The In-Between

wtua8kmThe following reflection was written by Cherry Blossom. 

Once you finally have a child after years of struggling with infertility, you find yourself in a very strange place. It’s hard to describe because it’s a place that doesn’t really have a definition. And despite being on the other side of the struggle of infertility, it’s still a difficult and uncertain place to be.

Before you get pregnant and you’re stuck in the painful mire of frustration and anger and sadness that is infertility, you can connect to a community of people that are going through the same thing. You can lean on them, vent to them, gain advice and encouragement. Despite how badly I didn’t want to be dealing with an unexplainable inability to have a child, I found comfort and strength in the community of people who were struggling with me. It was a sort of an underground group as infertility is somehow still a social faux pas today, and that only served to knit the community closer together and it was my place to grieve openly and share the struggle of trying to find joy in the sorrow. Then it happened. I got what they all wanted, and suddenly that was no longer a community where I belonged.

I was lucky enough to have a successful round of IVF and my daughter was born about three and a half years after my infertility struggle began. It was so easy to think that once she was born all the little and big things I mourned for along the way would just disappear. I mean, I would finally be a mom and I would feel whole again and I would be just like every other woman with a baby, right? On the outside, that’s exactly how it looked. That’s what made the place I found myself in even stranger and much more uncertain and painful.

I struggled a lot with anxiety the first few months of being a mother and I did my best to hide it. How dare I complain about this truly amazing gift? No, I was not tired. No, I had it all under control. Yeah, right. I wasn’t completely alone as I had friends that were there for me in their own way. They were still struggling with infertility, so it was difficult for them. I longed for and badly needed a community.

I tried out some mom groups. I sat there with my baby and listened to them talk about being stay-at-home moms and discussing their plans for other children. I felt like a fraud. I didn’t belong with these women. I had such a different relationship with how I became a mother that I felt like I couldn’t join in with their carefree chatter or even confide in them on how hard parenting was. I felt like it wasn’t allowed to be hard for me. I had put so much more pain, tears, and money into getting my little one. How could I ever find my place with these moms? And it surely wouldn’t have been fair of me to go back to the group of women I found such comfort in during my infertility journey as they were still grieving.

So there I was. Stuck in between.

Family was also quick to forget the agonizing journey I went through to have a child. It’s not something they want to discuss or relive because the baby is here and everybody should be happy. That fact only served to reinforce my belief that I had to put on a brave face and just be happy and completely in love with motherhood and my baby. I felt like all the grief and loss meant nothing because I finally had what I always wanted. I wanted that to be true.

My daughter does mean everything to me. She has completely changed me and shown me a type of joy I didn’t even know existed. I am so incredibly thankful for her every day. The waves of anxiety and sadness for the loss still hit me, though. I observe this beautiful little creation I have been wonderfully blessed to watch over, while still bearing the scars of past and future struggles. Holding joy and sadness at once is an odd feeling.

I still struggle with connecting completely in community because there isn’t a clear and easily defined one to fit in. Maybe that’s okay. It isn’t easy feeling like I am stuck in between communities, but I am lucky to be reminded by the women that have entered my life during these difficult days and even before them, that I am not alone. While the pain isn’t as ever present right now, the bolder of anxiety is starting to creep up again as my husband and I approach discussions of trying to grow our family. The place I am in gets even stranger and scarier when I think about working through infertility in the shadow of my active little toddler.

Infertility hits on so many different levels. The anxiety that follows it can throw you into the past or the future. We cannot change things in these places. When I am able to look up and take a step back and see the women who are in my life, and who care for me and listen to me, I am able to realize what I have here and now. I still worry and wonder if I will be able to grieve any future loss with my old community of struggling women that once gave me strength and comfort. I don’t know that I’ll ever fit there again in the traditional sense. I also don’t know if I’ll ever feel like I belong to the normal mom club, whatever that means.

Through all of this I have found that community is never perfect. It doesn’t need to be. It’s in that imperfection that real connection is found. I realized that feeling caught in between was often made better by me simply reaching out and asking for help and letting my friends respond. The chapter I am in is scary and uncertain but also joyful, silly, and even graciously mundane. Such is life with a toddler and such is life living with infertility issues.

 

Forever Changed

poppy-flower-images-and-wallpapers-34 (1)The following reflection was written by Poppy.

Infertility has forever changed me . It has changed who I am as a woman, wife, sister, friend, and now, a mother. I hate to admit this, but I let it become my whole identity at times. I feel that I will always identify with a woman going through infertility because I was her for such a long time.

I want to be open from the beginning: I’m currently pregnant and will deliver this precious baby very soon. Even this far along, I still have a hard time letting it sink in that my husband and I are going to be parents. That is because of the struggle it took to get here. Infertility has forced me to leave naivety about pregnancy, delivery, and motherhood by the wayside and know that anything can happen at any time. The farther along I am in my pregnancy, the more I find myself worrying about the health of our baby, knowing what a miracle it is to have a healthy child. In many ways, infertility has left a dark place in the back of my mind. A dark place of worry that our dream of parenthood will still not come true. I have battled this every day since my nurse called to tell me I was pregnant. The things that my friends and I have gone through will haunt me for the rest of my life. I don’t want to have this knowledge of all the terrible things that can happen! But not knowing would mean that I hadn’t discussed my infertility with others; wouldn’t have heard others’ stories or been part of the network of incredibly strong ladies that surrounds and supports me; would mean that my husband and I had made this difficult journey alone.

We had nothing but “failure” over 9 years and 1 month of trying to conceive. Only negative home pregnancy tests, no fertilization with IVF, “bad eggs,” and BETAs of 0 following IUIs. Adding to the stress and heartache of it all were a handful of doctors with conflicting messages—either I was “fine,” or my body was not working properly and we should not attempt assisted reproductive technology (ART) again. We did not know who to listen to or believe. It was heartbreaking and at times, unbearable. Over all those years, my hope of becoming a mother via pregnancy constantly waxed and waned. For a while–maybe the first 5 years of our journey–my plans revolved around becoming pregnant any minute. Vacations, vehicle purchases, long-term plans, even the clothes I bought! When I finally let this way of thinking go, it was difficult, but felt ultimately freeing to not plan around something we couldn’t anticipate or predict.

Trying for that long does something to your psyche. Particularly the feelings of uncertainty and inadequacy have never left me, even after being pregnant for almost 9 months. I never expect those feelings to leave, no matter how many of our dreams come true.

The more noticeable my pregnancy has become over the past few months, the more self-conscious I am. I’ve been very judicious with Facebook posts regarding this pregnancy because I know I have Facebook friends that are still trying. When I’m in public, I wonder about what other women are thinking when they look at me. Do I make them feel angry? Jealous? Despairing? In no way do I want to evoke in others the feelings that I used to get when I saw an expectant mother in public. I hate that infertility has done this to me. I would love to enjoy this time to the fullest, but it’s difficult when I know there are so many women out there who would love to be where I am.

Despite the joy of my pregnancy, I still have a hard time being happy for my “fertile” friends when I see a pregnancy announcement. It’s such a terrible thing to begrudge someone else’s path in life, and I realize that. I try my very best to think of them what I hope people think about me: ”I don’t know what she’s been through for this child.” Just because I consider them fertile doesn’t mean they haven’t had their own struggles related to getting pregnant or otherwise. Happiness and excitement should be my first reactions, and I beat myself up over my envy and frustration that this happens so easily for some.

If you struggle with infertility, it can change you and the way you see the world—whether you tried for almost a decade, or for a year before achieving a successful pregnancy, infertility is heartbreaking. It takes something natural and makes it clinical. It takes a private exchange between lovers and puts it under scrutiny. It dismantles dreams and replaces them with the uncertain and unknowable. It breaks down identity and expectation, all while being physically, emotionally, and financially taxing. In a way, your perception of the world is re-wired, and I have found that not even pregnancy can put things back where they were.

If you are struggling with infertility, it will very likely impact you the rest of your life. No matter where your journey takes you, a piece of you will always identify with your struggling brothers and sisters. Even as I sit here feeling my precious baby move around in my belly, it’s easy for me to go back to those dark times when I thought this would never happen, or let that darkness bring worry into the vision for our future. Please know that it is perfectly normal for the traumatic moments, heartbreak, and despair of infertility to stick with you. For better or worse, these things are part of your story.

E for Epiphany

forsythia

The following reflection was written by Forsythia. 

This story contains spoilers for the film and/or graphic novel V for Vendetta.

I am a Christian. At the heart of my chosen doctrine is the foundational belief in a sovereign God who is crazy in love with me, to the point of great personal sacrifice—his beloved son Jesus. This belief undergirds all other aspects of being a Christian, and so when it is in question, all things are in question.

How can a good, a loving God withhold from me something as natural and beautiful as motherhood? It wasn’t long into trying to get pregnant that this question sprouted in my mind. Years later, its roots were firmly about my worldview. This question—an unresolved doubt about my God and his character—became spiritually, emotionally, and intellectually paralyzing. I found myself either struggling to believe what the Bible said about God’s goodness, or what it said about his power. For how could suffering exist of both of these things were true? It was causing me to abandon the thing that most gave my life purpose, hope, and meaning, at a time when I needed those things the most.

About 5 years into infertility, I was just starting to read the Bible again, and found myself stuck on a chapter in Galatians that spoke about the gift of suffering. I happened to be wrestling with this idea in a lull at work, texting with my best friend as I tried to reason it out, to understand, to make sense of my suffering.

“Is it possible that what feels like torture could actually be love?” I processed with her.  

And then in the room next door, a professor started up a film his class had begun earlier: V for Vendetta. I am so familiar with the film that I could picture its exact images as I listened to the dialogue, sound effects, score. It’s one of my favorites, but I hadn’t thought of it in a while.

There’s a part in the film when the principal character is in prison being tortured for information. She endures this for days, though she has nothing to offer them, until finally, she is told she will be executed. But what happens next is that her cell is left open and unguarded. She ventures out of the prison to discover it was not a prison after all. It was a charade, designed by a man named V.

“You tortured me? Why!” She screams. “Leave me alone! I hate you!”

V explains that it was the only way to free her from the fear that enslaved her—to subject her to what she most feared so that she could face and overcome it. “I wish there was another way,” he says.

Disbelief, rage, grief, betrayal, relief, and pain converge and she begins to hyperventilate. V takes her to the roof. There, she stands in the rain, breathing in the fresh air and feeling it all as though for the first time. She realizes that V has actually accomplished what he set out to do. The absence of fear has made her world big and vibrant, full of possibility and beauty. Fear was being used to take her life from her. Overcoming it allowed her to reclaim it.

It’s difficult to express how much this moment in my life—exposure to this scene as I was grappling with the question of suffering—impacted my relationship with God, and how much it shifted my attitude towards my circumstances and renewed hope in my heart. Not only did it open my mind to a new way of seeing my story, but it represented my pain, disbelief, confusion and heartache in a cathartic way. The scene in that film gave real emotional teeth to a concept that I was just barely able to consider intellectually at the time: that it could be possible for the hardest thing in my life to be the only way for me to reach a place in life that I was meant to reach.

This new perspective was life-altering. It helped me to see beauty and possibility in my story where before I had only seen punishment, anguish, pain, and meaninglessness. And it showed me anew the possibility of the God of the Bible that I had so fallen in love with: personal, loving, powerful.

I can’t claim to fully understand the mystery of suffering and God’s place in that reality. It’s not a new question, and one that has no easy answer (perhaps not even an answer the human mind will ever be able to comprehend). But I do know for my husband and I that if we had not been made to die to our dream of biological children, we would not have opened our hearts to adoption. My adopted son is not just a child. He is a specific, unique human being. I cannot comprehend a world without him in it. Yet, he was not what I yearned after for so many years–not the face I pictured, not the reality I prayed for. I couldn’t see the future , didn’t know to wish for this special little one who would become my little one. But I believe in a divine Someone who sees past, present and future at once. He witnessed our every grief and loss, and he also knew the unspeakable joy that this exact child would bring into our hurting hearts.

Was the suffering of infertility the only way we could have received this incomprehensibly precious gift? It’s hard to hear. It’s hard to explain. It’s hard to comprehend. But I believe the answer is yes. 

 

Truth in Song

poppy-flower-images-and-wallpapers-34 (1)The following reflection was written by Poppy.

I love music. I really love it. I have a difficult time expressing myself verbally, so there are many songs that express the way I’m feeling and I think that’s why I love it so much. My husband and I went through 9 long and very trying years of infertility before we got our miracle pregnancy. I’m 31 weeks right now with a baby I never thought I would have. Through those years, there were so many songs and lyrics that resounded with me. One song in particular that pops into my head is by Kari Jobe. It’s called “You Are For Me”.

“So faithful, so constant. So loving and so true. So powerful in all You do. You fill me. You see me. You know my every move. You love for me to sing to You.

So patient. So gracious. So merciful and true. So wonderful in all You do. You fill me. You see me. You know my every move. You love me to sing to You.

I know that You are for me, I know that You are for me. I know that You will never forsake me in my weakness and I know that you have come down, even if to write upon my heart. To remind me who You are.”

The lyrics are so simple. It always brought me back to reality: The Lord is for me, so what do I have to be worried/afraid/angry about? Often, I need a reminder of who He is.

 

 

Cinematic Revelations

7364769258_0dac362d0e_bThe following reflection was written by Tiger Lily.

There’s a film currently in theaters called The Light Between Oceans, based on a novel of the same name. I highly recommend any couple who has struggled with infertility to see this film. Even though your situation may not be exactly the same as the characters in the film, there is still much to be gleaned from this breathtaking piece of cinema. Be wary, I have a point to make here that will involve spoilers if you haven’t seen the film.

The Light Between Oceans reveals the desperation behind infertility. It centers around one couple, Tom (Michael Fassbender) and Isabel (Alicia Vikander). They have a love story that is simple and ideal–at least at first. They are quickly swept away by love and marry. They live on a remote island where Tom mans a lighthouse for passing ships off the coast of Australia. The isolation does not seem to bother them much; they have eyes only for each other.

After two horrific miscarriages, any hope they had for having their own family is darkened by loss. It is then that a baby literally drifts onto their shores and into their lives carried by a small boat. The child’s father is with her, though he is dead when they find them. Tom is responsible for reporting everything that happens on the island in regard to incoming ships and the business of the lighthouse. At Isabel’s urging, they keep the child that is not rightfully theirs, bury her father, and do not report the incident.

Perhaps it’s the isolation in conjunction with the pain of loss, but Isabel’s grief and desperation takes root deeply and grows into selfishness. She doesn’t fully consider the possibility that this baby could have a family elsewhere waiting for her, and that by keeping her she could be destroying someone else’s life. (Essentially, she is.) Being truthful and following the law does not seem to cross her mind either. I don’t blame her for her feelings, they are completely understandable in regard to her situation, but I don’t agree with them either.

Tom is more grounded, and what they have done kills him every day. Though he is in love with the child, and she becomes his daughter in all ways except biologically, he is still tremendously haunted by the truth.

At first, I was concerned for where this story was going. At times, it seemed as though the promise of having children was the only thing that was going to keep this couple together. In many ways, that is something that happens in a lot of marriages. It’s easy for marriages to be overridden by the roles of motherhood and fatherhood. Our society definitely elevates parental roles as being more important or significant than the role of husband and wife. This is sad to me, as they are both equally important for different reasons.

Their daughter, named Lucy, does indeed become their whole world. So much so that when Tom finally cannot stand the deception anymore and reveals the truth to Lucy’s true mother, Isabel develops nothing but hate for him. She cannot forgive him for breaking apart their family.

I was taken aback. I sat wriggling in my seat thinking, This better not end like this!

Thankfully, it doesn’t.

I firmly believe, based on what I’ve seen and experienced, that the best thing you can do through your fertility journey is put your marriage first. After all, how can you raise a family when your foundation is weak? Only when your foundation is solid can more be built upon it, and marriage should not be built on the promise or expectation of having more. Those expectations will cause cracks and brokenness faster than you can blink. Marriage is an entity unto itself and must be mutually poured into and nurtured deeply. Even if children never come, you must stay true and hold fast to each other.

This is something that Isabel learns almost too late. She is presented with a choice. In her anger, she has withheld the truth about her involvement in the situation from the authorities. She is hurt, and in that pain she is willing to make a scapegoat out of her husband and send him to prison to punish him for his “crimes.” Her mother reminds her that he is still her husband, and Isabel’s facial expression in that moment reveals she has completely forgotten what that even means.

When Isabel reads Tom’s last letter to her, she remembers what it was that brought them together in the first place. They began their relationship writing letters, and their relationship is saved by one too. It comes full circle. She realizes they cannot lose each other after having lost so much already. She goes after him and, in the nick of time, she confesses to the authorities her involvement in hiding the truth and keeping the child.

Whew! I let out a deep exhale then. It was such a beautiful moment. Isabel returns to her husband, and he is returned to her. The end of the film implies they never have any other children, but you get a sense that they had a good life together regardless.

My friends: whoever and wherever you may be, you can have a good life too. In a previous post, I told my infertility story. My husband and I may never have children of our own, but we can still have a good life together, and we do. We’re not perfect, and our marriage will always need effort and support, but we have love and good foundation, and in that, there is always hope.

Gratitude and thanksgiving are breakers of the chains of bitterness. Loss and sorrow are painful emotions we must allow ourselves to feel in order to heal and move on. Yet, when we shift our eyes from what was taken and we don’t have, and instead focus on what we do have, we can find freedom. If you are in pain right now, and your losses and broken dreams are leaving you empty, seek abundance as a couple. Pour into your marriage together. May that cup overflow!

The Lost Sheep

sunflower-02The following reflection was written by Sunflower. 

The following thoughts have been stirring over and over lately in my head, my heart, and in my talks with my husband. Many of my conversations with him are about the community of believers, how they have or have not handled our particular journey well, and what we will or will not do if we are faced with a couple going through something that reflects our path.

Honestly, as I stare at the computer screen, I am still not sure how to say what is deep in my heart, causing me so much pain and frustration. I do know that I have been extremely hurt by the “audience” of believers that God has placed in my life. I use the term audience because that is what they are: they look, watch, judge, and predict. They cheer and clap when they think I have done something good, and boo and yell when they think I have made a wrong move. They are an audience because their involvement in my healing has been minimal.

They feel safer from a distance. They wait for me to enter their territory so that they can really “meet me where I am” and offer “healing words, and spiritual food.” They stand at the door, yelling for their lost sheep (me), and if yelling doesn’t work they try a whistle, or maybe a bell, or maybe silence, or maybe a treat…when nothing proves to work, they drop their head in disappointment that their lost sheep has wondered off the wrong path, close the door, and continue on. They may stop and think about me for a moment, but the thought is brief because they have too many sheep they are trying to keep track of and they are responsive while I am the sheep that is not, so it is best just to “move on” to those who will respond.

I do hear their calls, the whistle, the bell, and actually think the treat sounds quite good, but I am caught in a bush, its thistles and vines wrapped so tightly around my legs and I cannot move. I try yelling, but they are too distracted or impatient to hear my weak and quiet voice; I try responding, but it is not the response they expected so they miss it. I am tired. I am tired of trying, of fighting, and so I lie down and wait.

Christ comes. He slowly and precisely cuts each branch, vine, and thistle that has wrapped around my aching body and broken heart. He knows I am disappointed, that I have been left alone, and he keeps telling me how sorry he is. He gently lifts my broken body from the bush and starts to tend to my wounds, only the way a healer and a maker can. He sings gentle songs in my ears and whispers his love and promises to my heart. As I continue to heal, as he continues the healing, our hearts start beating as one. He stands me up and places his hands on my shoulder and looks into my eyes.

“Daughter, you have been disappointed; I know, I am disappointed too. I will never leave you and I will always come and find you, but now you have to make a choice. Are you going to be one of the many people in the audience of others’ lives, or are you going to be a participant? I don’t need another person to fill a seat and watch; I need someone who will be in the play. I know you are hurt, and it is your choice…but I will always come and find you.”

 

The Waters Between Us

Lavender-Picture-15The following reflection was written by Lavender. 

The isolating effects of infertility can be far-reaching. While I have not experienced infertility myself, a few of my closest friends have been walking down its lonely road for many years. Over these years situations, conversations, and interactions have occurred that have threatened to dig deep gulfs between us that would erode the foundations of our friendships. The fathomless waters of grief, hurt feelings, and loss would try to rise, putting us on separate islands. I am so grateful that my friends and I saw the value in continually and intentionally building bridges to keep us connected.

The first time I realized that infertility had the potential of separating us happened when my friends started going for tests and procedures, and I was not yet trying to get pregnant. Their worlds seemed full of appointments, anticipation, and disappointment. It was so hard to watch them go through all these things, not having any medical knowledge or life experience to draw from. In addition, I wasn’t in their same mindset about eagerly seeking pregnancy. Looking back, I see their patience with me when I must have seemed immature and unhelpful in their emotional struggles. Cookouts, coffee shop dates, game nights, and other mundane social gatherings served as bridges for us to stay connected, to keep “normal life” afloat as we entered this new era in our relationships.

A few years into this journey, my husband and I felt we were prepared to start a family, and I became pregnant before my friends with infertility. This appeared to everyone to be in the wrong order, and it was deeply felt on all sides. I felt guilty about this, and my “good news” seemed like bad news to the friends with whom I had most wanted to celebrate. I had no idea how to share it and when I did, I dealt a huge blow. In response, I perceived feelings of anger, frustration, apathy, and resentment. There were attempts at joy swallowed by sadness. I think this for many people would have been a tipping point. It would have been easy for us to go our separate ways, to avoid further injury. In actuality, I was in more of a place to feel sympathy for them than ever before. I had a new understanding of the pregnancy-seeking world, having entered it myself. I listened more intently and tried to give more of my support. More bittersweet times lay ahead, when I felt that I could not share some aspects of my pregnancy (discomfort, tiredness, sweet baby movements inside of me, etc.) for fear of appearing ungrateful or boastful. I must say my friends gave heroic efforts in supporting me with kind words, tips on sales on baby gear, and questions about my pregnancy. While we kept our friendships together, I just can’t help feeling even today that we missed out on the bond that comes from everyone eagerly anticipating something together.

The third opportunity for isolation came when my baby was born. I felt so loved by family and friends who supported us generously when we came home. I remember desperately wanting to share the joy of my baby’s birth with my sisters-by-heart and thinking that they were very likely in a place not to feel it. Crushing. They bravely came soon after we arrived home, and I have rarely felt so emotionally vulnerable. This was heightened by my physical and emotional exhaustion. My friends with infertility reached out their hands and built another bridge just by having the gumption to show up and support me in my early days of motherhood. It may not always have been with the happiness I craved, but they found it within themselves to put aside their pain to be with me anyway.

As time passed, I tried to support my friends as they struggled with their infertility. There were times when I felt like the outsider, being the only mom as others discussed their most recent infertility test or procedure, or decision to adopt. On the flip side, I knew they felt like outsiders when I talked about what I was going through as a new mom. There were social gatherings at which children were encouraged to stay with a babysitter, which was bittersweet. On one hand, I was happy to have an evening or a day with only adults. I was lucky to have a support system that I could count on to take care of my baby if my husband and I wanted to attend these events. However, I didn’t like the feeling that if I didn’t get a babysitter, I would have to stay isolated at home because I was a mom. I understood that my friends wanted to have gatherings without having to be reminded of their infertility by having children around, but it still hurt. The important thing is, we just kept talking. When we hurt each other, we eventually apologized. We kept praying, reaching out, and connecting. We just kept trying, hoping it would be enough.

I have seen the waters that threatened to separate us recede time and again. It was with the deepest elation and relief that I have seen my friends become mothers. Years of my prayers, anxiety, and anticipation seemed to wash away as I welcomed their babies into this world. What if they had never become mothers? I actually believe we would have found a way to remain friends. I felt that it was imperative not to let infertility define who we were as people. Infertility was one part of their identity, but these lovely ladies were so much more than that. I decided a long time ago that if they would have me as their friend, I wouldn’t let them go for anything.

A Balm to the Lonely Heart

forsythiaThe following reflection was written by Forsythia.

Infertility is an isolating thing.

I have spent hours upon hours this week trying to flesh out that statement. I have written countless drafts of this narrative attempting to explain where this isolation comes from, what it looks and feels like, how to prevent it. It has eluded me again and again. It is extremely complicated, nuanced, personal, and hard to express.

But here goes nothing.

My isolation in infertility was caused by being left out and left behind; by thoughtless, insensitive, well-meaning but often asinine comments; by cultural and religious expectations I couldn’t fulfill; and plenty other external forces. I could describe each one in painfully perfect detail.

But there’s another side of the story, too. Inadequacy, shame, guilt, fear, and despair constantly came between me and community from a strong, internal source:

I found myself believing, truly believing, terrible lies: I was too fat and ugly to be pregnant. I was not a real woman unless I was a mom. My life mattered less than those who were parents. My infertility was a punishment. These things filled me with guilt and shame. I was deathly afraid that they might actually be true, as ridiculous as they sound. But, I was too embarrassed to share these fears and my inability to be open about them kept me locked inside myself.

I was constantly comparing my life to those around me, creating a false hierarchy that separated me from others. In addition to isolation, comparison caused me to feel shame and self-pity when I didn’t measure up and pride and self-righteousness when I determined myself superior. My heart was soaked through with bitterness, and I could not see the beauty of my own story for lusting after everyone else’s.

The relationship between joy and grief in my life was basically impossible to explain. I almost never experienced one without the other for years and years. When my siblings were becoming pregnant with their first, second, third; when I watched my parents love on their grandkids; when friends were enjoying their newborns and telling birth stories–I felt happiness, joy, excitement, interest. But if I were my authentic self, not just the socially-acceptable version with a smile and the right words, I would have to admit that these feelings were always tempered by pain and grief. I was embarrassed to feel this way. I constantly berated myself for not being able to be purely happy for those I loved. I told myself that I was selfishly making everything about me. Nevertheless, the feelings didn’t change. It was a part of my process through loss and, as a friend recently reminded me, “there are no shortcuts through grief.” This struggle was a huge part of my day-to-day life, and fear of judgment or rejection kept me from being honest about it.

These kinds of thoughts, feelings, experiences are corrosive if handled completely alone. Because isolation is so easy to slip into, and is cultivated by both outward and inward forces, I know no other remedy but the constant pursuit of friendship—even with just one person. This is a two way street: it is a meeting together of two hearts both willing to be absolutely honest, and committed to sticking around despite the messiness. It’s hard to be alone when someone is consistently pursuing the heart of you, demanding openness and authenticity even when you don’t feel like giving it to them.

Such friendship must be earned through lots of listening, sacrifice, patience, reciprocal vulnerability, and consistency. It’s hard work, but even one such relationship is a balm to the lonely heart—indeed, a spring of water to a person dying of thirst.

August Focus: Isolation

Though the statistic of couples struggling to get or stay pregnant is a staggering 1 in 8, infertility is still accompanied by acute isolation and a deep sense of loneliness.

The infertile voice longs to be heard, but is often silenced by embarrassment, shame, or fear.

The infertile experience is bursting with uncomfortable emotions that have no easy solution: longing, sadness, anger, bitterness, grief.

The infertile journey can be long and uncertain, requiring prolonged patience and enduring empathy.

For these reasons and more, isolation is a common part of the infertile story. As is true for all kinds of suffering, community is integral for surviving infertility. With it comes empathy, insight, understanding, perspective. Yet, many people are unable or unwilling to reach out from within and without the infertile experience to make that healing connection.

Communication can be a hindrance to this connection, and isolation can cut both ways.

There are many realities in infertility that are difficult to express—it involves very personal, physical aspects, as well as heightened emotions that make the typical blundering of human relationships difficult to manage. It is an ever-present grief, its pain easily triggered by a endless number of things.

On the other hand, it can be frustrating and futile to walk alongside a person going through infertility. They need truth and encouragement; challenge and sympathy; closeness and distance; words and silence–it is a constant challenge to know when to employ which aspect of friendship.

The goal of this month’s focus is to offer narratives from both sides of the spectrum in order to foster understanding and connection between those experiencing infertility and those trying to walk alongside them. Wherever you’re coming from, we hope that these personal stories offer insight that leads to a strengthening of the community in your own life.

Safe to Dream

forsythiaThe following reflection was written by Forsythia. 

April 2013: My husband and I had been through a plethora of tests and doctor-visits that hadn’t brought us any closer to answering the question that burned in our hearts: can we have children? 

At last, we were on the brink of something that was going to give us definitive information–it would, it must, how could it not? We were going in for a biopsy. On the one hand, we were eager for the procedure and the answers it would give. On the other, we knew that it could be bad news as much as good news.

As the date approached, I felt I must prepare for the worst. We had so many dreams about our children–what they would look like, who they would take after, what we would name them. These dreams felt dangerous to hold onto. I decided that I would do something symbolic and purposeful to help myself let them go–something I’d been thinking about for a while. The idea was “better to let go of my own volition than have these desires ripped from me in our doctor’s office.”

I planned it all out. I would walk a local prayer labyrinth, giving myself time to meditate and grieve as I walked slowly to the center. Once there, I would light candles to represent those dreams that were hanging by a thread: the names of our wished-for children; the vision of us as parents…And when I was ready, I would snuff them out, walking the labyrinth out with my heart prepared for “come what may.”

The story of what took place that night can be found on my blog Leavingteaching.wordpress.com. In vague language–I was not open about our infertility at the time it was written–the voice of my 2013 self shares about wild hope. It does my heart good to revisit that narrative, to be reminded of the unexpected gift I was given in a moment of great need.

My purpose for the labyrinth that night was reversed on me. I felt clearly in my spirit that I was not meant to snuff out my dreams–that it was not my job to determine which desires for my life would come to fruition or when or how they would happen. Instead of blowing out candles as I let dreams go, I found myself lighting candles as I dreamed. Each time I blew the flames out, it was to light more. I dreamed and dreamed on into the night, with exuberance and gratitude. I lit a candle for each of the children we wanted, and those we never imagined; for the places we would live and things we would do; for our marriage.

It became clear to me that cool April night that it was safe for me to dream. I had meant to let go of these things because they felt dangerous to my heart–what if they didn’t come true? But an understanding was given to me through this experience: that dreams are only dangerous if I rest the weight of my soul on them. The same is true of anything finite in this world–fame, money, power, even relationships, love. If I chose instead to entrust my heart and my life to the unchangeable, powerful God of the Universe who loves me like a daughter, then nothing was lethal to me–not the death of a dream, not even death itself.

Looking back–my 2016 self reflecting on my 2013 self–I see that God has been faithful to the revelation that he gifted me that night. That even in my darkest moments, even when I couldn’t believe in hope, my dreams, my very heart, was safe in his care.