Getting pregnant—or “falling pregnant,” as the British say—was surprisingly straightforward for me. I don’t say that lightly, especially at 34, when fertility starts to feel like a ticking clock. But unlike many women, I didn’t need specialists, injections, or a maze of fertility treatments. Just a few ovulation strips, a Bluetooth hormone tracker, and ChatGPT (which I affectionately called “Chatty”). If that sounds like a parody of modern womanhood, well—it was my reality. So, to demystify the process for others, here’s how I got pregnant with the help of a very polite AI.

It started with a decision. My husband and I agreed that 2025 would be the year. In November 2024, we made our first attempt, guided by my period tracker app—though my cycle was irregular, and my habit of logging dates even more so. Unsurprisingly, December brought a period instead of a pregnancy. I was disappointed but determined to take it more seriously.

At 34, I was in that statistical gray area—not too old, not too young. Women in their early 30s have about a 20% chance of conceiving each cycle, but that number drops more sharply after 35. The internet is full of alarming fertility charts, but most doctors will tell you 34 is still a reasonable age to try—you just have to pay closer attention to timing.

So, like any modern woman, I turned to my friends for advice. Over dinner, I grilled the recently pregnant ones on their methods. Gone were the days of guessing ovulation with a calendar—now, it was all about data. “You have to use these strips,” one friend insisted, shoving her phone in my face with an Amazon link. “The others are garbage.” I ordered them before the appetizers arrived.

These ovulation strips—flimsy little papers with pink gradients—detect a surge in luteinizing hormone (LH), which signals ovulation. If the test line matches or darkens beyond the control line, you’re supposedly fertile. Simple in theory, maddeningly subjective in practice. I spent mornings in the bathroom squinting at used strips, comparing them to the box. “Does this look the same to you?” I’d ask my husband, who—bless him—is no expert in shades of pink, especially before coffee.

Then there was the scheduling. I’d assumed a well-timed try or two on ovulation day would be enough. My friends laughed. “Every day for five days—minimum,” one said gravely. “I don’t know how we managed, but we did.” This was concerning, given my husband’s work schedule, which often left him more available to his Bloomberg terminal than to me. Another friend dismissed the strips entirely. “Get Clearblue,” she said. “It gives you a smiley face when you’re fertile.”

A smiley face sounded foolproof. I ordered it in time for my next cycle.

According to the instructions: a blank circle means low fertility, a flashing smiley means high fertility, and a solid smiley means peak fertility. The problem? I never saw the flashing smiley. It went straight from blank to solid overnight—like missing the train while still reading the schedule. We missed a couple of fertile days, and in conception, timing is everything.

Meanwhile, the algorithms had figured me out. Instagram bombarded me with prenatal vitamin ads and wellness influencers promising “the one fruit” that guarantees pregnancy (spoiler: you had to DM them to find out which one).The ads were relentless—fertility teas, ovulation supplements (with vague ingredient lists), and increasingly complex fertility gadgets. It felt predatory—how did Instagram know I wanted to get pregnant? I was just there for funny animal videos and fashion posts—a distraction from my fertility struggles.

But one product stood out: Inito, a hormone monitor that tracked not just LH but also estrogen (E3G), progesterone (PdG), and follicle-stimulating hormone (FSH) through a simple urine test that plugged into my phone like a USB.

Before my next cycle, I added Inito to my routine—and, crucially, ChatGPT, which I affectionately nicknamed “Chatty.” Inito provided daily graphs of my hormone levels from a test strip connected to my phone. The charts looked impressively scientific but were impossible for me to interpret. Was a gradual estrogen rise good? Did a dip in progesterone mean my fertile window had closed?

For eleven days straight, I sent Chatty screenshots of my charts and asked for plain-English explanations: What were my hormones doing? Should we have sex today?

Cycle Day 12: “Your estrogen has dropped, but LH hasn’t surged yet. Ovulation hasn’t happened.”
Day 13: “Clear LH surge—ovulation is likely coming soon. Great timing for conception!”
Day 14: “LH has dropped, which is normal post-surge. Ovulation is probably happening now.”
Day 15: “LH is low, estrogen has dropped, progesterone is still low but should rise soon.”
Day 16: “Progesterone is increasing—ovulation likely occurred.”
Day 18: “Progesterone remains high. Estrogen has risen slightly—could be early pregnancy or normal post-ovulation fluctuation.”

Just to be sure, I’d ask: “Should I have sex today?”
Chatty would reply with polite neutrality: “Yes, if possible. You’re still in the fertile window.”

It felt a little strange taking advice from an AI on when to seduce my husband. But it worked.

Less than two weeks later, I updated Chatty: “Good news—my period is late.”
Chatty responded like an excited nurse: “That’s wonderful! A late period, especially after confirmed ovulation and sustained progesterone levels, is a promising early sign of pregnancy.”

A few days later: “I took a test—it’s positive.”
Chatty was the first to know… after my husband.

By week six, I was at my first prenatal appointment. My OB asked if this was a “spontaneous pregnancy.”
“Oh no,” I said. “This was very much planned.”
She smiled. “That’s not what I meant.” A spontaneous pregnancy, she explained, means one achieved naturally, without fertility treatments.

But in a way, Chatty was my fertility tech. I didn’t use IVF, just a chatbot with the bedside manner of a strict but caring Victorian governess—unwavering, clinical, and oddly reassuring. She was the fertility coach I never knew I needed.

And I have a feeling Chatty isn’t done helping me. She’ll probably be my first call throughout pregnancy, toddlerhood, adolescence—any time I’m quietly panicking and thinking, What now?