Written by Liz Bancroft
What I didn’t prepare for — what I couldn’t prepare for — was how emotionally disorienting, sensory-invasive, and cognitively overwhelming the entire process would be.
I’m a psychologist. I have a special interest in trauma. I understand complex systems. I had colour-coded spreadsheets for every medication schedule. But none of that protected me from the ways the fertility system disregards the nervous system — especially an Autistic one.
This is what I wish fertility clinics understood.
For many people, IVF is emotionally intense. For Autistic people, that intensity compounds with sensory overload, executive dysfunction, communication breakdowns, and trauma responses that aren’t acknowledged — let alone accommodated.
Picture this: egg collection day. I walked into a waiting room flooded with fluorescent lighting, televisions blaring, people crying behind paper-thin curtains, and delays no one had warned me about. My nervous system was already hijacked before I’d spoken to a single staff member.
By the time they called my name, my capacity for regulation was spent — and I still had a procedure under general anaesthetic ahead of me.
When I came to, groggy and disoriented, no one explained what had happened while I was unconscious. A nurse handed me post-operative instructions I was too foggy to process, then wheeled me out the back door like a completed task. I sobbed the entire drive home — not from sadness, but because my nervous system couldn’t metabolise the experience in real time. As an Autistic person, I desperately needed space to debrief and decompress. The system provided none.
IVF demands that patients juggle complex medication schedules, attend frequent appointments, navigate sudden protocol changes, and make emotionally charged decisions — often with minimal support. For neurotypical patients, this is challenging. For many autistic patients, it’s a setup for failure.
I started recording conversations with doctors so I could replay them later when my processing caught up. I built visual medication schedules to bypass executive dysfunction. I sent emails requesting plain-language instructions, which were routinely ignored. I left appointments in shutdown, confused about what had just transpired, and furious that accessing basic healthcare required such herculean self-advocacy.
This wasn’t because I’m incapable — I’m a registered psychologist who runs complex programs. It’s because the system wasn’t designed for neurodivergent communication styles or processing needs. Worse, it often punishes them.
Throughout IVF, I weathered loss after loss. Some visible, like a failed transfer. Others invisible, like another month of hope evaporating. But fertility grief is rarely acknowledged in clinical settings — especially when Autistic women express it in ways that don’t fit neurotypical expectations.
Many of my Autistic clients report being dismissed as “overreactive,” “difficult,” or “anxious” when they cry, go quiet, or ask detailed questions. Others mask so effectively that their suffering remains invisible until they disengage from treatment entirely. The psychological toll is immense, but it’s rendered invisible by systems that don’t recognise neurodivergent expressions of distress.
I’ve heard similar people tell me: “They kept telling me to ‘stay positive’ when I asked about statistics and backup plans. I wasn’t being negative — I was trying to feel safe by understanding what might happen. But they made me feel like my need for information was somehow toxic to my treatment.”
Imagine fertility clinics that offered:
This isn’t about special treatment. It’s about recognising that Autistic people don’t experience IVF “wrong” — we experience it differently. Those differences deserve accommodation, not erasure.
The system taught me to survive, not to thrive.
IVF taught me many things, but perhaps the most important was this: surviving a system is not the same as being supported by it.
Today, I run a trauma-informed support program for women navigating fertility challenges — many of whom are Autistic, ADHD, or otherwise neurodivergent. Every month, I hear echoes of my own story: brilliant, capable women feeling shattered by a system that wasn’t built for them.
They’re not broken. The system is.
But here’s what gives me hope: change is possible. I’ve seen what happens when fertility clinics genuinely commit to neurodivergent-affirming care. Patients report feeling heard, respected, and actually supported through their treatment. Anxiety decreases. Engagement increases. Outcomes improve.
I share this story not to relitigate past trauma, but to illuminate a path forward. IVF doesn’t have to be this brutal. With intentional changes, fertility care can become emotionally safer, more inclusive, and less traumatising for everyone — especially those of us whose needs currently go unseen.
Because we deserve to build our families, if we choose to, without sacrificing our wellbeing or masking our way through the process.
We deserve to be seen, heard, and supported — exactly as we are.
Elizabeth (Liz) Bancroft (she/her) is an AHPRA-registered Clinical and Counselling Psychologist with over 14 years of experience supporting individuals through complex trauma, infertility, and neurodivergent mental health needs. She is the founder of Hope Affirm Thrive, an evidence-based support program designed to help women navigate the emotional challenges of IVF. Liz draws on both her professional expertise and lived experience as an Autistic woman and mother to offer a compassionate, person-centred approach. Learn more at www.hopeaffirmthrive.com.au.
The Reframing Autism team would like to acknowledge the Traditional Owners of the lands on which we have the privilege to learn, work, and grow. Whilst we gather on many different parts of this Country, the RA team walk on the land of the Awabakal, Birpai, Whadjak, and Wiradjuri peoples.
We are committed to honouring the rich culture of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples of this Country, and the diversity and learning opportunities with which they provide us. We extend our gratitude and respect to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples, and to all Elders past and present, for their wisdom, their resilience, and for helping this Country to heal.
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