This week is National Infertility Awareness Week, a time when many people share their stories. Here’s mine.
Since 2016, my husband and I had been trying to conceive our second child. After many attempts, the struggle became very real. Before we considered other ways of growing our family or medical treatment, we often heard things like, “It will happen when it’s meant to happen,” or, “Be grateful you already have a child.” I handled those comments with poise, but when I was alone, the sadness was much harder to hide.
As an adopted child myself, my emotions went in so many different directions. I felt guilty for feeling ashamed that I could not conceive. I questioned my age, my lifestyle, exercise, stress, and almost anything else I could blame. At the same time, I judged myself for wanting another biological child when adoption was such an important part of my own story. My heart felt pulled in two directions as I tried to reason through every option. Instead of finding clarity, I only added to the stress and anxiety I was already carrying.
In 2017, we met with my OB/GYN, who tested both my husband and me. Much to our surprise, everything initially came back normal. That almost made the situation more confusing. I remember writing in my journal, “If our bodies are fine and everything is working, why is this one thing not working?”
After another two unsuccessful months, my doctor recommended Clomid. Seven months later, we were back in her office disappointed that those attempts had also failed.
Later that year, we met with an IVF specialist. I felt hopeful and grateful to have another option, but by then I was also mentally exhausted. I blamed myself. I blamed stress. I blamed travel. I blamed almost anything I could think of for my inability to conceive. My frustration eventually turned into sadness, and once again I wrestled with feeling selfish for wanting a biological child when I had been adopted myself.
In 2018, we went through another round of testing. My husband was cleared, while testing suggested that the fertility issues were coming from my body. I felt embarrassed. At times, I even resented my husband because his body was doing what it was supposed to do and mine was not. In public, I smiled and carried on. At home, I allowed myself to feel the loneliness, shame, anger, and sadness I had been trying so hard to hide.
That summer, we went through two rounds of IUI. The first was unsuccessful. The second worked, but I miscarried.
That was when my world stopped.
The loss brought an entirely different kind of pain. Again, I blamed myself and questioned everything I had done or had not done. People offered support, but I also needed to give myself permission to mourn. I found comfort in weekly religious and Torah study, journaling, and meditation. The loss was enormous, but with time I began to find gratitude for my body rather than anger toward it. I slowly started to understand that my body had responded in the way it needed to, even though accepting that truth was incredibly difficult.
Over the next five months, we researched adoption and learned everything we could about the process. We discovered that the path available to us would require becoming foster parents first, which added another layer to an already emotional decision. We had so much to consider, especially what would be best for our daughter and our family.
During that same period, I needed surgery to remove uterine polyps. I had never had surgery before and was frightened. My emotions felt like a constant juggling act. Thankfully, the surgery went well, and I even left the hospital with a teddy bear.
As the months passed, we began preparing for IVF. There were more tests, more appointments, more information about risks, and eventually a refrigerator filled with fertility medication. For someone who has always been afraid of needles, IVF felt like a huge undertaking, but I was ready.
By the winter of 2018, our journey had turned into another waiting game. Once again, my body was not cooperating with the schedule we had carefully planned. The IVF medications had arrived, but my body had not properly prepared to begin the birth control phase. During that time, I returned to yoga and running, only to stop again when I realized I was not ovulating. Years earlier, I had been told that exercise might have contributed to my inability to ovulate, so I became afraid to do anything that could interfere.
As the days passed, my anxiety continued to build. One afternoon, I grabbed one of the two pregnancy tests left in our house. I had absolutely no expectation that it would be positive. Our minds were already focused on IVF. The medications were sitting in the refrigerator, and we were only weeks away from beginning.
I took the test, left it on the counter, and went back to doing laundry.
Five minutes later, I looked.
Positive.
I was stunned. I took another test and received the same result. I yelled for my husband. He came in, looked at the test, and we stood there holding each other, crying with a mixture of joy and complete disbelief.
We were afraid to celebrate too soon. After everything we had experienced, we approached the pregnancy cautiously. Our IVF doctor monitored me closely during the first two months before transitioning my care back to my OB/GYN.
I am now 22 weeks pregnant with our miracle baby.
Every day, I write down what I am grateful for and include this baby in my prayers. Our unused IVF supplies will be donated to another couple or individual who needs them, and I hope they can become a small part of helping someone else reach the family they have been hoping for.
And for anyone wondering, adoption is still on the table.
Infertility taught me that gratitude and grief can exist in the same heart. You can love the child you already have deeply and still ache for another. You can be adopted and still want to experience giving birth without diminishing the beauty or importance of adoption. Most importantly, I learned that infertility is deeply personal, and sometimes the kindest thing we can offer someone going through it is not advice, but simply the space to tell their story.