In November of last year, I sent a playful emoji message (two hearts, bed, hourglass, baby bottle) to a dear friend to share my pregnancy news. It was amusing because she misinterpreted it as asking if she was pregnant, to which she replied, “Yes!” Little did I know, she was also expecting. I was only five and a half weeks along, but I felt the urge to confide in someone. Having experienced a miscarriage a year earlier, I thought this friend would understand my pain if it happened again. But I never expected to face that heartache once more. She was eight and a half weeks along and younger than me.
You can guess what happened next.
I miscarried. It felt like a painful déjà vu—seeing bright red blood on the toilet paper, feeling the deep cramps, and receiving newsletters informing me that my baby was the size of a poppy seed, with a heartbeat expected in a few weeks. My son, noticing my tears, would pat my head and say, “Mama, you’re OK.” So early in a pregnancy, that tiny embryo represents just a flicker of hope. While it hardly feels significant to “miscarry” a speck of possibility, I can’t forget the solid line on the pregnancy test. Since then, I’ve watched photos of my lovely friend with her growing belly, and instead of joy, I feel a swell of self-loathing. I can like her posts on Facebook but struggle to express genuine happiness. Envy, it appears, is a truly ugly emotion.
Another friend recently shared via email that she is pregnant with her third child. I haven’t responded with congratulations. I could say I’m happy for her, but my heart doesn’t echo that sentiment. It’s like my good intentions get stuck before they reach my heart. When acquaintances post about their pregnancies on social media, my initial thought often is, “How nice for you.” As I walk my son home from school, witnessing young mothers with their kids, my contempt is palpable, overshadowing the joy of the moment.
You might have noticed that I have a son. I recognize how fortunate I am to have him. I have a wonderful husband and an amazing 6-year-old. On good days, I appreciate our little family, but on bad days, I feel a sense of lack. My son, an incredible person in his own right, is often labeled by his autism diagnosis. My husband, who excels at being a father, becomes a reminder of the second child I’ve longed for but haven’t had in the past two years. When I spiral into negativity, self-pity takes over, and I find myself crying, saying I never want to hold a baby again, only to give it back, while angrily wiping tears away on my commute to work.
I’m consumed by these thoughts. I imagine my ovaries as pomegranates, shedding their precious seeds, leaving me with only a few remaining, unwanted ones. I wonder why no one will just give me one of those lost babies from the news. I think of women who create lifelike baby dolls as a way to cope with their own childlessness. It makes me question how deeply I can sink into this sadness and whether it’s possible to emerge from it.
I find myself obsessing over what-ifs. I remember meeting a poet in her Los Angeles loft, where Bryan Ferry’s music played softly. I shared my story about my son, how at six, he finally feels secure and permanent, and I opened up about our struggles to have a second child. She offered wisdom: “We get what we get, and we all have our crosses to bear.” When I asked if she had children, she revealed she lost her son. The weight of her experience hangs in the air alongside my own feelings of inadequacy.
I’ve never envied others for their wealth or possessions, but I desperately wanted a second child. As my friends—most younger than I—grow their families, I can’t help but feel resentful. Seeing young mothers at the grocery store with their WIC vouchers while I struggle to conceive makes me wonder why my tax dollars support their choices. When mothers with large families complain, I think, “Maybe you shouldn’t have had so many kids.” It’s clear that age-related infertility has turned me into someone I don’t recognize.
I know some women would envy me for having my son. I remember the bittersweet joy of his first latch, how he mended my heart. I cherish the keepsakes from his early days, now tucked away in an attic. A family member once told me about his wife, who longed to strangle every friend who announced a pregnancy while they faced infertility. When you’re denied what you desire most, witnessing others receive it can intensify the bitterness. I can only imagine that when I announced my own pregnancy—the one that led to my son—someone nearby thought, “How nice for her.”
What if I admit I’m still trying? Acknowledging these dark feelings might be the first step toward healing. I’ve sought therapy, but I quit when the advice felt clichéd. Writing has been my outlet, and I try to practice gratitude, hoping it resonates. Antidepressants have lessened my tears but also dulled my emotions. I feel more capable, but I wonder if this new, sour feeling in my heart will ever sweeten again.
This isn’t who I want to be.
In summary, infertility can evoke a range of emotions, from envy to bitterness, as one navigates the complexities of wanting another child while grappling with the reality of what one already has. As I confront my feelings, I strive to reclaim my identity and move toward a more positive outlook.