I remember living on Morison Avenue in my hometown prior to moving to where my parents now live. We had a neighbor with a paved driveway (I believe ours was gravel, but my memory is failing me) and I recall riding my bicycle, falling, and scraping me knee. It was your typical scrape, but it was bleeding and a fair amount of skin was exposed. This seems like an odd core memory, but I remember it because even though it burned and hurt a lot, I did not cry. That was the day I decided that I learned what it meant to be "tough" or "tough it out" and that anything less was unacceptable when it came to experiencing pain.
In that moment, I minimized the pain I was feeling and flat-out refused to acknowledge it hurt. From that moment on, that was my mantra. Sure, it hurt. But it could have hurt worse. I could have cried, but I was "strong" enough not to.
This mentality carried me through a lot. The confusion and hurt I felt as an adoptee? Meh. At least I got adopted. The physical pain I endured when I "became a woman"? Meh. It was normal. It hurts for everyone. It could be worse (even though the pain was so bad I would become physically ill and pre-load on over-the-counter pain meds to prepare). Failed IVF? Meh. It was not a miscarriage. It could always be worse, so what right did I or do I have to lament over these "trivial" events?
And therein lies the problem. For decades, I brushed things off because it "could be worse" or I was not "sick enough". Eating disorder? Meh. I was not underweight. Ever. Failed IVF? Meh. Other women had suffered much greater losses. Who am I to complain?
My mom used to tell me to not "stuff down" my feelings. I did that a lot because most of the time, I did not believe my feelings were valid OR I believed that somehow, whatever happened was MY fault.
In hindsight, I realize how infertility completely destroyed me as a person without me admitting that it had done just that.
Branson said the day our first cycle failed, he lost his wife. I hated that he said this, but he was not wrong.
I lost my spark.
I lived in a constant state of depression.
I gave up on myself.
I lost all hope and feigned hope.
I blamed myself constantly.
I hated myself.
I hated my body.
I felt like a failure.
I felt like my body failed me.
I lost faith in God.
I completely lost my identity.
I felt like I was being punished - and I deserved it.
I felt angry.
I felt sad.
I felt jealous.
I felt resentful.
I felt completely dead inside.
I blamed myself entirely and there are a lot of days I still do.
Every pregnancy announcement was a knife to the heart. Not because I was not happy for the expecting couple, but because once again...it was not me. I prayed I would see two lines. I would be a day or two late or experiencing pregnancy "symptoms". Within three to five days those hopes came to a crashing halt. Rinse. Repeat. Every month. For years.
Enter the doctors. Numbers looked good. Everything looked promising. Weeks of preparation and hope were instantly destroyed with one phone call.
I typically spend part of my blog post acknowledging that even "resolved" infertility destroys mental health. And it can and does. But this post is for my fellow warriors who ultimately lost their battle.
Those of us with empty arms. Every. Single. Mother's Day.
I never recovered because the ending of my story is final. I will never see a biological version of myself and my husband staring back at me. And as an adoptee with zero biological connection to anyone I know, this stings even more. Trust me when I say I am well aware biology is not everything. My family is my family. Period. No biological connection needed. But, when everyone else in my family has that but I do not? I feel like the odd one out.
I (stupidly) thought that after a decade, the pain would subside. Especially when I made the decision that this would be our fate because five surgeries in five years for Stage 4 Endometriosis was becoming not only ridiculously expensive, but increasingly painful and unmanageable.
This year was the most difficult year I have faced since our first year.
Maybe next Mother's Day.
Maybe next Christmas.
Maybe next Father's Day.
Maybe some random day.
Always a maybe. Never a yes.
Month after month.
Year after year.
After awhile, no matter how much you try to "fake it 'til you make it", those hopes just become empty words.
I try to remain positive. I try to tell myself that this was and is God's plan and that there is a bigger picture at play. Some days I believe this. Some days I do not.
The good news is, it does eventually get "easier". The bad news is...it takes a long time and it will never go away. A dream unfulfilled creates a hole in the heart and the spirit that nothing can ever fill.
By the way, being an infertile when your husband has a child from his first marriage is a special kind of (pardon my language) hell. Especially when it is thrown in your face. And especially when your true support system - those who actually step up and show true sympathy and cry alongside you - live three hours away.
It has taken me a decade to fully accept that what happened to us was traumatizing enough to warrant a major shift in my mental health.
I can think of ONE person I know who understands this pain. That creates an even deeper feeling of loneliness on an already lonely journey.
Infertility worsened my anxiety, my depression, my cPTSD, and my ED.
I cannot in good conscience just write a blog post that offers no hope or advice on how I am managing or trying to move forward. So let us talk about Mother's Day 2025.
There are times we really need to grieve. Sometimes we need to cry or scream and release the feelings that are there. Acknowledge them. Allow them to just be without judgement. Judgement creates more shame, and in my experience, shame is a feeling I am way too familiar with. And although the grief I felt this year was not just for myself, I spent Monday - Saturday leading up to Mother's Day in a deep state of grief, helplessness, and hopelessness. All while also feeling incredibly selfish for feeling this way when others I love dearly are suffering unimaginable battles. It occurs to me THAT is what prevents healing. By constantly having the mentality that someone else has it worse and we just have to "suck it up", "be strong", and pretend we are okay, we are NOT allowing ourselves to grieve our own losses properly.
On the morning of Mother's Day this year, I slept in, which is not saying much because when you are childless, that is a luxury you can afford. Had I not allowed myself to grieve all week, I do not think Mother's Day would have looked the way it did yesterday.
Sometimes, even on my dark days, there is a small part of me that recognizes that I have two choices: continue grieving because it is necessary for my healing process and preventing me from burning out OR take the small spark I have, push myself to do things that make me feel positive about myself, tell the cat and the dog they need to move, and get out of bed. There was a small spark in me on Sunday that decided that I had enough in me to TRY to turn things around. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it does not.
This time, it did. I got out of bed. I put on make up. I curled my hair. And I put on a dress I have not worn in nearly a decade (more on that in a bit).
I had told myself if our cycle failed, we would do something special. We never went on a honeymoon, so on a whim we went on a "Mini-Moon" over Memorial Day Weekend to Redington Beach. It was a time to escape the hurt and just enjoy each other's company away from all of the reminders of what we had lost. I dug out a dress I bought specifically for our trip and wore it on Sunday as a reminder of those days of reprieve.
I will leave the summary of our day at this: it was a much-needed reminder that at the end of the day, I am not broken. We are not broken. My value did not diminish because I could not have children even though that is what society and people in my life have tried to tell me. My husband does not see me and has never viewed me as a means to procreate. He loves me for me. And maybe one day, I will feel that love for myself.
In the meantime, I realize I have a lot of hard work and healing to do. Right now, I do not "fight" for myself. I fight for those I love and for those that love me. It is my hope that one day, I will rediscover my worth and begin healing for myself.
Here are some highlights from our adventure:
As I say this, I admittedly do not fully believe it, but it does not make the statement untrue just because I am not (or you are not) there yet. Your worth is not based on procreation. This did not happen to you because you are being punished. This did not happen to you because you lacked faith. This was a crappy hand you were dealt. Take the time to cry. To grieve. To heal in bits and pieces as you are able. Try not to put a timeline on grief. There is no "right" or "wrong" way to do so. And I want you to know that above all else, you are loved.
