FOOD WRITER SEETAL SAVLA DISCUSSES HER EMOTIONAL IVF JOURNEY
by MITA MISTRY
THE Covid-19 lockdown is having a detrimental effect on lives globally, but for many couples trying for a child it is a devastating time because fertility treatments have been indefinitely postponed and some feel they are running out of time.
As each day of lockdown progresses they feel like their chances of having a biological child are shrinking and it’s particularly terrifying for women who feel like their egg reserves are dwindling.
British Asian food writer Seetal Savla has been married for 11 years to her husband Neil and after suffering an early miscarriage from a biological pregnancy, has been trying for a baby for over four years. She has gone through three unsuccessful IVF cycles and a fourth has been interrupted due to the Covid-19 lockdown. The struggle has been made harder by an out dated cultural legacy that looks down on a woman who can’t conceive.
Eastern Eye caught up with Savla to talk about her deeply emotional IVF journey, key advice for infertile couples and her future hopes.
Please tell us about your fertility journey?
My husband and I suffered an early miscarriage from a natural pregnancy in 2016-2017. Until then, he’d expressed a stronger desire to become a parent than I had, but this devastating loss was my catalyst to be proactive. It was a wakeup call for two reasons: we’d been married for eight years and this was our sole pregnancy, plus it made me realise how much I wanted children. Amid all the pressure to procreate, I’d suppressed my feelings, which had finally surfaced. We sought fertility treatment shortly afterwards, through the NHS and then private clinics. However, our fourth cycle has been postponed indefinitely due to Covid-19, which is frustrating.
How does it feel going through a cycle of IVF?
It depends on the clinic, your protocol, the medications and your reaction to them, whether you’re working, among others. During my first cycle, I felt overwhelmed. In hindsight, it was a breeze compared to the private clinic we chose for our second and third rounds. It was information and medication overload, which hit me so hard one day that I ended up in tears in the nurse’s office. On any given day, I flitted between anger that we had to undergo IVF, gratitude that we could afford it, shame, guilt and hatred towards my dysfunctional body, muted excitement about a positive outcome and fear of another failure.
How did it affect your daily life?
The NHS cycle was so light that I continued to work and socialise. For the private rounds, it was a full-time job doing daily blood tests and scans, taking five to six different injections, plus pills and pessaries, at specific times throughout the day; it took over my life. By this time, I had changed jobs and did what I could around appointments until I was laid off for business reasons. Although being unemployed was a shock, the silver lining was that I had the headspace and time to fully focus on my relentless IVF schedule.
What is the hardest part of dealing with IVF/infertility?
Undergoing IVF is like being on a never-ending rollercoaster ride: you are up and down emotionally. Each cycle is testing in different ways, with the toughest challenges being recovering from the heartbreak of yet another failed round and trying to remain hopeful when that final phone call only ever brings bad news. It hurts even more when the treatment overshadows your special occasions, such as our 10th anniversary, which was spent in blustery Brighton instead of beautiful Bali.
How did your family and friends help?
We told our immediate families and close friends from the outset, all of whom were supportive. That said, we didn’t divulge how traumatic the experience was, so they were taken aback when they read my first blog post revealing what went on behind closed doors. Having my sister, best friend and mother-in-law accompany me during certain clinic visits was also comforting. Furthermore, discovering the TTC community (Trying To Conceive) via Instagram was a lifeline as they instantly understood my hopes, fears and heartache.
Did you get community support?
Our extended families have been a great source of support. By checking in with us to see how we’re coping, rooting for us and sending heartfelt messages after unsuccessful cycles, they’ve given us considerable strength to keep going when we were close to giving up. It can be extremely difficult to know what to say to someone when their pain is so raw, but some people are naturally empathic and their words have soothed me.
Did you seek any other professional help?
I started therapy after our third cycle. I sometimes find it easier to talk to strangers about my struggles. Therapists only have the backstory you share; they’re not personally invested in you, so they won’t try to fix your problems with platitudes or fertility success stories. You get a neutral perspective and don’t feel guilty for constantly talking about yourself as you’re paying them to listen. With family and friends, you’re conscious that you’re offloading on them, you don’t want to worry them and they have their own issues.
What advice would you give someone going through IVF and infertility?
I recommend starting with the HFEA website (Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority), which offers plenty of information about fertility treatments, funding, egg, sperm or embryo donation and UK clinics. Speaking of clinics, don’t feel obliged to stick to the same one – it’s okay to move if your original choice no longer works. Similarly, shop around when buying meds as prices vary (supermarket pharmacies are often the cheapest). Also, injecting yourself won’t be as bad as you imagine (unless you’re prescribed intramuscular injections). Lastly, there are many online and offline support networks, so please don’t suffer in silence.
In what ways could all those women going through IVF/infertility be better supported?
A one-size-fits-all solution is impossible because we’re all different. For me, being advised to ‘just relax’ or ‘stay strong and be positive’ is irritating as these words fail to acknowledge my inner turmoil. Instead of platitudes or pity, something like, ‘I’m sorry, this is s**t and I’m thinking of you’ works well. Ask how they are, just listen and don’t advise.
What would you say are your hopes for the future?
To have a happy and healthy baby. It’s hard to make plans given the uncertainty around Covid-19, but a baby would be miraculous. While I admire the determination of those who won’t quit until they achieve their goal, reaching double digits for cycles, we couldn’t continue without an end date. Being on the IVF treadmill is physically, mentally, emotionally and financially draining. If success eludes us, we will explore alternatives, starting with anonymous donor eggs. However, we do not want infertility to define us and some of us are ready to call time sooner than others.
Jay's grandma’s popcorn from Gujarat is now selling out everywhere.
Ditched the influencer route and began posting hilarious videos online.
Available in Sweet Chai and Spicy Masala, all vegan and gluten-free
Jayspent 18 months on a list. Thousands of names. Influencers with follower counts that looked like phone numbers. He was going to launch his grandmother's popcorn the right way: send free bags, wait for posts, pray for traction. That's the playbook, right? That's what you do when you're a nobody selling something nobody asked for.
Then one interaction made him snap. The entitlement. The self-importance. The way some food blogger treated his family's recipe like a favour they were doing him. He looked at his spreadsheet. Closed it. Picked up his phone and decided to burn it all down.
Now he makes videos mocking the same people he was going to beg for help. Influencers weeping over the wrong luxury car. Creators demanding payment for chewing food on camera. Someone having a breakdown about ice cubes. And guess what? The internet ate it up. His popcorn keeps selling out. And from Gujarat, his grandmother's 60-year-old recipe is now moving units because her grandson got mad enough to be funny about it.
Jay’s grandma’s popcorn from Gujarat is now selling out everywhere Instagram/daadisnacks
The kitchen story
Daadi means grandmother in Hindi. Jay's daadi came to America from Gujarat decades ago. Every weekend, she made popcorn with the spices she grew up with, including cardamom, cinnamon, and chilli mixes. It was her way of keeping home close while living somewhere that didn't taste like it.
Jay wanted that in stores. Wanted brown faces in the snack aisle. It didn’t happen overnight. It took a couple of years to get from a family recipe to something they could actually sell. Everyone pitched in, including his grandmom, uncle, mum. The spices come from small local farmers. There are just two flavours for now, Sweet Chai and Spicy Masala. It’s all vegan and gluten-free, packed in bright bags that instantly feel South Asian.
The videos don't look like marketing. They look like someone venting at 11 PM after scrolling too long. He nails the nasal influencer voice. The fake sympathy. “I can’t believe this,” he says in that exaggerated influencer tone, “they gave me the cheaper car, only eighty grand instead of one-twenty.” That clip alone blew up, pulling in close to nine million views.
Most people don't know they're watching a snack brand. They think it's social commentary. Jay never calls himself an influencer. He says he’s a creator, period. There’s a difference, and he makes sure people know it. His TikTok has around three hundred thousand followers, Instagram about half that. The comments read like a sigh of relief, people fed up with fake polish, finally hearing someone say what everyone else was thinking.
This fits into something called deinfluencing; people pushing back against the buy-everything-trust-nobody cycle. But Jay's version has teeth. He's naming names, calling out the economics. Big venture money flows to chains with good lighting. Family businesses with actual stories get ignored because their content isn't slick enough.
Jay watched his New York neighbourhood change. Chains moved in. Influencers posted about places that had funding and were aesthetic. The old spots, the family ones, got left behind. His videos are about that gap. The erosion of local culture by money and aesthetics.
"Big chains and VC-funded businesses are promoted at the expense of local ones," he said. His content doesn't just roast influencers. It promotes other small food makers who can't afford to play the game. He positions Daadi as a defender of something real against something plastic.
And it's working. Not just philosophically. Financially. The videos drive traffic. People click through, try the popcorn, come back. The company can't keep stock. That's the proof.
Daadi popcorn features authentic Gujarat flavours like Sweet Chai and Spicy Masala, all vegan and gluten-free Daadi Snacks
The blowback
People unfollow because they think he's too harsh. Jay's take: "I would argue I need to be meaner."
In May, he posted that he's not chasing content creation money like most people at his follower count. "I post to speak my mind and help my family's snack biz." That's a different model. Most brands pay influencers to make everything look perfect. They chase viral polish, and Jay does the opposite. In fact, he weaponises rawness and treats criticism like a product feature.
The internet mostly backs him. Reddit threads light up with support. One commenter was "toxic influencers choking on their matcha lattes searching their Balenciaga bags." Another: "Influencers are boring and unoriginal and can get bent." The anger is shared. Jay simply gave it a microphone and a snack to buy.
Jay's success says something about where things are going. People are done with curated perfection. They can smell the artificiality now. They respond to brands that feel like humans rather than committees. Daadi doesn't sell aspiration. Doesn't sell a lifestyle. Sells popcorn and a point of view.
The quality matters, including the spices, the sourcing, and the family behind it. But the edge matters too. He’s not afraid to say what most brands tiptoe around. “We just show who we are,” Jay says. “No pretending, no gloss. People can feel that and that’s when they reach for the popcorn.”
Most small businesses can't afford to play the traditional game. Can't pay influencers. Can't hire agencies. Can't fake their way into feeds. Maybe they don't need to. Maybe honesty and humour can cut through if they're sharp enough. If the product backs it up. If the story is real and the person telling it isn't trying to sound like a PR script.
This started with a list Jay didn't use. The business took off the moment he stopped trying to play by the usual rules and started speaking his mind. Turns out, honesty sells. And yes, the popcorn really does taste good.
Daadi Snacks merch dropInstagram/daadisnacks
The question is whether this scales. Whether other small businesses watch this and realise they don't need to beg for attention from people who don't care. Right now, Daadi keeps selling out. People keep watching. The grandmother's recipe that was supposed to need influencer approval is doing fine without it. Better than fine. Turns out the most effective marketing strategy might just be giving a damn and not being afraid to show it.
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