D. Rose
Lately, I’ve been sitting with the realization that I desperately want to move forward, I’m just not entirely sure what that even looks like.
For years, I unknowingly buried my grief and pain. I tucked infertility into the furthest corners of my mind, as if by doing so, I could pretend it wasn’t real. I was not aware that I was doing it. Denial came quietly, almost gracefully, until my therapist and I started peeling back the layers. That’s when the truth began to surface.
Now, I’ve hit a roadblock. I am trying to work through the pain and trauma and havoc that infertility causes. These feelings, this deep, raw ache, are so deeply buried that my mind has locked them away in self-protection. But little by little, session by session, I’m beginning to chip away at the wall. My therapist is patient, and I’m learning to be, too.
Every day I find myself processing a little more. Infertility is no longer something I hide from myself. It’s present in my thoughts. It walks with me. But I’ve also made a quiet vow to my soul: to pursue acceptance and joy...right here, in this version of life I never planned for.
My greatest grief has been letting go of who I thought I’d be, a mother. That role felt written into the fabric of my being. I had so many plans that fell within the scope of motherhood. So much so, at times I do not recognize the beautiful life that I live. So now I find myself asking, “Who am I, if not that?”
And yet… in this unraveling, I’ve found Jesus again. I am reminded that I am loved, exactly how I am. There must be a bigger reason for this experience, one that I have not recognized just yet.
So, for now, my version of moving forward looks like this:
Small, honest steps.
Allowing long-buried emotions to surface.
Letting my soul grieve, hoping that from that grief, acceptance will come, and maybe even joy.
Listening closely for purpose.
I don’t have all the answers yet. I’ve wrestled with ideas: starting a support group, writing a book, offering Zoom meetups...but then I remember I’m introverted, and those things feel scary. Still, one thing I do know for sure: God can turn pain into purpose.
And maybe, just maybe, mine is beginning to unfold.
As I continue to surrender these hidden emotions to God, I trust that healing will follow. And with it, I hope something else returns, my self-esteem.
Infertility has a cruel way of making you feel like the smallest, most broken version of yourself. Like you’ve failed at something you were “supposed” to do. And while I know those thoughts aren’t true, they can feel unbearably real.
But here’s what I’m holding onto for myself, and for anyone else who needs to hear it:
We have purpose.
We belong.
We matter.
Even here. Even now.
