How Infertility Has Shaped The Way I Relate to Others
As most can likely imagine, infertility is a deeply sensitive and personal journey to endure. With 1 in 6 people affected worldwide by infertility at some point in their lifetime, it’s unfathomable to me to picture so many individuals having to process and manage the profound sense of grief that lives within the heart of this struggle. Personally, my experience began at 18 when I was diagnosed with Endometriosis (and later Adenomyosis), a battle that eventually led to my total hysterectomy at the age of 21. Close to approaching 5 years post-op now, I find myself growing increasingly aware of how these events have not only shaped me, but how I interact, relate to, and love others as well.
Receiving my original diagnosis soon after my high school graduation, it was difficult to detach myself from the uncertainty that surrounded my fertility. I felt envious of most people my age, both by those who immediately started families and those who were living carefree and unconsumed by the future alike. Struggling deeply with the weight of a looming fear that felt challenging to share with others or even articulate in myself, I had the tendency of feeling out of place in every room I stood in. When my fears were ultimately confirmed at 21, the news hit me with one clear thought: It’s up to me to learn how to carry this.
I felt overwhelmed in terms of accepting this as my story. Where was the starting point? My view of my body changed immensely, confirming my already sneaking suspicion that surely it was created to work against me. On top of that, true support felt really hard to come by. My family was naturally skilled at anticipating my needs and reading my cues, so that was an undeniable treasure to hold onto. However, I felt a collective silence from some of the people I surrounded myself with at the time — a side effect of their fear of saying something wrong that unfortunately fed into my isolation.
My mission then became a mission of grace. A mission of living compassionately. At first for myself, then soon others. It’s been said that “the only way out is through,” and so despite the heaps of frustration, sadness, and bouts of loneliness I dealt with at times, I was careful to not rush any of these feelings away. They had a right to exist, therefore they deserved to be addressed, and so I felt these emotions honestly and with gentle regard to myself. In the longterm, I believe this has strengthened my ability to be present when those around me go through hard times. I see the power of active listening, of acknowledging the presence of difficult emotions, and the immense impact that can result from someone simply feeling heard.
Through my experience with infertility, I began to learn how unpredictable loss often feels and how incredibly individual it is to have to walk through. When people around me navigate grief, I recognize the confusion and uncertainty that often coexists, and I’m grateful for how this understanding allows me to meet others where they’re at in a way that acknowledges their pain. I’ve realized that many people struggle with being compassionate towards themselves. It is an art that I by no means have mastered (yet), but holding onto that knowledge leaves me feeling especially inclined to extend more compassion, as I believe it is a gift to give to others.
Furthermore, I now know the importance of long-term support. Grief doesn’t have a timeline, and healing isn’t linear. My experience has shown me that being there for someone isn’t just about the immediate aftermath of their loss, but about continuing to show up, even when the world has decided it’s time to move on. It’s understanding that grief is unpredictable, often coming in waves at unplanned times. Moments of celebration can also act as painful reminders. Evidence of moving forward can also come with guilt of “moving on”. I’m afraid these instances aren’t one’s that have exact expiration dates, so it really makes continued support that much sweeter.
Sometimes, the smallest gestures make the biggest difference. Never underestimate a thoughtful message, a listening ear, or the simple impact of your presence. My journey through infertility has made me acutely aware of the power of these seemingly minor acts of support and the immense comfort they truly each hold.
