Misseducated

Hello everyone and welcome back to Misseducated, with me, your host, Tash Doherty.

This week we’re diving into the subject of unexplained infertility with Dr. Amy Beckley, the founder and CEO of Proov. In this episode she shares with us how her experience of having 7 miscarriages fueled her to create the leading products in at-home fertility and hormonal testing kits.

We talk about how she bootstrapped the company and brought these sorely-needed femtech products to market from an Indiegogo crowdfunding campaign, of all things. We’ll also touch on how an over-the-counter medication with a $10 co pay could save you from having to do a $40,000 round of IVF if you’re trying to conceive, and also the surprising impact that the reversal of Roe v. Wade has had data centers and the security around women’s health data.

So please, enjoy! 🎧 🎙️

Links to things mentioned in the episode

Dr. Amy’s LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/amybeckley/

Proov’s website: https://proovtest.com/

Some of Amy’s research on cancer: https://www.researchgate.net/publication/233749462_IL-1b_promotes_stemness_and_invasiveness_of_colon_cancer_cells_through_Zeb1_activation

Proov’s Indiegogo Campaign: https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/at-home-ovulation-double-check-test#/

Proov’s announcement of their Series A: https://techcrunch.com/2021/12/15/proov-raises-9-7m-series-a-for-at-home-ovulation-testing-platform/

Proov’s Crunchbase profile: https://www.crunchbase.com/organization/proovtest

Article on Japan’s population crisis: https://thediplomat.com/2023/01/japans-population-crisis-nears-point-of-no-return/

Iceland’s maternity and paternity leave policy as of 2017: https://www.leavenetwork.org/fileadmin/user_upload/k_leavenetwork/country_notes/2017/Iceland.FINAL.2may2017.pdf

Article on Proov’s decision to switch data centers following the Roe v. Wade decision: https://www.protocol.com/enterprise/proov-fertility-data-google-aws

Dr. Aimee Eyvazzadeh, The Egg Whisperer: https://eggwhisperer.com/about/

Dr. John Park, Carolina Conceptions: https://carolinaconceptions.com/about/doctors-providers/park

Dr. Josh Klein, Extend Fertility: https://extendfertility.com/about-extend-fertility/

Dr. Gary Levy, My Fertility Cloud: https://myfertilitycloud.com/

“Excuse me, Madam,” the porter said to me, “Tennis shoes are not allowed in the Breakfast Room.”

My cheeks flashed red hot. I looked down in horror at my painted Converses. They were a black mark against the opulent, rouge-velvet carpet. My beating heart was almost audible over the tinkling piano music and the gentle clanking of fine China tea plates coming from inside. I sensed Will hovering over my shoulder. I tried to soften the blow,

“Not even to just look around—”

“Certainly not,” the porter replied, “We’ll be happy to seat you on another visit, should you be capable of adhering to the dress code.”

I glared at him. But with little else to say, I sauntered away. Will followed behind me. He caught up once we were out on the street. The remnants of rain sparkled over the bonnets of black taxis and sheer fronts of the red double decker buses. The grand windows of the gentlemen’s clubs of Green Park towered over us.

“Whatever,” Will said, “I didn’t care that much about visiting The Ritz anyway. Bunch of toffs, as far as I can tell.”

“Completely,” I spat. Still, I felt my posture slump as we walked away.

My perfect date with Will was going terribly. Well, at least the parts of it that I had planned. Will was still very fit. He was just as tall and spindly. He had brown-blonde curls and thin round glasses. He still had that nerdy, orchestral schoolboy appeal. His jaw was sharp, and the tip of his nose was rounded like the curves of his short-heeled Dr. Martens. I liked his navy blue cashmere jumper.

At the time, we were both 18 and angsty. We had met on my school ski trip, as Will’s dad was a teacher at my school (a story for another time). But more importantly, Will had schlepped all the way from his boarding school in the countryside to see me in London. In a few short months, our time in secondary school would be over forever. And there was no telling if and when Will would be back in London again.

I had planned everything around the sites of Piccadilly, close enough to where his father lived to be sure that Will could make it back in time for dinner. It was one of my favourite parts of the city, and yet a sinking feeling was coming over me: I hadn’t planned for us to go anywhere private together. We were still out in the middle of the city, and now our time together was running out.

As we turned down Jermyn Street, I no longer wanted to show him the fancy chandeliers inside the gentlemen’s clubs, or the green silk walls adorned with portraits. I began to care less about the boater shops and blazer shops and top hats and tails shops that I had dreamt about us visiting for weeks. No. I was overwhelmingly disappointed. This day was a complete waste! No tiered tea trays or soon-to-be-eaten scones or cucumber sandwiches could fix that.

Somehow, Will was still in good spirits. Down to St. James Square, he seemed to enjoy reminiscing with me about the dirty deeds we had done on the ski trip. I was hardly listening to what he was saying. His smile was so charming; he was looking so dapper, I scolded myself. The prospect of us having fun together faded evermore into the distance.

There was one last location I had planned to show him, tucked away in the corner of the square. We passed around the black-painted iron gates that surrounded the trees and green grasses of the square. Beyond the parked motorcycles and a set of Boris bikes, we reached the front of the building. The windows were wide and vast and curved at the top. I noticed the grey stone of the Victorian façade was weathered. And yet the whole place felt steeped in magic.

“It’s the largest private lending library in the world,” I said matter-of-factly, vying for Will’s intellectual approval, “It’s got over one million volumes.”

We climbed the worn stone steps and hustled ourselves through two sets of narrow wooden doors. We passed the blue iridescent sign which read “The London Library”. Once inside, a cool air crept over us, chilled with the wisdom of perspiring paper. Will gazed up at the plaster flowers painted over the baby pink ceiling. The entryway was large but peaceful. Librarians and members shuffled between catalogues, computer screens, lockers and books.

I dug in my wallet and retrieved my membership card. I ran it through the  reader. The waist-height glass door quickly sprung open. I muttered to Will,

“It’s one of my favourite places to write—”

“Excuse me, Madam,” came a gruff voice over my shoulder. I turned around.

A round, balding man was staring at me from behind the counter, half-hidden behind the upright computer monitor. He quickly added, “All visitors must be announced in the visitors record book.” He pointed towards a large book that lay open below the window. It was mounted at an angle, as if perched on an altar.

I gritted my teeth. I felt myself sear with embarrassment once more. Yet this time, a slow, menacing fury was building within me.

“Silly me,” I said sarcastically, stomping over to the visitors’ book. The previous entries in it were all but illegible. Will followed silently behind me. As I reached for the scratchy ink pen, the empty lines below the heading seemed to mock me.

Full name. Telephone Number. Address. Time of Arrival. Time of Departure. Signature.

I heard voices taunting me in my ears.

“Only gentlemen are permitted as members of the East India Club!”

“Natasha, pull your skirt down. That is most unladylike!”

“No backpacks allowed in the museum. It’s the rules!”

I scribbled some vague points of Will’s details on the paper.

“Are you okay?” Will asked, noticing that my hand was shaking.

“Fine,” I said, smacking the pen back down on the book.

I looked up at him. Will’s green eyes glinted back at me from behind his glasses. He looked cheeky, hopeful even. Or was that only what I was reading into his smile, followed by his pursed lips?

“Why don’t you show me round the stacks?” Will said. Did he just wink at me?

All of a sudden, I felt a wave of something new growing inside of me. It was a sense of callous, internal control.

“Come on,” I said, taking his hand. As we passed through the barrier, I heard from over my shoulder,

“Visitors are permitted for one hour and must be escorted at all—”

But I didn’t turn back. Will’s fingers were slim and calloused to the touch. I marched him up the stairs, to the end of the last shelves, and up more stairs still. We climbed higher and higher. Passed yellowed rooms of folios lit by reading lamps. Passed The Reading Room where typing wasn’t allowed. Passed The Newspaper Lounge where old men smoked pipes and snored. In the back stacks, the stairs were shallow and made of iron. Books surrounded us on all fronts, covering the walls and peeking through the beams of the floor. There were hundreds of thousands of volumes in Greek, Latin and Olde English, tales and academic research and fact and fiction.

“It’s dark in here,” Will said. I batted his hand away from a small rope dangling from a light bulb. It was only in that moment that it dawned on him. He knew what we were about to do.

At last we reached the back of the 7th floor annex, the section for Heraldry and Parish Registers. All of a sudden, I leant back against a bookshelf and pulled Will over to me. I kissed him, grabbing the thin torso of his jumper. Will kissed me back. His lips were dry to the touch. His cheeks were soft. He grabbed my wrist and pinned it over my head against the bookshelf. Will’s glasses slid down his nose. I felt him smiling as he kissed me. I felt his breath warm against my face in the darkness and deepness of the books.

I wrapped one of my legs around him, groping his back with my foot. He rubbed his pelvis against mine. Will was tall, but not strong enough that he could lift me up completely. Still, I could feel his body panting. He was gearing up. He ran his hands up my tights, underneath my dress, tugging and fumbling at my bra. His fingers cupped my boob. The cold of his hand was a shock. Against the warmth of this sensitive part of my skin, it was enough…

I interviewed Zuzana (Cahojova) Brixová, the Director of Gender Equality for Slovakia, just over a year ago. I feel so lucky to have come across her story; it is one of incredible strength and perseverance.

Here, Zuzana tells us about her experience of domestic violence, and how she overcame an abusive marriage to find her freedom and her voice as a lawyer. She now drives key policies in her country to protect women and children from violence.

As a practicing Catholic, Zuzana also shares her fascinating opinions on how false interpretations of religion can place more value on protecting something (sanctity, virginity or marriage) rather than someone.

Her inspiring story is one of true transformation. I hope you enjoy it!

p.s. For survivors of trauma and abuse, I want to reiterate that overcoming a terrible situation and forging a new, safer life for yourself is more than enough. Post-traumatic growth is mostly a myth, and surviving trauma itself is enough. You are enough.

Read more about Zuzana’s background here.

Love

I Texted Him, “I love you.”

Last night, I texted him, “I love you”. With a small, bubbling hearts emoji. 💕 . I had been reading Dear Sugar by Cheryl Strayed. Something in her words scraped away my blubbered protections. It’s funny how I need to read the words of other people to undo what I’m unwilling to see in myself.

He had never been afraid of pain, or loving me, it seemed. He had never held back from me. He sent me morning texts and evening texts. He listened excitedly as we walked together, the sun setting along tree-lined streets, as I told him about what I’d been up to that day. But I had been too proud. I couldn’t even send him the emoji with the kissing heart. 😘 . Why? What on God’s green earth would I be giving up by being honest?

Then, even worse, I was torn off by the logic of other people when they scoffed in my face,

“He’s just a barista. I knew you’d get bored of him.”

“You can do so much better. Like, why are you even with him again?”

I served excuses, external things, like little teacakes, begging to justify it to everyone who asked.

“He makes me coffee. He makes me cocktails. He takes me out for dinner, sometimes,” I’d say. All along, unwilling to admit to myself that it was the moment when the sunshine beams along a wet, sodden country road. Taking him for granted until I realized that nothing in this life is given. Not even another day. Not even the back of my own hand.

Now I am fighting back with the might of an irrational lover. They don’t see what I see. They don’t know the real person that I am talking to. And I like him. I’m not afraid to admit that. Not right now, to you, anyway. What does it matter to the world if we make love once a week? What is an optimal, societal, b******t man anyway? A suiter like we’re still in times of Regency? A boring one, sitting in his multi-million dollar townhouse, but who doesn’t have enough humanity to ask me,

“How are you feeling?” like he does every day.

Dreams

A Dream That Came to Life

A couple months ago, I had a small and perhaps clichéd dream. I wanted to sell little prints of original poetry, or words and phrases, that people could frame and hang in their bathrooms. I spent a lot of money on the different kinds of paper I might want to use. Finally, eons later, I’m glad to say that this week I was able to see this little dream come to life, with the help of my friend Marko’s typewriter.

I don’t know why I had the vision of the typewriter. Maybe it was the nostalgia for former times that I’ve never lived in. Or maybe it’s because I had visited my grandmother’s storage unit so many times in Los Angeles. And I wanted to write like my grandfather’s letters to Universal, and my great-grandmother’s letters to him.

Well, it all came together. They say you can’t go backwards on a typewriter, kind of like life. With errors included, here’s what I had to say:

What is a small dream you have been stashing away? Waiting to be brought out into the world one day? Let me know in the comments. Perhaps this is the sign you have been waiting for….

Enjoy this reading of my latest piece, "How to Adjust to the Real World After College".

Thank you to my friend Alara Gebes for requesting the article, and Deniz Kecik and Alan Jinich for their feedback.

After a sturdy career in consulting and healthcare, Anu Sharma knew she wanted to make a difference. She just wasn't sure what kind of difference she wanted to make. Yet when she gave birth to her daughter three years ago, nothing could have prepared her for a near-death experience. Anu used her in-depth health knowledge to take herself back to the ER post-partum, effectively saving her own life. 

In this episode, Tash Doherty interviews Anu about her career and the physical danger she experienced in giving birth. We'll also explore how that experience inspired Anu to start Millie, a new healthcare startup dedicated to reimagining patient care for birthing people everywhere. Millie offers digital services, and has recently opened their first clinic in Berkeley, California. 

Misseducated is super excited to be able to support Anu, her team and Millie's work. 

Find out more about Millie: 

https://www.millieclinic.com/

Insta: @millie_clinic

Discover Misseducated:

Insta: @thisismisseducated

https://misseducated.substack.com/

"If I were a man, I would..."

This was a prompt given to me by my writing teacher, Ann Randolph. It sparked one of my most-read pieces on my blog, and helped me discover my narrative voice. Enjoy! 

Read along at tashdoherty.com

A fable for single women who want to find a partner. Disclaimer: you can be single and perfectly happy. 

Read along at tashdoherty.com

In memory of Laura Johnston Kohl, a Jonestown survivor who went on to join another cult, Synanon. 

Cults are a topic I find endlessly fascinating. But I wanted to know: how are cult leaders able to subtly and gradually influence their followers' beliefs over time?

To find out more, I spoke to writer, language scholar and podcast host, Amanda Montell. Amanda's new book, "Cultish", explores the language of cults and the techniques used by all kinds of organizations, including SoulCycle and Instagram, to build stronger in-group affinities. Are they cults or not? Stay tuned to find out.

In this episode, we learn all about Amanda's dad’s experiences growing up in the cult Synanon, the cult of the patriarchy, and why the phrase “boys will be boys” is more insidious and problematic than you’d expect. We also trade stories on how Scientology tried to recruit us. 

Follow for more:

@amanda_montell

@thisismisseducated

Trigger Warning: Rape, sexual assault, violence and sexual violence discussed. 

I recorded this update a couple weeks ago. I've been going back and forth between sharing the true story of what happened to me. So, here is the honest truth. I'm so grateful for your patience, and thank you for coming to my TED talk. 

Why have I not published an episode in 2 months? Well, you're about to find out. Stick around, and I'll be back with longer-form conversations with some amazing, inspiring people soon!

Much love,

Tash