Inside Infertility

Infertility isn’t just a “journey.” It’s a quiet heartbreak that repeats itself month after month.

I’ve been walking through IUIs and now IVF, doing everything my doctors ask, everything my heart can handle… and still, the hardest part is the waiting. Each cycle begins with the same rhythm: five, six, sometimes seven early morning trips to the doctor. Ultrasounds. Blood draws. Needles sliding into the same veins until they’re tender to the touch. Four or more jabs every month… and still, I whisper to myself, Maybe this will be the one. Then there’s those two weeks where hope and fear sit in your chest like stones. Where you tell yourself not to get excited, not to imagine, but you do anyway.

Every cycle, I catch myself daydreaming about the moment I get to tell my husband, imagining the joy on his face, the tears of joy we’d share together. I picture telling my family, feeling that rush of excitement and the happy tears. I envision the exact look on my mom and dad’s faces when they hear the good news. I let myself imagine what it would be like to finally say, “We’re having a baby.”

And then another month ends. Another negative. Another period.

And with it comes a grief that doesn’t have a name. A grief that most people don’t see, because it shows up in the quiet moments when no one is around.

It’s the grief of losing something that never even had the chance to grow.

It’s the grief of “maybe next time” becoming a mantra you’re exhausted of repeating.

It’s a pain you swallow quietly. The kind that rises when you see another pregnancy announcement, when someone tells you it will “happen when it’s meant to,” when you’re happy for them but aching for yourself.

It hurts watching the world around me get pregnant so easily. I smile, I celebrate, I’m genuinely happy for them…truly… but there’s also this heavier feeling underneath it all. A whisper of: Why not me? What’s wrong with my body? Why won’t it just do what it’s supposed to do?

Infertility makes you question parts of yourself you never thought you’d doubt.

It makes you feel broken in ways that are hard to put into words. A pain that aches deeply throughout your entire body.

Some mornings I fall to my knees in prayer, trying to get the words just right, as if the perfect prayer might finally open the doors of heaven.

Some nights the prayers are whispers.

Other nights, they’re desperate cries.

But always, they come from the deepest part of me, a place only God sees.

My faith has been both stretched and strengthened.

I’ve begged.

I’ve questioned.

I’ve surrendered.

I’ve thanked.

I’ve dared to hope again.

I’ve broken down and rebuilt myself on the same day.

It has softened and hardened me.

And still, you keep going. You keep hoping. You keep trying to believe that one day this pain will make the joy that much sweeter. So I keep showing up.

To the appointments. To the needles. To the prayers. To the hope.

Because something inside me refuses to let go of the belief that someday this pain will turn into a story of answered prayer.

Infertility isn’t just medical. It’s spiritual. It’s emotional.

It tests every corner of you.

It teaches you how hope can be both fragile and fierce at the same time.

I’m sharing this not because I want pity, but because this struggle deserves to be seen. Because so many of us suffer in silence, carrying the weight of invisible grief and unspoken dreams.

This kind of grief deserves words.

And because if you’re walking this road too, I want you to know:

You are not alone.

Your prayers are not unheard.

Your hope is not foolish.

One day, this chapter will make sense.

One day, this waiting will have a purpose.

If you’re walking this path too — I see you. I’m with you. And I’m holding onto hope, even when it feels fragile.