Why we need more empathy

For the past two years, I’ve carried a secret. Well, a secret to some but not all. The reactions to my truth have been interesting and I can attribute it to one thing, people become insanely uncomfortable by other people’s pain. 

On one occasion, I confided a woman I shouldn't have. At that moment, my pain was overwhelming and it felt like a volcanic eruption and she was either going to experience my fissure or be in the path of my pyroclastic flow. She went to my wedding, so I thought she was better than the stranger I just met. She regretfully obliged and then excused herself saying she was going home. About an hour later, I saw her at the same party talking to someone else. This was the moment I realized my pain made me incapable of evaluating social situations, old Kaylee would have never behaved in such an honest way. I have always been excellent at hiding my truth. Ouch! 

In the beginning, I confided in a specific set of friends. One of which I spent many hours teaching her about her cycle, what supplements she should take, and when to get her freak on. Once she got pregnant our conversations pretty much ended. About a year later, I shared with her that we had started treatment and received the “I wish you and Lee all the best- here’s a picture of my baby” and that was it. 

I’ve had surprise texts “I’m accidentally pregnant” and I highly recommend not sending that to your friend that’s been trying to have a baby for two years. It sent me into a tailspin I couldn’t pull myself out of. I’ve never felt that out of control of my emotions. 

I’ve been dumped as a friend because “You're not a mother and you don’t understand my life. I can’t constantly keep you up to date with how hard it is.” When my reaction was, “well I’m happy to keep you up to date with how emotionally destructive and dehumanizing trying to get pregnant is.”

I’ve been warned. “Well, my aunt didn’t get pregnant for 7 years and then had twins. You better get ready!” Ummm, I’ve been ready. I get it, you don’t really know me. I prepare for everything. I timed my “pregnancy window” at the ideal time in my career. Jokes on me, I guess I can’t control everything. 

I’ve been told to adopt. Hot tip, that’s not a supplement to not being able to have your own biological child. 

I’ve been told, “well you can have mine!”  Ummm I highly recommend not saying that to an infertile woman that always dreamt of being a mother. We may snatch your baby! RUN! (This is a joke. I won’t steal your child.) 

I’ve been told we must not be having sex right...I’m positive we have. It’s the reason we are together. We are excellent at it (ha, you see that. I made you uncomfortable. That’s how I’ve felt for over two years!). 

I’ve been told I have all the time in the world and to calm down. But actually, I don’t. You see, fertility treatments take ages and destroy your body. One cycle of IVF can take up to 8 months depending on your situation, but thanks. 

I've been told to just try KETO or Whole30. Yeah, I know, my body has taken a beating from infertility combined with a stressful job. My midsection has grown and my ass has cellulite. I don't look great but a diet isn't the solution, but thank you for adding to my body image issues. I could always use more of those in my cache.

All this to say before I experienced infertility I lacked empathy as well. Other people's pain made me incredibly uncomfortable and I’d dismiss it with comments like “it will happen when it supposed to” or give terrible unsolicited advice. Through this experience, I've learned that what people really need is a hug and for you to say “I’m here when you need me. For wine, coffee, tears, or distracting adventures. I love you and I’m sorry you’re going through this.” We lack community because we don’t share our pain. We hide behind these perfect illusions we've crafted to hide our pain, our truth. It feels as if we are pitching ourselves to our emotionally empty community for more social engagement "take me! I look like a good time and I always have my act together and I'm super profound!". It’s a mind fuck. I’ve hidden in my house, tucked away from the fertile, waiting for this part of my story to end. I’ve separated and secluded myself because I make every person I encounter uncomfortable with my pain. Unfortunately, I can’t hide it. It’s become a part of my identity. My name is Kaylee and I'm infertile.