No One Tells You…
No one tells you about infertility.
As a teenager, I’m pretty sure I assumed that if I even thought about sex I would get pregnant. Definitely a worst case scenario sort of kid. With TONS of worries. I can remember being terrified of those “raging hormones,” STDs, teenage pregnancy, and my body in general... but I didn’t know that there was more to know about fertility.
Now, I’m not suggesting we should add one more thing to scare teens with. Absolutely not. But I do think we could have more candid conversations about our bodies, how they work. We could have more realistic conversations about fertility. Scoring 100% on the reproductive anatomy quiz didn’t save me from hundreds of hours of computer research a decade later. It didn’t prepare my friends who suffered from endometriosis or PCOS at a young age. It didn’t help my friends who have experienced the trauma of an ectopic pregnancy, my friends devastated by the loss from a miscarriage or stillbirth. It didn’t walk us through any of the unexpectedly common scenarios we might find ourselves in. They needed more information, more help. So did I.
Honestly? I’m not sure how a conversation about the complications of fertility gets brought up without NEEDING to have one. But somewhere between the purity rings and “when are you two going to have kids?”... I wish someone would have told me just a little bit more, that I had better resources or known to look for them, that I would have understood the complexity of fertility, that I might face the possibility of needing help to get pregnant. And that discussing any of it wasn’t strange or awkward. That it wasn’t wrapped in stigma and shame. I love the idea and simplicity of an extended fertility check up when you go in for your first Pap smear. Have a few blood tests done to get some basic information about your body, be clear about your options now and in the future. If I had been armed with my FSH and AMH levels way before we started trying to have a baby, I could have made better choices from the very beginning. That small action, that little change seems so possible. I wish I’d known.
I wish I’d known there was support out there for me and that I had found it right away.
I wish that someone would have told me that even though it certainly can, I shouldn’t fully expect for it to happen the first time. That really there is one very small window in your cycle where it could happen at all. I wish that someone would have told me that the human reproductive system is actually pretty inefficient. I wish that someone would have told me that I would feel crushed even after only trying for three months. That feeling disappointment is normal and okay. I wish that someone would have told me that infertility is fairly common. That it affects both men and women. That I didn’t need to feel ashamed or blame myself. I wish that someone would have told me that it’s possible to grieve for something you’ve never had. That those feelings are valid. I wish that someone would have told me that I wasn’t crazy for worrying that something might be wrong. That even if there was, my body was not broken.
Infertility can be so lonely and isolating. It can bring about shame and grief. And it wasn’t until I told my shame to pipe down long enough to share our story that I found out that I wasn’t alone. I found other women struggling through the same feelings and wishing that someone had told them too.
So, I’m here to be that someone.
I’m telling you it is hard, sis. It’s okay to take the time to feel your feelings. You need to process them. Share them with someone you trust. Find your tribe. Get the support you need. Seek out information. Be your own advocate. Don’t let this season of facing something unexpected make you cold and bitter. Don’t give up hope. I believe this incredibly hard thing you are battling is going to make you a World Class Mama one day. I am believing with you. You are not alone.
