In November of last year, I sent a playful emoji text—a couple of hearts, a bed, an hourglass, and a baby bottle—to a dear friend, excitedly announcing my pregnancy. To my surprise, she interpreted it as a question about her own pregnancy and replied with an enthusiastic “Yes!” It turned out that she too was expecting. At just five and a half weeks into my pregnancy, I couldn’t contain my excitement, despite having experienced a miscarriage the previous year. I thought if anything went wrong again, I could confide in her. But I certainly didn’t expect to face the same heartache.
Alas, history repeated itself. I miscarried, and it felt like a cruel déjà vu. The vivid red blood on the toilet paper, the sharp cramping—it all felt too familiar. The newsletters I received, informing me that my embryo was the size of a poppy seed and that a heartbeat would be detected soon, felt like a mockery. My son, sensing my distress, would gently pat my head and say, “Mama, you’re OK.” But at that stage, all I had was a fragile whisper of hope, not a full-fledged pregnancy to grieve. Still, I couldn’t shake the memory of that solid line on the pregnancy test.
As time went on, I found myself scrolling through social media, where my beautiful friend proudly showcased her growing baby bump. The emotion that bubbled up within me was anything but joy; it was a mixture of envy and self-loathing. I would click “like” on her posts, but the words of happiness felt stuck in my throat. Another friend recently shared the news of her third pregnancy, and I couldn’t bring myself to congratulate her. I truly wish no harm to their growing families, yet my heart feels heavy, as if my good intentions are lost in a frozen void.
I can’t help but notice young mothers with their children, the contempt I feel almost palpable. I have a son—an incredible six-year-old—and I know how fortunate I am. On good days, I cherish the simplicity of my family; on bad days, I am overwhelmed by a sense of inadequacy. My son, who has been diagnosed with autism, becomes a focal point of my frustrations. My husband, a fantastic father and partner, becomes the man who I blame for my inability to have a second child. I lash out at everything, yearning for something that feels just out of reach.
The longing for more children consumes me. I envision my ovaries as pomegranates, their seeds dwindling as time passes. I even find myself wishing for one of those unwanted babies in the news—gone before I even hear their stories. I’ve seen women crafting lifelike baby dolls as a way to cope with their losses, and I wonder how far down this rabbit hole of despair I can go and whether I can ever emerge.
Confronted with my feelings of inadequacy, I recall a conversation with a poet. I shared my struggles with infertility and how my son is finally becoming a more tangible part of my life. She offered a perspective: “We get what we get,” and I added, “and we don’t get upset.” But when I learned she had lost her son, the weight of my own words hit me hard.
I have never envied anyone their possessions or talents, but the desire for a second child—especially as friends younger than me continue to expand their families—fills me with bitterness. When I see young women at the grocery store with multiple children, I can’t help but think, “Why should my tax dollars support your growing family?” Infertility, especially age-related, has transformed me into a person I hardly recognize.
There are certainly women who would envy my life because of my son, and I remember the overwhelming joy I felt when he first latched on to me. The emotions tied to motherhood can be both painful and beautiful. A family member once shared how his wife felt towards friends announcing pregnancies during their struggles; the bitterness is real when you desire what others have in abundance. I can imagine that when I announced my pregnancy—the one that resulted in my son—someone out there whispered, “How nice for her.”
So, what if I admit that I’m still trying? Acknowledging the darkness within me might be the first step toward healing. I’ve sought therapy, yet often found it unhelpful. Throwing myself into writing has been my refuge, and I’ve attempted to practice gratitude. Antidepressants have dulled the sharp edges of my sadness, but I wonder if my heart can ever regain its sweetness.
This isn’t the person I want to be. I strive to embrace the hope that still flickers within me, even as I confront the limitations of my circumstances.
For those navigating similar paths, I encourage you to explore resources like this one on IVF for further insights into fertility options. If you’re looking for tools to assist on your journey, check out this reputable retailer that provides at-home insemination kits.
Ultimately, I am learning to accept my journey, as painful as it may be, and I hope to find peace along the way.
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