There’s something about fertility treatment that forces you to meet yourself over and over again.
Each appointment, each blood test, each waiting period, it all asks something new of us: our patience, our trust, our strength. As a solo parent by choice, I didn’t have a partner to help carry those pieces. I carried them myself. And while that weight was heavy, it also taught me how deeply I could care for myself.
I’m also a Reiki Master—and I can honestly say that my connection to that practice saved me more than once. When the emotions were too loud, when the clinic felt cold and unsettled, when the future was too uncertain, my spiritual practice helped me come back to myself.
Below isn’t a guide with perfect answers. It’s a reflection from someone who’s gone through trying to balance hormones, hope, and healing. Here’s what self-care looked like for me, and maybe something here will speak to you, too.
Self-Care Is Not a Buzzword—It’s Survival
Before I started IUI, I thought I had a pretty solid self-care routine. I knew how to unwind. I’d done therapy. I journaled. I practiced Reiki regularly. I was no stranger to personal work.
You’re being poked, scanned, and analyzed. You’re watching your bank account and your body with equal intensity.
And if you’re walking this path alone? You’re the only one checking in on you.
Self-care during this process isn’t optional. It’s the stable ground on which we stand.
My Non-Negotiables (and What They Gave Me)
These are the things that kept me steady—not every day, but often enough to matter.
1. My Spiritual Practice
Some mornings I didn’t feel like getting up. The weight of it all, the timing, the waiting, the cost—felt too heavy. I’d sit at the edge of my bed, place one hand on my heart and one on my womb, and let Reiki and prayers flow.
I didn’t ask to fix anything. I just asked to be held.
It was a moment to be witnessed by something larger, something softer. Sometimes it brought nothing. Sometimes it brought peace. Always, it brought me back into my body.
2. Saying No Without Explaining
I stopped justifying why I couldn’t go to a fancy dinner or the annual girls group trip.
Not because I didn’t love those people, but because I needed to protect my emotional energy. Fertility treatment asks you to manage enough without also navigating other people’s feelings about your boundaries.
No is a full sentence. It took some time but I learned to say it with love and walk away without guilt.
3. Nourishing, Not Perfect, Food
There were days I meal prepped all the healthy things and drank herbal teas. There were also days I ate hastily prepared food and disliked my tea mug. Both were valid.
I learned to feed myself like someone I loved. Not to boost fertility or follow a magic diet but to offer kindness. I deserved to be cared for, even in my lowest moments.
4. Crying in the Shower
Because where else?
There’s something sacred about letting hot water and tears fall together. I cried for what I hoped for, what hadn’t worked, and what felt unfair. Then I dried off, put on my comfiest clothing, and kept going.
When Meditation Was the Only Thing That Helped
During the two-week wait, my thoughts were loud. I was overthinking everything: symptoms, timing, future baby names, and whether I was fooling myself entirely.
That’s when I turned most deeply to meditation, not for answers, but for quiet.
It became a rhythm. It reminded me that my body wasn’t broken. That energy flows whether we see results right away or not. That I didn’t have to chase clarity, I could sit with uncertainty and still be whole.
I offered energy to my womb, not to force an outcome, but to thank it for showing up, cycle after cycle.
I visualized golden light moving through my fear, doubt, and disappointment. I let it soften the edges of my grief. I let it hold my hope with both hands.
Navigating Bad Days with Grace
There were days I didn’t meditate. Didn’t journal. Didn’t feel spiritual or calm. There were days I snapped at people, cancelled appointments, and wondered why I ever thought I could do this alone.
Those days didn’t mean I failed at self-care. They meant I was being human.
I learned to let those days be what they were. I didn’t chase the light. I trusted it would return when I was ready.
Sometimes, grace looks like a fancy bath and rose quartz.
Sometimes it looks like a frozen pizza and reruns of our favourite 90s sitcom.
Both are allowed.
You Deserve Ritual, Even in the Middle of Uncertainty
One of the things I realized through this process is that creating ritual—no matter how small—is what anchored me. Not for the sake of control, but to feel like I was still part of my own story.
• Lighting a candle and setting the space before injections.
• Playing a calming playlist before appointments.
• Whispering affirmations while applying progesterone.
These little acts became sacred, making the process less clinical and more intentional. They reminded me: This is my body, my story.
Reflection
If you're in the middle of treatment or preparing for it, ask yourself:
What helps me feel safe in my body?
What do I need more of right now—stillness, support, softness, release?
Where can I offer myself compassion instead of pressure?
What would it feel like to trust that I don’t have to do this perfectly?
You deserve to be held—by your breath, by your spirit, by your own loving attention.
Whether or not you practice Reiki, prayer, journaling, or something else entirely, what matters is this:
You are worthy of tenderness right now.