I serve at the alter of doubt and tithe to the church of infertility

A glimpse into the life of the 1 in 8:

I serve at the altar of doubt.

Doubt that it will happen for me.

Doubt that life will go smoothly. 

Doubt that my body will stop working against me. 

I tithe to the church of infertility.

I reach into my nearly empty bag of hope, scratch crumbs from the bottom, and drop it into the already full bag.

With tears in my eyes and a pineapple t-shirt, I give everything I have left.

I pray hopelessly, I fake faith, I evangelize the niceties that drive shims into my already broken heart, and I wait. I keep waiting.

I greet fear daily.

I greet fear in the form of social media apps.

I scroll through social media and see the sea of baby announcements of the effortlessly fertile.
I see their joy and I feel it steal an ounce of the crumbs of hope I covet. 

I greet others with my fake smile, so they don’t see my broken heart.

I greet the unknown by pursuing treatment after treatment hoping that it will work this time.

I carry shame.

Shame that I may never carry my own child.

Shame that it’s hasn’t happened for us.

Shame that I may not live the life I envisioned.

Shame that I painted over my nursery to safeguard my heart.

Shame that I’ve packed up all baby clothes, diapers, and toys into a storage tub and hid it in a dark corner of my garage.

Shame that I took apart the baby mobile I made during treatments 1 &2.

Shame that I envy the fertile.

Shame that I allowed it to erode some of my most valued relationships.

Shame that I didn’t have the confidence to advocate for myself and I took the verbal beatings of lazy reproductive endocrinologists until I finally got an answer.

Shame that I can’t feel joy when a friend shares her “happy news” and shame that I’m “accidentally pregnant” text throws me into an emotional spiral I can’t pull myself out of.

Shame that I have let it unravel me. 

Shame that I’ve let it define me.

Deep, hidden inside me, I carry a fierce amount of strength.

Deep, hidden to others, I’ve been growing into a better human.

Deep in my heart, I know I am a mother.

If you know someone struggling with infertility, be kind. We break more with every day but we also glue ourselves back together in the most beautifully resilient way. 

We carry darkness, but we shine bright with handcrafted hope.