The Invisible Struggle: Why Infertility Doesn’t Disappear After having a Child
Despite achieving parenthood through IVF, the stigma and pain of infertility persist, leaving many feeling isolated and misunderstood, even after welcoming a child into the world.
The well-meaning platitudes sting just as sharply now as they did during years of trying: “Never say never,” “It will happen,” and the dismissive anecdotes of friends who conceived naturally after starting IVF. For years,my partner and I faced a barrage of insensitive comments from family,friends,and colleagues who couldn’t grasp the depth of our struggle. These remarks left us feeling ostracized, pressured by societal expectations, and profoundly misunderstood. After more than six years of trying, IVF finally brought our beautiful daughter into our lives, but the accompanying stigma, judgment, and scrutiny haven’t faded. Actually, I
flicker of hope – perhaps parenthood wasn’t entirely out of reach. Following our wedding in July 2015, we began actively trying for a baby, but eight years passed with no success. We were met with what felt like a deafening silence in response to our deepest desires. The social pressure intensified, with well-meaning but intrusive questions like, “When are you guys going to start popping them out?” becoming commonplace.
Initially, we downplayed our struggles, offering vague responses like “Maybe one day.” But this felt dishonest, silencing our true emotions and implying we were somehow failing at hope. we eventually shifted to openly detailing our challenges, hoping to deter insensitive inquiries. We’d explain the complexities of our situation, even using it as a deliberate tactic to make others uncomfortable with their presumptions about parenthood. Yet, instead of understanding, we were often met with the same dismissive platitudes – “Don’t be so negative, it will happen” – delivered with a patronizing air. We felt blamed for creating “awkwardness,” becoming social pariahs in the process.
Further testing revealed that while my wife faced heightened fertility challenges post-ectopic pregnancy, I also had a significantly low sperm count. Though initially devastating, I found solace in sharing the burden, refusing to allow my wife to shoulder the blame. In January 2024, we began IVF procedures, delayed by two years due to COVID-19 restrictions. in July 2024, we received the joyous news of our pregnancy, and nine months later, our daughter arrived.
The arrival of our daughter felt like a culmination of everything we had endured, eclipsing all previous suffering. I foolishly believed that parenthood would erase the pain of infertility, rendering it irrelevant. I was wrong.
Now,the questions have simply evolved. People inquire about whether she’s our first child, or question why we’re 35 with a newborn, implying we should have started a family sooner. We deflect with “dismissive positives” – “She’s our one and only; the light of our lives,” or “We’d rather be experienced, mature parents than young and struggling ones.” Even medical professionals continue to discuss contraception and future family planning, seemingly oblivious to the fact that natural conception is biologically unachievable for us. It’s a bizarre position, requiring us to educate professionals about our own bodies and the realities of our journey.This constant questioning reinforces the feeling of isolation and makes us feel, paradoxically, more infertile than ever.
I cherish being a father, a gift denied to many, considering that 1 in 7 couples in the UK experience infertility. Yet, despite this knowledge and the joy of parenthood, my wife and I continue to be defined by our infertility in the eyes of others – a pain that never truly diminishes. Long walks in the woods offer a temporary shield, a refuge from the unavoidable questions about a “next child.”
I’ve come to accept that I can’t control the opinions or ignorance of others. Our path has been chosen for us, and our only agency lies in how we respond. For now, we’ve chosen silent stoicism, refusing to justify our situation or engage in endless explanations. We carefully curate who we share our story with, prioritizing privacy over gossip.
Yes, I’m a father; and I’m infertile. And that’s okay.
