Written by Devon-Louise Oakley-Hogg, reviewed by Jessica Hobbis. 

Devon is a Head of English at a secondary school in Hertfordshire. She is working on her doctoral degree exploring misogyny in education and has co-founded One Full Round to try to improve the fertility landscape for teachers in schools across the UK. She lives in Essex with her husband and her red Labrador, Scout. After 3 rounds of egg collection and two embryos in the freezer, they decided to stop treatment indefinitely and are working on finding joy again in a world that felt diminished of it post-treatment. 

“What I didn’t expect was to spend years quietly grieving the one classroom I’ll probably never stand in: a nursery of my own.”

I’d always loved working with children. They have a different way of looking at the world, one that is full of wonder; an inquisitive nature that is second to none. I leave my workday, every day, with at least one moment that we call ‘honey pot’ moments at my school, where a student has said something truly insightful or approached a task with curiosity in such a way that produced an answer that made me wonder, has this thought been had before? I’ve been lucky enough to build a career out of these moments. What I didn’t expect was to spend years quietly grieving the one classroom I’ll probably never stand in: a nursery of my own.

I’ve written before for the National Education Union and Schools Week about the practical failings schools have when it comes to supporting staff through fertility treatment. Many schools in the UK do not have a fertility leave policy, as there is no legal requirement for time off for fertility treatments. Where schools do have a policy, it often covers 2-3 days of appointments per academic year, which amounts to barely a quarter of one cycle. These policies, if they do exist, are often vague, lack support, and leave teachers having to take unpaid leave to start their families, as was my own experience. For example, the 2023 Workplace Infertility Stigma Survey of nearly 250 UK employees found that 23% of education-sector employees would rather call in sick than tell their employer about a fertility appointment, and the NEU (National Education Union)’s survey found that many teachers went through pregnancy loss alone. Schools are a tricky place to take leave without added fertility pressure, because the absence still needs to be covered, creating cover work. When I’m not at work, I still need to plan and set lessons for my classes, even if someone else is teaching them. Work doesn’t ‘pause’ when we’re not in the building, so we are constantly playing catch-up after each appointment, too. There is no flexibility within schools.

I co-founded ‘One Full Round’ alongside Caroline Biddle, an ex-teacher and award-winning doctoral researcher at Manchester Metropolitan University, researching how line managers can better support employees undergoing fertility treatment. The initiative aims to bring fair-funded fertility leave to schools in the UK. We have one school trust on board so far, but there are still so many to go. I’ve been ‘fighting the good fight’, so to speak, since being so enraged by the lack of equity in fertility treatment and access in schools. But there are other parts of the journey, away from the policies and politics, in more private spaces that are less productive, where instead of fighting for rights or recognition, I am fighting to keep my head above water.

“I wasn’t prepared for how unbelievably cumulative it all is. Grief doesn’t reset between cycles.”

We stopped treatment after our third round of egg collection because IVF broke something in us that we haven’t been able to put back together. I can’t even bring myself to go for a smear test anymore. I know… a smear test is five minutes. No big deal. Over before you’ve finished overthinking it. But after three rounds of treatment back to back, my body has learned to treat any clinical room as the site of pain and disappointment. My nervous system doesn’t know the difference between a fertility clinic and a GP surgery; it just sees it as another place where hope goes to die, so I brace.

An OVUM note: We want to gently acknowledge that what's described here- the body's response to clinical spaces after trauma- is real. If you recognise this in yourself, you are not alone, and it may be worth speaking to your GP about how you're feeling before your next appointment. Cervical screening saves lives, and there are options available to make the experience more manageable, including requesting a female clinician, a smaller speculum, or a self-referral to a specialist nurse. You deserve care that feels safe and manageable. 

There’s a past version of me who could talk you through the entire IVF process with a suspiciously steady voice and an awkward joke, because humour was the only tool I had left. I went into our second cycle telling myself I was resilient, that I was ready to go again. I wasn’t prepared for how unbelievably cumulative it all is. Grief doesn’t reset between cycles. It stacks, moment by moment, while the tower threatens to topple. By the third round, I wasn’t walking into appointments hopeful and walking out disappointed. I was walking in already grieving, already dreading the phone call I knew was coming, already rehearsing the smile I’d need for my next lesson.

“I’d take a call from the clinic in my department, based in my classroom, hear the news that we had no viable embryos, and then walk in and push my Year 11s toward their upcoming exams.”

Teaching is, by nature, a performance, in the best sense. You walk into a room, and you become the calmest, most organised version of yourself for thirty-odd children who need you to be steady. Or, more enjoyably, the most theatrical version of yourself, dramatically embodying Shakespeare’s characters. I got very good at building a version of myself for 9 am that had nothing to do with the version of me who had been crying in the car. I’d take a call from the clinic in my department, based in my classroom, hear the news that we had no viable embryos, and then walk in and push my Year 11s toward their upcoming exams. 

Stopping treatment wasn’t a single dramatic decision for us. It was a slow, quiet retreat that we took together, hand in hand. We have two day-three frozen embryos in the freezer that I’m not sure we will get around to gambling on. Some days I want to roll the dice and take my chances. Others, I remember the aching grief that had wrapped itself around my very bones, the grief that stole a version of me I’m not sure I’ll see again.  

I want to be honest about this, because I think there’s a version of the infertility narrative that only makes room for the people who keep going, who try one more round, who ‘never give up’. That narrative matters, but it isn’t mine, and I don’t think it should be the only one schools, clinics, and well-meaning friends and families are prepared for. Some of us stop. Some of us stop not because we’ve made peace with childlessness, but because our bodies have started protecting us from a process that was costing us more than it was giving back. To me, that isn’t failure. It’s self-preservation.

“But I carry that empty, imagined nursery with me too. I’m learning that healing doesn’t mean forgetting it.”

What I’d ask of schools, of colleagues, of anyone reading this who hasn’t walked this particular haunting corridor, is to understand that the impact doesn’t end when the treatment does; the avoidance, the flinch at the letter, the dread of a routine smear test, these are the ruins left in the wake, and they deserve as much compassion as the treatment itself did. I still love my job. I still love the honey pot moments, the eleven-year-old who asks a question that stops the room. But I carry that empty, imagined nursery with me too. I’m learning that healing doesn’t mean forgetting it. It means finding a way to teach other people’s children fully, while still being honest about what it cost me to get here. 

I’m sorry to say I don’t have a neat ending for this one. I’m not ‘trying again’. I’m not ruling it out either. I’m not ‘finally at peace’. I’m somewhere in an odd no man’s land of womanhood, still teaching, still showing up, still occasionally crying or swallowing the grief that is less raw but ever present. If you’re reading this from inside your own version of that corridor, I hope it helps to know that stopping is allowed, that your body’s reluctance isn’t weakness, and that you don’t have to have it all figured out to deserve support.

Key Takeaways

• Schools need fair, funded fertility leave policies and proper support in place. Women in their 30s are among the largest groups to leave teaching year on year. If there is no support in place for those seeking to start a family, is it any wonder? To join our community on instagram, our handle is @onefullround. 

• Infertility’s impacts don’t end when treatment does. Yes, treatment is a rollercoaster ride, a club no one wants to be part of. But it is what is left in the wake of treatment, and where that grief settles and festers, that needs just as much consideration and support.

• There isn’t a ‘right’ way to do infertility. My story doesn’t end with a baby, nor with ‘acceptance’. You don’t have to feel those things to be done. Sometimes you can choose yourself, without resolving all the messy feelings surrounding that decision.