After almost four years of unsuccessfully trying to conceive, I’ve heard a lot of comments from those trying to help. While some days I feel like I could use all the advice in the world to get pregnant, other days, advice just grates on me terribly.
I’ve heard it all — from just stay put after intimacy, to get rid of the Wi-Fi, to buy Amazon ovulation pills, to exhortations that I should sue Pfizer because it’s probably the Covid shot that made me infertile, to books about eating only organic, to telling me I just need to have a glass of wine at night, to blaming shampoo.
I have learned to receive even the most bizarre comments as love; everyone means well. But I also think we should seek to grow in our ability to simply sit with someone in grief without trying to fix everything. This Infertility Awareness Week, I’ve been thinking about some of the hardest things I’ve heard from well-meaning people. They include the following.
“Have a little patience,” when asking for prayer from church leaders. So is my infertility a lack of patience? How can you promise a child will result from waiting? How do you know I’ve been impatient in my heart?
“Imagine yourself pregnant,” from my family members. I understand the power in visualizing possibilities. This might be helpful for some women, but for me, the comment seemed to have crossed the line from positive thinking to new-age manifesting.
“You have to believe it’s already happened to take the negative energy out. I say an advanced congratulations,” from a charity worker. A charity I support asked how they could pray for us, and when I asked for infertility prayers, she tried to get me to say some statement I didn’t agree with, like “I know it will happen.” No one knows if I will or won’t get pregnant.
“I’m sure you and your husband are right behind us,” from a woman announcing her pregnancy. It’s sweet to see people try to be optimistic, but we don’t know that, actually. And we’ve watched many people who got married way after we did have kids.
“My daughter got pregnant when they gave up and stopped trying,” from a friend of my mom. Do you want me to give up? How would I even do that? How do you know that will happen for me?
“At what point do you just give up and let God decide?” from a colleague. This just makes me think that what I should do is give up treatment, or that you think God and actively trying to conceive are somehow incompatible, or that you think I lack a surrendered faith.
“When will you start a family?” is a common question I receive. People ask when you want to “start a family,” forgetting that you and your husband already did — at the altar when you said your vows.
Many people also do not understand our choice not to pursue invitro fertilization and similar interventions. They don’t seem to want to hear from us why we came to that decision; instead, they seem more interested in finding some loophole that would enable us to use it.
But our love for children is the very reason why we haven’t pursued IVF, which results in an untold number of human embryos discarded or frozen in perpetuity. Instead of curiosity, people seem to greet our decision with confusion or disappointment.
Finding Alternatives
As I’ve contemplated the many unhelpful comments I’ve received over the years, I’ve also thought about what might have been more encouraging to hear instead. So, for anyone looking to support their friends and family facing infertility, here are some alternatives to try.
Instead of saying, “Have a little patience,” try: “Every month must be difficult.”
Instead of, “Imagine getting pregnant, and it will happen,” try: “No matter what happens, you can find joy — and I love you!”
Instead of, “It will happen when you stop trying,” try: “I hope it happens for you, but no matter what, I’m here for you.”
Instead of, “Have you tried…” try: “Are you looking for advice or support?”
Instead of, “Are you pregnant this month?” try: “I’m here if you ever want to talk about your fertility journey.”
Instead of, “Maybe you need to let God decide,” try: “How are you doing spiritually?”
Instead of, “Are you planning to start a family?” try: “Are you hoping to have a baby?”
Bearing One Another’s Burdens
The common theme I’ve seen is people’s desire to fix our problem. They can’t bear to watch us suffer, and they just want so badly to make the hurt stop for us. Infertility is uncomfortable and difficult to hear about and feel. It’s hard to sit with something unfixable that we have very little control over.
To hear about another person’s suffering and really listen requires the listener to suffer a bit too, to connect with that place of true empathy, and that’s hard. But we must practice the mature skill of sitting and accepting suffering, to let the pain of it wash over us, and to use that as an opportunity to connect with each other.
I understand why that’s hard for people. Even as I’ve tried to support other friends with infertility, I don’t think I always said the right thing. Diverse personalities and preferences in the journey can be hard.
Given the overwhelming comments, I understand people’s temptation not to share their infertility struggles at all. On a road that’s already so painful, why add to the pain?
But not being alone while walking the journey is worth the hard but well-intentioned comments. Bearing other people’s comments is actually part of the sacrificial cross of infertility. Keep in mind that everyone who has ever said anything was doing the best they could at the time to support you, however poorly they executed it.
Then there are also times that the person you are sharing your heart with says the perfect thing you needed at that time. I’ll never forget my former college roommate simply saying, “Your infertility is welcome here.” Or my best friend saying, “Infertility is a biblical level cross.” Or being asked (three times) to be a godmother to my friends’ daughters.
Supporting someone with infertility is simple but not easy. Saying something like, “That’s hard. I’m here for you,” and actually just being there is all it really takes. Making space for each other’s pain in our lives can be a difficult task, but it’s where intimate relationships are made.
