On the other side of infertility

For three years, my life was engulfed by it. It being infertility. So much so that, I found solace in the idea that my identity now was ‘a woman with infertility.’

That was my lens — My empty womb, my shots, my struggle, and how I related to the world around me, and did or did not interact with people was based on their fertility status. It’s messy. I know.

When I first shared my story in 2019, I had a sense of healing— that perhaps my story could serve as a map for others.

Since then, I’ve had women (and men) tell me how much my story helped them feel seen and better relate to their partners, friends, and family. I’ve been honored to sit in the darkness with friends and strangers going through similar struggles because the darkness no longer scared me the way it once had.

Flash forward. In January 2020, I finally got pregnant. Years of shots, surgeries, needles, bloodwork, and doctor appointments, I got my ‘yes’ and gave birth to a beautiful baby boy in October of that year. Here I was, on the other side of fertility. Finally.

But was I really? It feels like I’m here straddling both lines. The infertility side and this new side that I’m not all the way sure what that is.

Who am I now? And where do I go from here? Does infertility still define me?

I think that part of me will never fully go away. Even now, six months after my son was born, I think about the trauma of the three years prior and ask myself if I want to put myself through that again. Could I? Sure. But at what cost?

Infertility has a way of strong holding you and breaking you down where some days you feel like nothing more than a shell. It overexposes you, and is a relentless beating on your body, heart, and mind. During that time, I was able to stay afloat because of the select people in my life who held space for the darkness and didn’t send it away.

And even though I’m seemingly on the other side of this rainbow, all that happened didn’t disappear after that final push. Infertility changed me. Both in hard ways and in the good ways, too. I still carry it, even though it may not be front and center anymore.

Through this, I’ve found some purpose in helping others feel seen — staying present with them in the face of uncertainty, of grief, of the hard stuff. Understanding that you can’t wish the feelings away. Even when it’s tempting to stay in that darkness. Knowing that the only way out is through.

And though I’m still learning about this new me that was born the day my son came earth side, I’ll do as I’ve done before. Feeling my way through, leaning on those who can stay present with me, and trusting my own knowing to honor the space I’ve come from.

National Infertility Awareness Week is April 18–24, 2021