Welcome to Folly!

There are many places on the internet to get conception and parenting guidance—Folly is not one of them. We are here to share experiences instead of advice, knowing each person’s story is their own.

As for our stories, Lauren is a writer and creative who has spent years covering the fitness and wellness space. As someone diagnosed with OCD and health anxiety, she experienced challenging pregnancies before giving birth to her daughter, Romy, in January 2024 and son, Merit, in October 2025. Jess is a writer and editor who spent nearly a decade trying to have a baby before the arrival of her son, Cole, in December 2025. She has written about her fertility journey, grief around infant loss, and what worked for her during five rounds of IVF. (Our name, Folly, comes from her IVF monitoring appointments, as each follicle on the ultrasound screen represented hope; the fact that “folly” is a synonym for absurdity is a bonus.) We have both found solace in sharing our stories, and firmly believe that being open about awkward and uncomfortable truths is the key to parental mental health.

Here, you’ll find personal essays, interviews with experts, the ways we are flailing and thriving, and things making our lives easier every week. Whether you or a friend are having a time during fertility, pregnancy, or postpartum, we hope this can make it a little less lonely. If you feel like you’ve peed on every ovulation stick ever made, are nursing bruises from PIO shots, have a lower back about to give out in the third tri, or are up all hours of the night with a newborn, this is the space for you.

For far too long, we’ve been told to be quiet, put a smile on our faces, and act like we have our shit together. Consider Folly your place to be loud.
—Lauren Bell Martin and Jess Mayhugh

Years of Catholic schooling had me convinced that if I looked at a penis for too long, I would conceive. So imagine my surprise, at 34 years old, when my partner and I were ready to start trying and it didn’t instantly happen. A perfectionist, I raced to download fertility apps, bulk-ordered ovulation strips from Amazon, and got to work. We timed our sex down to the hour. I became obsessed with the process. We tried for six months and nothing happened. As someone diagnosed with OCD relating to health anxiety, it was difficult to fathom that, after doing everything perfectly, I wasn’t getting my desired outcome.

What’s worse, I felt like I couldn’t talk to anyone because “they” say that a year is a normal amount of time to try before exploring other options. But normal was not a word I was willing to hear at the time. I felt even worse because I have been around people struggling with fertility for most of my life, and I understood the deep hurt that comes with waiting much longer than I had. But here I was, completely defeated and questioning all things after just six months. Yet I was convinced there had to be something wrong with me.

And then it happened—two lines—on the 10th day post-ovulation after I promised my therapist I would wait until a missed period to test. (Honestly, I was proud of myself for making it to day 10.) I felt so much relief that my body was “working” and could carry a baby. I look back on that version of myself and think about how lucky I was to have been trying for only six months and how silly it was for me to feel so isolated and sad. The truth is that my sadness came from pressure I was putting on myself. I was beating myself up behind closed doors if I missed my prime ovulation window by two hours. I rolled my eyes when people would say, “It will happen when the time is right.” That is where the apps can be a complete mindfuck; knowing too much made me hyperfixate on the wrong thoughts and feelings. For me, the apps were a necessary evil to help me conceive, but came with the side effect of my being extra self-critical.

But there is an upside to fertility apps, like Flo and Premom. Downloading them really helped me get to know my body. I could differentiate signs of my cycle and how they impacted me both physically and emotionally. I also learned, eventually, that you can only control so much. I wish I had been kinder to myself in those moments when I felt like my body wasn’t doing what it was supposed to do. Really, the apps held up a mirror to my own anxieties. If I could have viewed all those calendars and charts from a place of self-love, I would have realized, “Wow, look at all my body can do.” —LBM

Six postpartum faves making my life easier

I’ve found myself on more than one occasion standing in my closet sweating while furiously tugging at my clothes waiting for them to magically adhere to my body how they once did. “Getting ready” used to be an exciting event, where I could perfectly curl my hair and throw on a new outfit that made me feel confident. Now it feels like I’m at all-out war with my body (and hair, but that’s a different horror) and I lose every time. Pregnancy drastically changes your body—including your bones!—and figuring out how to dress is just another delightful postpartum challenge. Here are a few things that are budget-conscious that don’t leave me feeling body-conscious. —LBM

Meet Shanté Ferguson, a doula who provides all the lavender cotton balls

Every week, we’ll be spotlighting the work of physicians, counselors, birthworkers, and other pros helping people build a family. First up is my doula for my second birth, Shanté Ferguson. I knew she had to be good when both my OB and therapist recommended her independently. I loved her from the jump. She was particularly sensitive around supporting parents post-loss, ensuring my husband, Danny, and I were never alone. She made the hospital room smell like lavender, provided us laughter during tense moments, advocated just the right amount, and took amazing photos. Here, she shares what got her into birth work, memorable moments, and what she can’t wait to eat after countless hours supporting parents. —JM

Been a doula for: Certified for eight years, and been in birth work for 10. 

Inspiration: The birth of my granddaughter. I was there loving on her mom in the space. One of the nurses asked if I was a doula, and I had no idea what it was. When I found out, I couldn’t believe it actually existed. I’ve been in love with it ever since. 

Process: When I did it, I went through DONA and took a weekend course where I learned all the ins and outs. You have to attend three births to see if you really want to be in it. It sounds cute and lovely until you’re in it for 24 to 36 hours, holding someone up and squatting with mom that whole time. Plus, you have to document everything you do. Your prenatal visits, every step of labor, medical interventions, degree of care, recovery. 

Biggest misconception: People confuse doulas and midwives. A midwife is trained on the woman’s body and how to deliver the baby. I was a medical assistant prior, but a doula is really trained to encourage the emotional and physical part. We’re not trained to deliver babies. “Doula” translates to a woman servant, one who mothers the mother. But oftentimes dads will melt in my arms because they’re so emotional, and I have big old grandma arms so they can just let it out.

Long and short: My longest birth was 63 hours, which was a planned unmedicated birth that ended in a C-section. The mom was a physician and we did everything: walked up and down stairs and hallways, [tried] all the positions. Dad was 7 feet tall and mom was 4’11”, and this baby was trying so hard to come out. But everyone ended up healthy. My shortest was a first-time mom who was only 38 weeks. Her water broke at a vaginal exam, she went home to labor, and, within 20 minutes, things ramped up. She came back to the hospital fully dilated. She technically only labored for four hours.

Hospital bag: I’ll bring lavender on cotton balls to put right beside Mom’s head—that smell is a reminder to relax. I lotion her hands and feet because there are a lot of nerves in there that hold trauma. That gentle massage can get you ready for the war. I use rose-scented oil on myself so that when I walk into a space, it’s like a big bouquet of flowers coming in. And I suggest all my families pack an eye mask. Those hospital lights are bright.

Rituals: Once I get to the hospital, I take five minutes to meditate and thank my ancestors. I carry an amethyst stone with me. When I come home, I thank those same people for allowing me to bear witness to such a beautiful space. If it’s been a really long birth, my husband will pick up a Five Guys burger and it will be at home waiting for me. 

Lessons: With over 400 births under my belt, I still ask myself questions to keep me truly grounded, like, “What could I have done better?” I never want to get to a point where I feel like I know it all.