At 33, I found myself facing an unexpected pregnancy that led to a serious conversation with my partner about the future of our relationship. We hadn’t planned for this surprise, but our love and commitment made us say, “Why not?” Unfortunately, that journey took a heartbreaking turn with a miscarriage. Not long after, I was pregnant again, only to experience another loss. It became clear that carrying a pregnancy to term might be a challenge for me, so we dove headfirst into trying for a child.
Month after month, I bought pregnancy tests, often testing way too early, convincing myself that this time would be different. Yet, time and again, I faced disappointment. After a couple of years, we finally got a pregnancy that seemed to stick. Just a day before my 12-week ultrasound—the traditional moment for announcing a pregnancy—I started bleeding heavily and was rushed to the ER. Another miscarriage.
During this time, I was active on message boards, connecting with others in similar situations. There’s a unique bond formed in those anonymous spaces when you’re all navigating the waters of trying for that first pregnancy. But then I found myself out of the loop as I faced loss after loss. I made the toxic choice to stay on the pregnancy board, silently observing the women who continued their journeys without me.
I’m not proud to admit that I began to feel anger towards them. Every complaint or concern they expressed felt trivial to me. How could they complain when they were blessed with what I so desperately wanted? I had no empathy left to extend, and truthfully, I shouldn’t have remained in that space.
Seeing mothers with multiple children made my blood boil. Four kids? And I can’t even have one? I cursed Mother Nature in my mind. Every new pregnancy announcement felt like a personal jab, as if there was a finite number of pregnancies out there, and each announcement diminished my own chances. The utter helplessness surrounding something so important to me filled me with jealousy, resentment, and bitterness.
Five years after that initial miscarriage, I finally welcomed a healthy baby boy into the world. A year later, I started writing about parenthood. Over the years, as I engaged with various parenting sites, I often encountered reflections of my former self—women who seemed to be stuck in a cycle of comparing struggles. They were playing the suffering olympics, competing over who had it worse or reminding others of their blessings, as if that should erase the pain of longing.
I see you, dear reader, who is trying so hard to keep it together, yet the pain spills onto the page. I understand. Not everyone’s infertility journey ends in a joyful resolution, but remember: someone else’s pregnancy does not take away your chances of having one.
I didn’t realize how infertility was changing me while I was in the midst of it, but looking back, I can see how it turned me into a mean girl. It’s a hard truth, but we often build walls during tough times. Mine was constructed from judgment, jealousy, and anger.
Feel free to experience those emotions—sadness, frustration, and despair are all valid. However, don’t let your infertility struggle morph you into someone you don’t want to be. If you want to learn more about home insemination, check out this informative post on intracervical insemination. And if you’re looking for a reliable source on fertility, Medical News Today offers excellent resources. Plus, for those considering self-insemination, visit Make a Mom for a comprehensive guide.
In summary, navigating infertility can bring out the worst in us, but it’s crucial to recognize those feelings without letting them define us. Seek support, embrace your emotions, and remember that every journey is unique.