In November of last year, I excitedly shared a playful emoji story with a close friend, celebrating the news of my pregnancy—two hearts, a bed, an hourglass, and a baby bottle. To my surprise, she interpreted it as a query about her own pregnancy and responded with an enthusiastic “Yes!” It turned out she was also expecting. At just five and a half weeks along, I felt an overwhelming urge to share my news, especially after experiencing a miscarriage the previous year. I believed that if tragedy struck again, this friend would be someone with whom I could share my grief. However, I was optimistic that history would not repeat itself. She was eight and a half weeks into her pregnancy and several years younger than me.
You can probably guess what happened next.
I miscarried again. The experience was hauntingly familiar—the same vivid red blood on the toilet paper, the same intense cramping, and the same notifications from online newsletters explaining that the embryo was the size of a poppy seed and would have developed a heartbeat soon. My son, noticing my tears, would gently pat my head and say, “Mama, you’re OK.” At such an early stage, an embryo is merely a flicker of possibility. Yet, the solid line on the pregnancy test had represented something real. In the following days, I found myself scrolling through social media, looking at pictures of my friend with her growing baby bump, and instead of joy, I felt a profound sense of self-disgust. While I could muster a “like,” I struggled to express genuine happiness. Jealousy, after all, is an ugly emotion.
Another friend recently shared the news of her third pregnancy in an email. I couldn’t bring myself to reply with congratulations. I wanted to feel joy for her, to envision her family filled with happiness, but my heart felt cold and distant. When acquaintances announce pregnancies online, my first thought often turns sour: “How lovely for you.” Even during routine walks home from school with my son, seeing young mothers with their growing families filled me with contempt.
I do have a son, and I’m incredibly fortunate to have him. I am aware of this blessing. My husband is a wonderful partner, and our six-year-old is a remarkable child. On good days, I appreciate the simplicity of our family; on difficult days, I feel an overwhelming sense of loss. My son, a vibrant individual, is also labeled as autistic, which sometimes complicates my feelings. My husband, who excels in every role, has not been able to help me achieve my dream of a second child during the last two years of my fertility. When I dwell on my situation, self-pity ensues. I find myself lamenting that I never want to hold a baby again if I have to give it back, all the while wiping tears away as I drive to work.
The struggle consumes me. I visualize my ovaries as pomegranates that have shed their seeds too soon, leaving me with only a few withered remnants. I ponder why no one offers unwanted babies from news stories of loss. I remember seeing women who craft dolls that resemble perfect newborns, a hobby stemming from their own experiences of miscarriage and childlessness. I wonder how deeply I can plunge into this sadness and if there is a way back.
I often spiral into thoughts of what-ifs. I met a poet once whose loft overlooked a beautiful view, and as Bryan Ferry played in the background, I shared my story with her. I talked about my son and our unsuccessful attempts for a second child. Her words, “We get what we get,” resonated with me, but they also stung. When I asked if she had children, she revealed that she had lost her son. An unspoken weight settled in the conversation, leaving me feeling both guilty and afraid.
I have never envied others for their material possessions or talents, but I longed for another child. Meanwhile, my younger friends continue to expand their families. Witnessing young mothers at the grocery store use WIC vouchers while pushing strollers often fills me with resentment. My thoughts turn bitter when I see women complaining about their large families: “Maybe you shouldn’t have had so many kids.” Age-related infertility has turned me into someone I hardly recognize.
Certainly, some women would view my situation with envy, given that I have a son. I remember the intense joy of holding him for the first time, feeling as though he completed me. I’ve stored his first outfit in a Ziploc bag, a reminder of the sweetness of motherhood. A relative shared how his wife felt rage toward friends announcing pregnancies during their own struggles with infertility. When we face the absence of what we desire most, seeing others revel in their good fortune can be painfully bitter. I can only imagine that when I announced my pregnancy, someone might have thought, “How lovely for her.”
What if I openly shared my struggles? Acknowledging the darkness I feel could be the first step toward healing. I’ve sought therapy, but often felt stuck in cliché responses. I’ve thrown myself into my writing, repeating mantras of gratitude in hopes of finding solace. Antidepressants have lessened my tears but left me questioning whether my inner sweetness can ever return or if I’m destined for a new, sour perspective on life.
This is not my true self, nor is it who I wish to become.
For more information on fertility and home insemination, including valuable resources, check out this excellent article on pregnancy and home insemination from the World Health Organization. Additionally, for those interested in home insemination tools, you can explore this authority on the topic.
In summary, the journey through infertility can lead to complex emotions, including jealousy and self-disgust, as one navigates the experiences of friends and family. While the longing for another child remains, it is essential to confront these feelings and seek healing through various avenues.