The Grief No One Names

Hey, I see you...

You are at dinner with a girlfriend you haven't seen in months. She orders water instead of her usual gin and tonic. A whisper moves through you. No, she can't be. You push it down. Then she slides a card across the table. You open it and see the ultrasound before you've finished reading her name. You're on your feet before you've decided to stand. You pull her in and the tears come. As far as she knows, they're happy tears. And they are. They absolutely are. And they are sad tears. Yours. Because somewhere underneath the joy you are wondering if you will ever get to surprise her in return. I see you.

You are between meetings when a coworker turns to a colleague just back from parental leave and says, casually, like it costs nothing. "The next one will be a girl, I know it." Something tightens in your chest. Next one. They're already on baby number three and I still don't have one. Nobody in that hallway knows what just happened to you. I see you.

This is your sister's wedding day and you are so happy for her. You are. Then you put on the Maid of Honor dress, the one you ordered in an empire waist because you were certain you'd be pregnant by now and would need the room. You're not. You don't. You just look like you're hiding something. And maybe that's fitting. You are hiding something. You've been hiding your fertility treatments from almost everyone. I see you.

The fertility space talks a lot about the grief that comes in headlines, the baby showers, the announcements, the moments that bring you to your knees. And those are real. Those are traumatic. But most days, fertility grief doesn't arrive like a wave. It arrives like a ripple and feels like a paper cut. But gosh, they add up quickly.

"It's okay, I'll ask my mom to drive you to and from the egg retrieval." Your heart drops straight through the floor. Your partner is out of town. You had no choice but to schedule another retrieval in three days and he doesn't understand. Doesn't understand why you want to cry and scream and fight the whole thing. He probably thinks it's the estrogen. You're already so emotional. But no. That's not just the hormones. That's the moment you realize you have to widen the circle of people who know. You told your mom because you needed her. And you love your mother-in-law. But now she's on the list. One more person who will never get to be surprised. One more person who will be waiting, quietly, for an announcement. You'll never hear her say I had no idea you two were even trying. Hell. IF this even works. I see you. Right now, I am you.

The friend you were supposed to share this journey with gives birth. Cut. The morning you realize you've stopped hiding your underwear from the ultrasound tech because somewhere along the way you lost any sense of privacy over your own body. Cut. The soul sister you found on the TTC boards goes quiet, and you know, you just know, she graduated without saying goodbye. Cut. Christmas with your parents, watching your nieces and nephews, noticing for the first time that everyone is getting older. Cut. The vacation that was supposed to fix everything comes and goes. Cut. The moment you realize you've stopped doing the math, stopped calculating what season you'd be showing, what sign the baby would be, what month you'd announce. Cut. The drawer of onesies you've been quietly buying, just in case, just in hope. Cut. The prenatal vitamin autoship anniversary notification sitting in your inbox. Cut. The shame that moves through you with the first glass of wine you've had in over a year. Cut. You used to sob at the sight of a negative test. Now you just wait for your period, which is always, annoyingly, right on time. Cut. The calendar has absolutely nothing to look forward to but appointments. Cut. "Just relax." Cut. Every time, a new one.

You are not too sensitive. You are not melodramatic. You are carrying real grief with nowhere to set it down. This is where I meet my fertility support clients. Here, we name it. We make room for it. We let it be real, because it is. We look at what we are ready to set down, and we honor what we are not ready to yet. And then we keep going. Because we don't really have another choice, do we? I see you. I'm here. Lantern lit at the open door. Whenever you're ready. Let's talk.

Fertile Seas Coaching provides emotional support and fertility coaching services. Nothing here constitutes medical advice. Please consult your healthcare provider for medical guidance.