While I was going through one of the most monumentally difficult times of my life, the world carried on, pregnancy announcements and all. Working in a young, predominantly female team, I stood on the sidelines while women at work and close friends excitedly announced their news, grew bigger baby bumps and went off on (and returned from) maternity leave.

I would stand silently in team meetings while everyone around me celebrated another baby announcement, and I’d avoid the new-mum work colleague bringing her baby in for everyone to coo over. I muted social media accounts where the scan picture would inevitably be followed by a gender reveal, and I ignored messages from friends who knew what I was going through and let me know their news over text. (They were thoughtful, adding words of sympathy and sometimes hope that ‘it’ll be you next’. But I found this incredibly hard. It wasn’t fair.)

I was angry or upset. Often both. I was becoming increasingly difficult to live with, and cracks started to show in my relationship for the first time. We were both stressed, but I was resentful. I was resentful of being the one taking the tablets, having the injections and giving up so much of what I loved. I’d lost what acted as my stress relief (running) while putting myself under more stress than ever. I resented runners, people having babies and people with families. I resented people too young to have babies who were having more fun than me. I was miserable and lost.

After a few months’ break – during which I took a last-minute trip home to the UK to overcome my grief and get a hug from my mum – it was time to try again. After reading a handful of studies about success rates of transferring a fresh embryo versus a frozen one, we were even more hopeful with this second round as we changed our approach. But then came failure number two.

Because I’d been through it all once before, it felt a bit easier in some ways, and we still had one embryo left. So off we went again. Before going into the third round of treatment my partner and I had discussed what we’d do next if the worst happened. We had a mini-break in Melbourne, enjoying long walks and even longer chats together, and we came to the conclusion that life could be good – great, even – with just the three of us: my partner, our dog and me. Maybe we could move to Melbourne? Or to France? Or Japan? Travel! All the fun things. We could work less. Pay off the mortgage quicker. All the practical things. We could do anything we wanted without a child.

But that was before. Once the news came that this cycle had been unsuccessful, I had reached a point where I was content with this being the conclusion, but my partner was devastated. After many more chats, arguments and hours of soul-searching, we decided we would try one more round. This time, I was even more dedicated to getting good-quality eggs. We also decided to test my uterus lining to understand if there was anything preventing implantation. The test was – as everything is with fertility treatment – invasive. The sample was sent to Tokyo and, after a long wait, the results came back showing that my uterus lining was fine but that the ideal window of implantation was later than our clinic had seen from the scans and blood tests. This was good news; it meant timings and medications could be adjusted to improve the chances of implantation. More hope.

Off we went again. I had been running – just a couple of easy 5kms a week – between cycles, but ahead of my next egg retrieval I stopped. I knuckled down with all of the healthy habits and old wives’ tales; I read about how to improve egg quality; I stopped going to pilates before the treatment, just in case it was too strenuous. My hobby had become fertility treatment, and I felt useless at it. But there was some good news in that three more good-quality embryos were collected and frozen.

I flew to the UK and Europe to relax and enjoy the company of old friends and family. I was more relaxed this time in general. That would help, I told myself. Work was much more under control than the previous year, as were my emotions. I knew what was coming. I knew the pain. I was resilient. I had a wonderful therapist (a real one, not running) who I loved talking to. She gave me the knowledge and confidence to feel more in control of the things I could control.

During my trip home, I announced to friends during an incredible weekend in Ibiza that I was soon to be either pregnant or fit. Because one way or another, this journey was nearing its conclusion. And if the former wasn’t the outcome, I would be able to run, train for events and feel confident in my skin again. Like myself again.

“What it’s like when you don’t get your rainbow baby”