A voice is heard in Ramah, mourning and great weeping, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted because they are no more. Jeremiah 31:15

My list of ‘worst things’ could go on for days. The worst thing is watching as everyone around me gets pregnant. The worst thing is when people tell I’m “so lucky” I don’t have kids. The worst thing is when people ask me “so, when are you going to have kids?”.

In infertility, everything feels like the worst thing. But one of the hardest things for me to deal with has been the sense of isolation and loneliness you feel from your family and friends. Every now and then I get this sense that I’m very alone in my struggle. That there’s no one who understands me. But I know that’s not true.

I can’t pretend that some of this isolation isn’t self-imposed. Over the past two years there have been a lot of times where I just don’t want to be around people. Or when I am around people, I don’t want to talk about what’s really going on. I’ve learned that most people won’t ask me outright. They’re being polite, sensitive, trying not to pry. And the truth is, there’s not much you can say. It took me a while to develop the vocabulary to talk about infertility, and I still struggle to give words to my thoughts and feelings.

Still, I want my voice to be heard.
So hear this.

There are few things that I want more than a baby. But three years of trying, both naturally and medically assisted, tell me this isn’t possible. During that time I’ve experienced every emotion possible. It has been a period of intense grief that I sometimes thought would consume me.

I’ve spent days weeping. There were times when nothing (and no one) could comfort me. At first it felt silly. I was crying over something that didn’t exist. A baby that was nothing more than a figment of my imagination. Still, there was loss.

The loss of a dream.  The loss of who I was.  And for a while, the loss of hope.

I’ve wanted to write for a long time now but I was waiting. It’s hard to tell a story when you can’t wrap it up with a happy ending. I wanted to be able to look back and see all the purpose in my suffering. I wanted to be able to say “this is why it all happened”. I can’t do that yet. I hope I can one day.

For now I write as one who is learning to live in that place of grief and heartache without letting it consume me. One who has known loss and struggle but still finds joy and beauty in the mess of infertility. I write as one who wants to speak for the hundreds of others with the same struggle who have lost their voices.

I write to let you know that no matter how lonely you feel, you are not alone.