I have not publicly shared a lot about my experience with infertility and how it has impacted my personal and professional life. It is one of the greatest challenges I have experienced, and it is still very much a prominent source of heartache in my life today.

After years of trying to get pregnant, I have spent a lot of time suffocating in very heavy personal isolation and grief. Until recently, it felt like I was the only one not having children. When people would ask me if I want to have kids, I would dig deep inside my body and respond with a casual, “yes, one day.” But that question was torture. Once I started to cautiously share my truth with a few close friends and confidants, through these conversations I found resources to help me process the grief and depression I was experiencing. I was surprised to learn how many others were going through what I was going through. Today, I have many people in my community who I can talk to. People who send me sweet messages on Mother’s Day and people who say, me too. I’m sad I’m not a mother yet but I am hopeful, and I feel seen.

I’ve been writing this for a year. When we’re going to share something important, we want to do it in the perfect way at the perfect time. Then one day we wake up and intuition says, now is the time and perfect is not what we’re doing here. I hold my experience with infertility close because, it belongs to me. It is not possible for anyone to truly understand what this is like unless you have experienced it yourself. And even then, my journey is not going to be the same as your journey. I have very clear intentions about why I am sharing the greatest challenge of my life, and that is hope it will help someone who is silently suffering. For years I was silently suffering too, and it was a very dark time.

I want to preface this story by specifying that it is about my personal experience. But the impact on my husband and us as a unit in our marriage has been significant, heavy and hard. This is a journey that is equally difficult for couples but in very different ways. What’s going to weigh heavy for some of you reading this is fear that you were insensitive with me over the years. By asking questions like, “do you want kids?”, “when are you going to have children?” or, “when are the babies coming?”. That is not why we’re here, so let that go. But I ask that you to listen to understand why these questions are torture. And why they trigger our isolation, grief and trauma.

Five years, three fertility clinics, two naturopaths and one Chinese medicine doctor later, still no baby and no explanation why. Our diagnosis is inconclusive, and the challenge with inconclusive infertility is that you are not provided with answers or a specific problem to solve. I live with a mental narrative and that is fear I am causing the problem in some way. Or there is something wrong with my body that doctors have yet to discover (and a little resentment they aren’t looking close enough). The positive side to inconclusive infertility is, hope. Hope that by cultivating a healthier and happier lifestyle and doing “all the right things” the baby will come when it is our time. I mostly focus on hope, but as all of this is very confusing, my soul often feels like a ping pong ball bouncing back and forth between keeping positive and feeling sad.

I remember leaving work in the middle of the day for our first consultation with a fertility doctor. We had been waiting months for this appointment. I was excited (and nervous) about getting started. I wasn’t sure what to expect because at the time I didn’t know about anyone else going through this. We sat in a big fancy white office with a doctor we just met who rapidly read questions off of a computer. The environment felt intrusive and intimidating to me as we were asked generic yet very intimate details about our bodies, sex life and lifestyle. I felt extremely uncomfortable sharing these personal details with a stranger, but hey, whatever it takes. Next I learned that in order to proceed we would be making quite the investment (financially and otherwise) in blood work that day. For the sake of context, fertility related blood work is so intense that they give you a juice box before laying you down while they do it because the chances of fainting are pretty good.

How can this thing that feels so heavy to me, seem so insignificant to you?

There is nothing comfortable about this process. There is a physical discomfort, and the financial commitment can generate significant stress and even become a barrier to treatment. In my experience, empathy, compassion and support are very much absent within these facilities. It all feels too clinical. But there is absolutely nothing you won’t do for your baby. I left that first appointment feeling violated, confused, small and somehow completely disconnected from my husband. And for that, I was pissed. We went home and agreed this was not the doctor for us, and we would look to find someone who we felt more comfortable with. Fast forward a few years. Once you become seasoned with this process, eventually you learn to accept the unemotional and institutional environment. We’ve been to three now, and they’re all pretty much the same. I often wonder, do they do it on purpose to subside heightened emotion? I don’t know anything more vulnerable than going through this. How can this thing that feels so heavy to me, seem so insignificant to you? If I owned a fertility clinic, I would fill it with puppies and mandatory hugs. But hey, what do I know. Perhaps there’s a reason the environment is designed in this way.

As the person who is going to carry our baby, there is a lot required of my body. Daily appointments, monitoring, blood work, acupuncture, invasive ultrasounds, medications, injections, disgusting tea and uncomfortable procedures. I remember the first time my husband had to give me a needle at home. As he pinched the skin on my tummy, he looked up at me with tears in his eyes and said, I do not want to be doing this to my wife. Broke my heart.

There have been many times I was sure I was pregnant. But when the test comes back negative it’s hard to feel sure about anything anymore. This experience has caused me to feel completely disconnected from my body. What is the miracle of life for others, has become what feels like a business transaction for me. I am still working on re-connecting with my body today.

This all became very challenging for me to manage given the demands of my job. Mental health aside, the inside of my arms were constantly bruised and swollen from all the needles. Sometimes if I forgot to wear a long sleeve shirt, I’d catch a glimpse of my team members looking at my arms. It was so embarrassing, mortifying actually. I’m supposed to be their leader. What were they thinking? And with so many appointments, I was constantly anxious that my team, clients and leaders were suspicious about me. I didn’t want them to think that I was slacking off, shady or just completely aloof. When you are silently suffering, you can’t tell your staff or boss you have an appointment at the fertility clinic. I actually tried a couple of times, but the words would not come out of my mouth. My stress at work was fueling my stress of not getting pregnant, and that cycle became very unhealthy. The opposite of what you want when you’re trying to conceive.

Stress is one of the leading causes as to why women don’t get pregnant. By process of elimination and lack of answers, I started to believe that the stress of my job was the reason this wasn’t happening, and I was convinced that I was the problem (insert: guilt). Inconclusive infertility means that both partners feel extreme guilt that they are the reason their spouse isn’t a parent yet. You tell yourself; it’s my fault that you are suffering, I have taken the thing you want most away from you. That feeling sucks. But it is important to remain strong for each other, even when it all feels impossible. My stress was a driving force that lead my husband and I to collectively decide that it was time for me to walk away from the sunshine list and take a break. Because everywhere I turned it was constant pressure, pressure, pressure. I had to stop everything. No more fertility clinics, no more meds, no more toxic work environments. The state of my mental health was at an all-time risky high. This was almost two years ago and I’m still not sure if I will ever have the heart to go back to a clinic. It’s not for everyone, and that’s okay.

Socially, things change too. Some friends don’t understand why you don’t want to go out and party anymore. Instead of telling them you’re ovulating you lie and find excuses. Eventually it seems easier to isolate yourself from others because you’re just so tired of answering questions. Infertility is an all-encompassing experience that consumes your entire mental and physical being. We don’t feel like celebrating most of the time. Holidays and birthdays bring tears, they are triggers for us. And I can see that people in my life are nervous to tell me when they’re pregnant. I hate that. But it is what it is and although I am genuinely happy for my people when they get to become parents, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting.

The isolation as a result of infertility is a type of loneliness that no one should have to endure by themselves. You are not alone. I know your struggle and your heartache.

Photography by Goldie Creative Co. (by Carina Noyes)

About a year ago, I started writing letters to my baby. It helps me stay hopeful and it’s a way to connect with my maternal feelings. Because sometimes this experience can rob you of that. It is not possible to express in words the impact infertility has on a person’s mind, body and spirit. It is soul destroying. We experience infertility cycles with high-highs and low-lows. Month after month, cycle after cycle, treatment after treatment, the losses compound and the grief intensifies. Aside from dealing with societal expectations, the medications stimulate our hormones, negative results deepen shame and hopelessness, and when humans experience lack of hope those feelings spiral into the darkest of places. I was really angry for a long time. Once I recognized that I was grieving and allowed myself the space to process those feelings, acceptance followed. No one really talks about this part and I think it’s because most of us don’t feel worthy of grief. Acceptance has taught me how to love myself, deeply, as I am. And I believe that will make me an even better mother someday.

Planning for our family has dictated so many life choices. It’s hard to make plans. My husband and I carefully assembled our lives to be conducive to having a family when we got married. But every year that goes by and the baby doesn’t come, we find ourselves adjusting our lifestyle to suit our current situation rather than attempt to control a future that is not our actual reality (yet). I have never felt closer to my husband. As a unit, we acknowledge, accept and trust our journey, and we know having children is in our future. In the meantime, we have each other and we feel extremely grateful for all of our blessings.

I never share things that are vulnerable to me looking for a response. I love writing, and I’ve learned that my healing is in the sharing. I hope that by showing up in this way I can inspire others to do the same. I chose to share this experience because the isolation as a result of infertility is a type of loneliness that no one should have to endure by themselves. You are not alone, and you do not have to hide your disappointment. I see you. I know your struggle and your heartache. Once I started talking about this, I learned there were others and the pressure began to lift ever so slightly. Today, I never give up hope that becoming a mother is in the cards for me, neither should you. If infertility is not the greatest challenge of your life, give yourself permission to share whatever is. You will always discover you are not alone. That will ease your burden, you will find comfort and become free. If for nothing else, let this be a reminder we are all silently suffering in our own forms of grief. We must hold space for each other and advocate for more empathy and togetherness. That’s what we are all really seeking.

I really appreciate the space and the kindness so many people have, and continue to hold for me throughout this experience. To my husband. Gian, I love our life together. Being your wife has been the greatest gift of my life. You are my rock.

1 in 6 couples are experiencing infertility.

20% of women face fertility related challenges.

Avoid Saying These Things to Someone Who Is Dealing with Infertility Issues

You can always do IVF.

Just adopt.

Trust me, you're lucky you don't have kids.

You need to relax.

Whatever is meant to be will be.

You're so young you still have lots of time.

There are worse things that could happen.

Instead, try this

Let your friend lead the conversation. Be there to listen.

Check-in often. We don’t like to be the ones to bring it up.

Say: I'm sorry. It's not fair.

Say: I'm sorry. I love you.

Simply ask how they are doing.

Say: I know you're hurting; I'm hurting with you.

Say: Sorry you're dealing with this.

If you know someone going through a similar experience, offer to connect them.

The Fertility Blog