The IVF Scanxiety Spiral: Why It Hits So Hard and How to Get Through It

You're not crazy. You're not overreacting. This really is that hard.

It doesn’t start when you wake up. It starts days before.

You’ve got a scan coming up, and already your chest feels tight.

You can’t focus. You can’t relax. You start preparing yourself for all the possible outcomes, especially the worst ones. Because you’ve been here before. And it didn’t always go well.

By the time the actual scan day rolls around, you’re a mess. You’ve already had three sleepless nights, twelve imaginary scenarios, and at least one argument with your partner that had nothing to do with them and everything to do with the emotional grenade you’re holding.

Sound familiar? 

The scan isn’t just a scan.

It should be a simple medical appointment.

But when you’re going through IVF, it feels like a test. A test that you’re being judged on. A test that decides your future.

And not just your fertility. Your hope. Your identity. Your sense of worth.

I know this feeling intimately. I’m a classic overachiever. I’ve never been one to fail a test. So when you’re used to getting A's, but your body keeps throwing up D's, it hits differently. It cuts deeper.

Every scan feels like it’s measuring whether you’re enough — enough follicles, enough lining, enough response.
And when the numbers don’t add up, you can’t help but blame yourself.

“It’s not the scan that’s hard. It’s everything you carry into that room.”

And that room? It’s often a trigger all on its own.
The waiting area. The smell of antiseptic. The silent shuffle of women who all look like they’d rather be anywhere else.
The fear you might see a pregnant belly. Or someone you know. Or both.

You panic before. You shut down during. You spiral after.

By the time you’re called in, your nervous system has left the building.

You sit in front of your doctor nodding along, but you’re not taking anything in. Your brain is in flight mode. You don’t want to ask any questions in case they’re “silly,” because deep down, you feel like you should know this stuff. Like somehow, you should’ve studied harder for this exam.

It’s not because your doctor is intimidating. Many of them are kind and patient. But you’re so rattled, so unsure of yourself, that the shame kicks in fast.

So you leave confused. Uncertain. And instead of asking your doctor, you turn to Dr. Google. Or anonymous forum strangers.

Which never ends well.

Then you beat yourself up for doing it. For being “dramatic.” For being “too much.”
And if the scan brings bad news? You definitely find a way to make it your fault.

If it brings good news? You can’t sit in it. Your brain rushes to protect you by imagining every way it could still go wrong.

And so the spiral continues. Until the next scan.

It’s not you. It’s the system.

Let me say this clearly: You are not broken for struggling with this.

IVF doesn’t just test your body. It tests your emotional endurance, your psychological resilience, your ability to keep functioning when everything inside you is crumbling.

And it does this inside a system that is built for outcomes, not emotional wellbeing.

Fertility clinics are often amazing at what they do. The science is extraordinary. Many doctors and nurses are deeply compassionate.

But the system itself? It isn’t designed to hold your hand. It doesn’t create space for trauma. It doesn’t always give you time to think, or cry, or fall apart. And so, you’re left trying to “perform” like you’re okay in an environment that rarely acknowledges that you’re not.

How to ground yourself before, during, and after a scan

You can’t make IVF easy. But you can bring in small supports to steady yourself on the rollercoaster.

Here’s how:

Before the scan: Regulate and prepare

• Call ahead and ask if your doctor is running on time. Waiting for an hour in that waiting room is no one’s idea of self-care.
• Sit in the car and listen to music that calms or empowers you.
• Do a 2-minute grounding breath before walking in. (Inhale for 4, hold for 4, exhale for 6. Repeat.)
• Write your questions down beforehand so you don’t forget them in the panic.

Mantra: “It’s okay to feel anxious. This is hard, and I’m allowed to be scared.”

During the scan: Slow it down

• Tell your doctor you’re nervous. You don’t have to be stoic.
• Take notes (or ask your partner to) so you don’t rely on your foggy memory.
• Ask questions, even if they feel ‘dumb.’ You're not meant to know this stuff. This isn’t your job. You’re allowed to ask for clarity.
• Say, “Can you repeat that?” or “Can I take a minute to think?” You won’t sound unprepared. You’ll sound human.

Mantra: “I don’t need to rush. I’m allowed to take up space here.”

After the scan: Recover

• Don’t try to process everything right away. Go gentle on your brain.
• Avoid the forums and frantic Googling. You deserve better than anonymous worst-case scenario threads.
• Treat yourself for getting through something hard. Seriously — coffee, cake, a walk in the sun, a nap. Whatever reminds you that you’re still here. Still standing.
• Talk to someone safe. Someone who will hold space for you without trying to fix you.

Mantra: “I did something hard today. And I’m proud of that.”

The emotional hangover is real.

You might feel wired. Or wiped. Or weirdly numb.
You might cry in the car, or snap at your partner, or stare at a wall for an hour.

It doesn’t mean you’re not coping.
It means your nervous system just took a beating.

Give yourself the same compassion you’d give your best friend. You’re not supposed to be perfect. You’re not supposed to float through IVF without feeling it.

You’re not crazy. You’re not overreacting. You’re surviving something enormous.

IVF is more than needles and scans.
It’s hope, heartbreak, pressure, panic… all compressed into one sterile room, again and again.
And if it feels like too much, that’s because it is.

You are not alone in this.

And on the days you feel broken, or silly, or too much — I promise, you’re not.
You’re just doing the best you can with something that was never meant to be done alone.