Maybe we could have avoided IVF altogether; maybe not. Ultimately, we have our beautiful daughter, and I have also formed the most wonderful relationships with others through my experiences and work.
Tell us more about “no one tells you this stuff” the book and what it’s about?
As the editor Kat Brown describes it, it’s a “support group in a book for almost-parents”. Featuring 22 stories written by people about their pursuit of parenthood, this anthology covers topics from infertility and ancestral shame to pregnancy loss and being childless-not-by-choice. My essay focuses on the complexities of pregnancy after loss, in particular being considered a ‘success story’. I wrote it in my final trimester, so I also discuss my feelings around how we felt about our remaining frozen embryos at that time.
It was an honour to be invited to contribute my story to this important book, which I hope will offer comfort to anyone who needs it, as well as educating others on what it feels like to live with loss, be marginalised or redefine happiness.
Pictues by Berlin-based photographer Angeli Diaz
