The companion app for IVF and fertility journeys — clinical-grade cycle tracking and the emotional support to carry you through it. In one place.
When you're in stim, or counting down to a beta, or sitting in the after — you need both. Numbers that mean something. And someone who gets that today's hCG isn't just a number. Most apps pick one side. Vela was built for the whole of it.
Built around the rhythms of an IVF or fertility cycle — from baseline to beta, and everything in between.
Log hormones, scans, follicle counts, and meds with the precision your clinic uses. See your trends across cycles, side by side.
Daily reflections that meet you where you are — whether it's anticipatory grief, cautious hope, or just exhausted. No toxic positivity.
Share read-only access with your partner so they can see what you're carrying. Talk to Vela's AI between appointments when you need a steady voice.
The honest version — how I got here, what broke me, and what I wish I'd had on day one.
I married my husband at 36. I hadn't always known I wanted children — earlier relationships had been unstable, and when I met him at 29, we wanted time to actually know each other before we built a family. I wasn't behind. I was being careful.
Growing up Asian, I'd carried weight pressure my whole life. In the lead-up to our wedding I took it seriously — a personal trainer, eating clean, the whole thing. I lost about 15% of my body weight. And my period stopped.
That's how it began. Trying to conceive, trying to be healthy, trying to be mentally strong — all at once, all in the same body.
Since then I've sat across from a lot of specialists. I've learned how it feels to be stuck, overwhelmed, and just need a companion to get through the next appointment. Because here's the thing nobody tells you: when you're on this journey, the doctors only call you. Not your partner. It's your body. That's not unfair — it's just the reality. But it means you carry the weight of every number, every result, every "we'll know more next cycle" alone.
Sitting in the recovery room after my egg retrieval. Overhearing the woman next to me say she had 30 eggs. I had 9. And I sat there wondering how I compared to everyone else in that room — and whether I should be telling anyone that number at all.
My husband wanted to be involved. He really did. But he didn't know how. I'd send him appointment times and he'd lose them in his calendar. I'd try to brief him before scans and forget half of what the nurse had said the week before. I started writing everything down in the doctor's office and asking ChatGPT about it later — because I wanted to understand my own data. How was I doing compared to last appointment? Compared to last cycle? Was the new vitamin protocol actually doing anything, or was I just hoping?
I couldn't answer any of it. The data lived in clinic portals I couldn't easily access, in nurses' verbal asides I half-remembered, in my own scribbled notes.
My third IVF cycle. I was told there were no fertilised embryos. No call from the doctor. No next step. Just silence. I found another clinic, did the interviews — and when I went to transfer my records, I was told I'd have to pay per person for my own cycle data. "Administration costs."
That was the moment I stopped waiting for someone else to build this. My own body's history, sitting behind a paywall, in a format I couldn't query, in a system that had already let me down — that wasn't a software problem. It was a dignity problem.
So I built Vela. Every part of it comes from somewhere specific. The cycle-over-cycle comparison is because I needed to know if the new protocol was working. The partner access is because my husband wanted in and didn't know how. The emotional check-ins are because the 9-vs-30 moment doesn't show up on a hormone chart, but it still happened to me. The plain-English cycle analyses are because I shouldn't have had to paste my own bloodwork into ChatGPT to understand what my doctor just told me.
I'm still on this journey. Vela isn't a finished thing — it's the companion I'm building as I go. If any of this sounds like something you've lived, I hope you'll try it. And I hope it helps.
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