What happened when I finally got my IVF letter, and what walking out of that office taught me about listening to myself

In my late twenties I worked in employment law, and I loved it. I loved the structure, the black and white of "it's the law," the corporate dressing, the lunches, the dinners after work. I loved it so much I studied for my CIPD while working full time, then left the law altogether to build a career in HR instead.

At thirty, I got fortunate. I joined a small charity supporting adults living with disabilities, from brain injuries through to living independently in their own homes, and I walked into a brand new role. Nobody had done it before me, which meant I could build it entirely from scratch.

So I threw myself in. I listened to the care managers and their teams, worked out what they actually needed rather than what I assumed they needed. I covered payroll when a manager needed surgery. I built a full training programme, mandatory records, a twelve-month plan, better providers at better rates, certificates I designed myself, a training file for every single carer. I sat in on interviews and helped shape recruitment from the ground up. When we moved offices, out of the city centre and into a beautiful old Victorian building with gardens you could eat your lunch in, it felt idyllic. I loved every bit of it.

About eight months in, properly settled, properly good at the job, a letter arrived. An invitation to my IVF consultation. We'd been on the waiting list for the best part of eighteen months. I remember exactly how it felt opening it, excited, terrified, about six different feelings turning up at once with nowhere to put any of them.

I asked my boss, the CEO, if I could grab five minutes with him that day. He was an approachable man, funny, easy to talk to, so I didn't think twice. I went in, handed him the letter and said something like, "I've finally got my appointment date, just wanted to keep you in the loop, and I'll make the time up."

He shook his head. "Erm, no."

He had a dry sense of humour, so for a second I actually laughed, assuming he meant I didn't need to make the time up. Then he said the words I will never, as long as I live, stop hearing exactly the way he said them.

"No, you won't be taking any time off. It's God's way to have children. You shouldn't be interfering."

And he handed the letter back to me.

He was a devout Christian, and I want to be honest about something before I go any further. I have no issue with anyone holding a belief system. None. But there is a line, the moment you are someone's manager, and he stepped straight over it.

I didn't know what to do with my own face in that moment. I laughed again, a small, confused laugh, and then the embarrassment hit, hot and immediate. I had just handed him something profoundly personal, something that meant everything to me, and he had dismissed it in a single sentence. It was the same thing doctors and consultants had been doing to me for fifteen years already. Different room, different man, same door closing.

I told him I was disappointed in his response. Then I picked up my bag, walked out, and never went back.

What would you have done?

I ask because I've asked myself that question more times than I can count since, and I land somewhere different every time. By my thirties I'd started listening properly to my own gut instincts, and I had no idea yet that this was the decision it would be proudest of for the rest of my life. I couldn't work for a man who believed he had the right to decide, on God's behalf, what happened to my body. In Traditional Chinese Medicine, the deep reserve that governs fertility and life force lives in the Kidneys, and it's guarded fiercely, on pure instinct, by something else entirely, your Liver Qi, the part of you responsible for boundaries, for knowing exactly where you end and someone else's opinion begins. I didn't have language for any of that back then. I just knew my body had said no before my mind had finished catching up.

Walking out of that office wasn't me being dramatic. It was the same instinct that, years later, would become the whole foundation of the BHR Framework™, the belief that your body already knows, long before your logic does, and that the bravest thing you can do is stop overriding it just to keep everyone else comfortable.

I still think about that Victorian building with the garden sometimes. I loved that job. But I have never once, not for a single day since, regretted walking away from a man who decided it was his place to interfere with mine.

If any part of this feels familiar, if you've ever had someone else decide what your body should or shouldn't be allowed to do, the free quiz is a good place to start finding your own answer instead of someone else's.

Suze x 🌊