D. Rose
I was 21 years old when I had my first, and only, pregnancy. It ended in miscarriage. At the time, I never imagined that would be the only time I’d ever experience pregnancy, and it was just for a short 8 weeks.
I was 29 when I was diagnosed with endometriosis. I had no idea then just how deeply this disease would affect not only my body, but my mind and soul. Since that diagnosis, I’ve lost count of how many laparoscopic surgeries I’ve had, six or seven, at the most. Most were to remove adhesions or large masses. In my last surgery in 2022, they removed my left ovary, which had become entangled with my colon and was making even basic bodily functions unbearable.
When I was first diagnosed in 2009, I still believed pregnancy would be possible. That diagnosis came during my first marriage. I actively tried to conceive the entire two years we were together, but nothing happened. In hindsight, I’m incredibly grateful for that. God had other plans.
I married my forever husband in 2017, and I still held onto hope. I believed I could make it happen — if I ate the right foods, tracked ovulation and temperatures, exercised, lost weight, got my mental health in check. I thought if I worked hard enough, pregnancy would follow.
Around 2018, my doctor told me I had a 10% chance of conceiving. And still, I wasn’t ready to give up. For us, natural pregnancy was the only path we felt comfortable pursuing.
Then came two more devastating diagnoses: vaginismus and vulvodynia. These were deeply personal, so much so that this is the first time I’ve ever shared them outside less than a handful of people, and it is terrifying. The shame surrounding them is heavy, even though I know they’re not my fault. These conditions, like endometriosis, cause chronic, often debilitating pain.
Three pain disorders — all targeting the very core of my womanhood.
Despite the odds stacking higher and higher, I kept hoping. But over the years, my health deteriorated. Surgeries became routine. Pelvic floor physical therapy became a part of life. (Yes, that exists — therapy for women’s pain below the waist. Who knew?) Modesty disappeared. So did the sense of identity I once had. I started to question everything, my worth, my femininity, my future, my womanhood.
And through it all, I kept my suffering mostly hidden. I smiled through the pain, buried the despair, told myself I was fine. But inside, I was falling apart.
By 2022, pain was my constant companion. When I didn’t feel it, I wondered what was wrong. That year, I had the surgery to remove my left ovary, thinking it would bring some relief. We believed my right ovary would take over. But within weeks, I began experiencing the symptoms of perimenopause.Night sweats, irregular cycles, hormonal chaos, hot flashes. It all hit me.
We hoped it was just temporary, that my body was adjusting to functioning with one ovary. But as months passed with no regular periods, erratic hormone levels, we had to face the truth: I was in perimenopause. At 42 years old, the door to pregnancy was closing, not gently but slammed shut.
Now, at 44, I know that pregnancy is no longer in the cards for me. And the grief of that realization is unlike any other. Over the years, I’ve struggled deeply with feeling “less than” — less of a woman, less of a wife, less of a human being. Losing an ovary felt like losing the last thread of hope.
Today, I find myself searching for connection, for meaning, for others like me. Most infertility groups I’ve come across are filled with women still in the trying stage, or those who eventually go on to have children. Their pain is absolutely valid, but I’m looking for something else: a place for women who have reached the end of the road. For those who carry the quiet grief of a dream that’s slipping away. I want to find women like me who are working toward acceptance, who are grieving while still trying to find purpose and joy.
It’s not easy. Every day, I hear two voices in my head. One whispers, maybe there’s still a chance. The other shouts, face reality...it’s over.
I don’t know which voice will win. But I do know this: even in the darkness, I believe God can redeem pain. I believe this story isn’t wasted. I believe that someday, I will use this experience for good — to comfort others, to speak truth into silent suffering.
And if you’re reading this and any part of it resonates — I’m so sorry. I see you. I understand the ache. You are not alone, even if it feels like it. There are others like you. Like me. We just need to find each other.
You can find support groups and more in the World Childless Week resources.
