The Truth About Trying to Conceive: Dear Infertility, You Suck
Dear Infertility…
You suck. You are a silent enemy, creeping in when I least expect and choosing to stay. I never expected you. I assumed that getting pregnant would be so easy. I never knew how hard trying to conceive was. You showed me how naïve I was.
I thought I could ignore you and keep myself busy. But you continue to show up and make your presence known. In all the questions from well-wishers who ask, “How many kids do you have?” or “When will you start having kids?” I see my husband goofing around with my nieces and nephews; I see him holding my playing, laughing with our friends’ kids. Like daggers to my heart, reminding me what I do not have.
And then there are those who jokingly say, “Are you sure you want kids? Are you really sure that you are ready for all of this?” They say it innocently. They do not know you, Infertility, like I do. But, oh, my heart. It feels like I am being stabbed. They do not know that I had been thinking about having children leading up to the decision to start trying to conceive. That was over two years ago now. Infertility, you have given me plenty of time to reflect on whether or not I am ready to have kids.
And I pray, “Father, forgive them because they do not know what they are saying. Protect them from Infertility’s pain.”
Another pregnancy announcement. I want to be happy for them. I am happy for them! But I am also sad for me.
Infertility, you are a lonely battle. No one gets you unless they get you. They say, “Just have faith!” “Wait for God’s timing!” But what I need is a hug and to hear that it will be ok.
You have caused a loss that feels like there is a death in the family. It feels like my child has died, but logically, I know that I haven’t even met that child. And that is the part that people can’t see. I have nobody to bury. Just my hope to experience creating life and bringing it into this world.
I grieve the loss of the child I have been unable to conceive. I mourn for that dream, that fantasy child.
And that is okay.
There is healing through mourning. It is okay to experience grief month after month. And it is okay to let the dream go. To bury it, to mourn it. And then, to move forward.
Infertility, you have brought me to my knees, but you have not crushed me. Walking alongside you has made me strong. I am not as afraid of you as I once was. You tried to break me, but I’ll be okay.
There is healing through mourning.
I am letting go of this dream so that I can fully pursue another dream—one that has been around a lot longer than you, infertility. I am letting go of this dream so that my mind doesn’t have to be so focused on you, infertility. It can be focused on something more wonderful and even more special to me. And I am okay with that. I am finally ready to move on.
Reflecting on my Journey Trying to Conceive
That was the post I wrote after two years of battling infertility. It was raw, and it was real—an expression of my grief and anger as I tried to process what infertility had taken from me. At that time, I didn’t know how long the journey would be or where it would take me. I was holding onto the hope of becoming a mother and slowly letting the dream of getting pregnant slip through my fingers.
Those years between writing that first letter and now have been filled with both struggle and growth. There were so many moments of joy—precious moments with family, friends, and my husband. But there was also waiting, wondering if my body would ever do what it seemed like everyone else’s could. I held onto hope, but it was a quieter hope, one that slowly started to shift toward a new dream: adoption.
Writing that first post was a way for me to grieve what I had lost and to begin preparing my heart for what was to come. It allowed me to release the pain I was carrying and make space for the dream of adoption to take root. Little did I know that this journey would continue, and five years later, infertility would still have its grip on me—but not in the same way.
Dear Infertility… You Still Suck.
You’ve stolen so many moments from me—moments that should’ve been filled with joy and hope but were instead replaced with tears and frustration. After five long years of walking this road with you, I recently learned the truth I had been dreading: both of my fallopian tubes are blocked, and the doctor doesn’t believe we’ll ever get pregnant naturally.
This news was both painful and, in a strange way, comforting. It marks the end of a long season of waiting and hoping, of wondering if maybe this month would be different. While part of me is relieved to finally have an answer, there’s also deep sadness. Letting go of the hope that we might get pregnant naturally is a loss in itself, and I’m still grieving that.
Yes, IVF is an option, but for now, we are content. We’re soaking in every beautiful moment with our son, whom we adopted, and loving this season of being his parents. And while the road with infertility may not be over, I’m learning that it doesn’t have the same power over me anymore. It doesn’t define my joy, and it certainly doesn’t define my family.
Infertility, you’ve taken so much from me, but I refuse to let you take my joy. I refuse to let you define my future. Because while you may be a part of my story, you are not the end of it.
Infertility, you’ve taken so much from me, but I refuse to let you take my joy. I refuse to let you define my future. Because while you may be a part of my story, you are not the end of it.
A Path to Healing and New Dreams
The journey through infertility isn’t just about mourning what’s lost—it’s about making room for new dreams. And now, as I look back from the other side, I can see that the path ahead was even more beautiful than I could have imagined. Becoming a mom through adoption has been a sweeter, more fulfilling experience than I ever dreamed possible. My heart, once so heavy with grief, is now overflowing with love and gratitude for my son, who was meant to be mine all along.
If you’re reading this and you’re in the thick of it, know that it’s okay to grieve. It’s okay to feel the sadness, the anger, and the frustration. But I also want to encourage you that there’s a future waiting for you—one filled with hope, even if it looks different from the one you once envisioned. For me, that future was adoption. The joy of becoming a mom, of holding my son for the first time, was even more profound because of the journey that led me to him. And though the pain of infertility is still part of my story, it doesn’t define my motherhood. The love I have for my son is deep and powerful, and it was worth every step of the journey to get here.
For Those in the Waiting
If you’re still walking through this season of waiting for a baby or answers while trying to conceive, my heart is with you. I pray that you find peace, that you give yourself grace, and that you remember it’s okay to not be okay all the time. Grief and healing aren’t linear processes; some days will be harder than others, and that’s okay.
Lean on those who love you, find comfort in your faith, and above all, be kind to yourself. You’re walking through something unimaginably difficult, and you deserve compassion—even from yourself.
If you are also going through this journey of infertility and need extra encouragement, I’ve created a free 8 day devotional titled “Blossoming in the Waiting“. This devotional is specifically designed to uplift and inspire those facing infertility.
Note: This post has been updated to reflect my journey through five years of infertility and the joy of becoming a mother through adoption.
- What are some of the emotions you’ve been holding onto in your own fertility journey as you’ve been trying to conceive? Write them down and give yourself permission to feel them.
- Are there any new dreams you’re ready to embrace? How can you start to let go of what was and move toward what could be?
- Reflect on how you’ve grown through this experience. What strengths have you uncovered in yourself? How can those strengths help guide your next steps?
