The Quiet Ache of Infertility

And the journey to find healing after pregnancy loss

I felt the tears welling up in my eyes the second I read the text, “we’re pregnant again.” And then the immediate guilt rushed in as I hung my head and thought, why can’t I just be happy for them?

The truth is, I am happy for them. I want this for them. But after two and a half years of wanting the same for us yet getting month after month of nothing but heartbreak, it hurts. The thought of watching my sister-in-law’s belly grow and welcoming another baby into the family as I silently long for my own sometimes just feels like too much.

This time last summer, we thought the heartbreak was over when I finally held a positive pregnancy test in my hands. I had 10 weeks of dreaming about who this little life inside of me would become before I read the two most heartbreaking words I think I’ve ever seen on the ultrasound report: fetal demise. In an instant, my heart shattered.

I had no idea it was possible to feel such deep love for a baby I never met or that the grieving process for that brief little life would wreck me the way it did. The months that followed my miscarriage were some of the hardest months of my life. I think back and thank God for my husband and my family and my friends that somehow managed to keep me from completely drowning in my grief.

“At least you know you can get pregnant!” and “I’m sure you’ll be telling us you’re pregnant again in no time” were words I heard over and over; people’s feeble attempts to turn my pain around a bit and give me some hope. It’s been almost exactly a year now since we found out our baby had gone to heaven and I have yet to hold another positive pregnancy test in my hands.

Meanwhile I watch my friends and family members raising their babies, joining them for dates with their little ones, smiling the whole time and then crying the entire drive home as my heart silently breaks for the life and child I so desperately wish I had. I hold onto the tiniest bit of hope that I will get pregnant again, but with each passing month I feel myself becoming a little more jaded.

Where do we go from here? I ask myself often. How long do I keep holding on to that little glimmer of hope? I don’t know the answer to that question. I wish I did. What I do know is that I’ve made the difficult decision not to pursue IVF. We were getting ready to sign the paperwork for it right before we got pregnant last year. But now, something inside of me says it’s not the right choice.

I am just too exhausted. My body and soul have been through so much medical trauma the past 20 years. And the way my body and brain reacted to the changing hormones of my miscarriage last year scares me a little too much. I experienced the most intense anxiety and depression of my life after we lost the baby. I know IVF involves a great deal of fluctuating hormones. And a lot more medical trauma.

When people say, “oh just do IVF” they really have no clue what it involves. With how sensitive my body is to hormonal changes I’m just not in a place to put myself through that. If it guaranteed a baby in the end, I would do it in a heartbeat. But it doesn’t. Many people go through multiple rounds of IVF and never end up with a child. I honestly think that might break me, and I’m just not willing to find out. Some people may not understand this decision but I’m at peace with it.

So back to the question, where do we go from here? We’re certainly not getting any younger. One thing I promised myself a few months ago was that I would no longer let myself be consumed by the ache and struggle of infertility. No more obsessing over my cycles and constantly testing hormone levels, no more letting yet another negative pregnancy test wreck me each month. Infertility really can take over your life and I’m determined to not live that way anymore.

So I’m trying to hold things a little more loosely. I’m not completely giving up hope that I might get pregnant again. If it happens, I would be over the moon, but if it doesn’t, I know my life is not over. I’m trying to really lean into all the benefits of a childfree life right now. My husband and I have such a wonderful relationship and I don’t know that it would be quite as strong if we had a little one running around. So I’m pouring into that.

And I’m pouring myself into my writing and creative pursuits, focusing on my book and the way my words have healed me and helped others on their healing journeys. We’re taking a long vacation to Maine because we can and I’m savoring my slow mornings and ability to rest whenever my body needs it. With my health challenges, sometimes I wonder if a childfree life really is the best thing for me. I’m truly able to listen to my body and care for my soul these days.

Some days I feel at peace with my childfree life. And then other days my heart breaks when I watch a mother with her child. I long for what should have been and ache for the life I had once dreamed of. The grief ebbs and flows. But I’m learning to ride the waves with grace.

If you’re experiencing the ache of infertility too, I want you to know you’re not alone. It’s an incredibly difficult battle. Please give yourself credit for the way you’ve fought and the strength you’ve shown. I know life has given you no other choice. Infertility is so hard. It’s so unfair. I don’t know what the future holds for you or me, but the one thing I do know is that we should be so proud of the person we’re becoming because of it.

P.S. If you’ve experienced pregnancy loss and are looking for support, I highly recommend the book All the Love, shown in the picture above. It helped carry me through some really difficult days after my loss.