May 22nd 2026
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WellBeing Magazine
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Marianne Marchesi Trigger warning: This story contains themes readers may find upsetting.
Marianne Marchesi shares her story of infertility and her advocacy for inclusive fertility policy in the workplace
Two years into my fertility journey, my fertility specialist told me there “may or may not be” a blockage in my fallopian tubes, and the only way to find out was to conduct a laparoscopy. Oh, and my fallopian tube would be removed while I was under if any serious issues were found.
It was at this moment I finally thought: I’m broken. I had felt it in the two years prior, but this was the final straw. Not the time I was told I had endometriosis after 20 years of painful, heavy periods. Not the countless negative pregnancy tests.
This “un-diagnosis” was delivered with complete lack of empathy, like they were ordering their usual coffee.
As my husband and I walked back to the car, I felt I physically could not walk any further and broke down crying in public, apologising to him for being broken, apologising for not being able to carry the child we so desperately wanted.
Reshaping my identity
Up until that point, I had controlled everything in my life. Like many other lawyers, I was a type-A personality. I say “was”, because I am no longer.
IVF drastically changed my identity. I learnt so much about myself beyond the “diagnoses”. Infertility was the first thing in my life that refused to yield to effort. No matter how perfectly I followed every instruction, no matter how many supplements I took or protocols I tried, my body would not give me the result I wanted on command. I learnt that I had a deep resilience and strength that I hadn’t really had to draw on before. But, most of all, I learnt that you cannot control everything in life, but you can control how you respond.
I didn’t want my IVF experience to be shameful or taboo. I couldn’t control my infertility, but I could control how I navigated it. I changed fertility specialists and I told my team, my family and my friends what I was going through and that I may need some grace over the next few months.
I was vulnerable and honest about my experience. It felt terrifying to be that vulnerable as a leader. But instead of judgement, I was met with softness. Everyone held space for me, supported me and cried with me. I realised that my willingness to be human gave everyone around me permission to be human as well.
The plot twist
Then came something no one ever expected — the pandemic. Suddenly, IVF was thrust into the “elective” category (because surely people choose to be infertile?), appointments had to be attended solo and if I thought it was clinical before — well, now it was a whole other level. I remember sitting in the waiting room before an embryo transfer, my bladder full, my mask on, no furniture, no support person, thinking I’d died and woken up in hell.
My resilience and strength was tested once again. But amidst it came another realisation: how unbelievably lucky I was to have the freedom and flexibility afforded to me by being my own boss. That privilege sat heavily. I felt a deep sadness for the women navigating this process in rigid, unsupportive workplaces — hiding their injections, lying about appointments, apologising for needing time to recover.
I vowed to make sure that no one who ever worked with me would have to navigate IVF alone, that they would be supported by me, by the business and by our policies to navigate the multigenerational life moments that, predominantly women, face during their working lives. Not just fertility, but menstruation, endometriosis, perimenopause, menopause and other reproductive health challenges. In 2025, I introduced a policy at my firm to provide for 12 days per annum of paid leave for fertility and reproductive health, and am now advocating for other businesses to consider similar policies.
Redefining strength
I did finally fall pregnant in late 2020 to my happy, beautiful, energetic now four-year-old. Taking control of my fertility, my body and my diagnoses miraculously resulted in a natural pregnancy two years later to my happy, beautiful, likewise-energetic now two-year-old — although my obstetrician likes to say I “oiled the machine” the first time.
I share this cautiously, because not every IVF story ends with a baby, and the happy ending here is not just the children. The deeper transformation was the way infertility cracked open my understanding of strength.
My experience taught me that in the right settings, and with the right support structures, we can give ourselves permission to soften. We can let go of expectations on us as women, as mothers-to-be, and lean in to what we truly want in our lives. We can decondition ourselves to be strong and stoic all the time — while also recognising the strength within.
You are allowed to want big things for your career and your family. You are allowed to ask for support. You are allowed to lead, work and live in ways that make room for your whole self — ambition, tenderness, tears and all.
And if you happen to be a leader, like me, know that one of the most powerful things you can do is make space for softness — in yourself first, and then in the places you have the privilege to shape.
This article can be found in Wellbeing Magazine 222
Further Reading
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