I’m 32, and for the longest time, I thought infertility was the deepest pain a woman could experience. The endless hoping, the monthly disappointments, the way your body feels like it’s betraying you over and over again.
Turns out I was wrong. Betrayal hurts so much worse.
My husband Brian is 34, and we’d been married for almost ten years when everything fell apart. We spent seven of those years trying for a baby. Every appointment ended the same way, with sympathetic eyes and the words nobody wants to hear.
“I’m sorry. It’s just not possible.”
It was me. My body couldn’t do it, and there was no fixing it. That realization broke something inside me that I’m still trying to repair.
At first, Brian seemed understanding. He’d wrap his arms around me after bad news and whisper that we were enough, and that our love was what mattered.
Those moments felt real, like we’d weather this storm together.
But slowly, so slowly that I barely noticed at first, things changed. The hugs became shorter, then stopped altogether. His comfort turned into distance, and then the comments started.
“Other women don’t have this problem, you know.”