It was a normal afternoon.

My husband and I were out shopping and chatting cheerfully away. Then he mentioned in passing that a friend’s wife was pregnant. 

Immediately, I felt a familiar, sharp little pain. The pain of knowing that yet another woman had received a gift I desperately wanted. The pain of knowing that I couldn’t do what billions of other women in the world seem to be able to do so easily. 

In spite of my best efforts, my mood plummeted. The afternoon ended in tears. And this wasn’t the first time. I felt so frustrated with myself. I’d resolved to be brave about other people’s pregnancy announcements, and to not let them get to me. But here I was again, crying on my husband’s shoulder about not having children. 

I thought I could be strong — and to me “strong” meant hiding my feelings and not allowing myself to feel certain things. I had false confidence that I could just white knuckle my way through infertility. But I quickly realized that it’s not that easy.

So many times my emotional response to infertility has not been what I would have wanted it to be. When my brother told me that he and his wife were expecting, I knew I should be excited for them both — but I couldn’t muster any feelings of happiness. It was all I could do to congratulate them graciously. Whenever I think about a relative who conceived using IVF (in vitro fertilization), I wrestle with deep feelings of hurt and a sense of injustice that she gets to have children while I don’t. 

I’ve beaten myself up about the way that I feel. I’ve wished that God could take away my emotions altogether so that I wouldn’t have to wrestle with the pain, the anger, and the sorrow.  

Maybe you’ve felt this way, too. Maybe you’ve felt guilty about not being excited for the friend who got pregnant. Maybe you feel shame and frustration with your body. Maybe you feel like you just need to “get over” the grief of infertility and move on. Maybe you wish you could just numb your feelings completely.

Whatever you are feeling today, friend, I encourage you to give yourself some grace and be gentle with yourself. And I want to remind you that your Heavenly Father understands what is going on in your heart and loves you tenderly right in the midst of it.

God is gentler and more patient than we give him credit for. “For he knows how we were made; he remembers that we are dust.” (Psalm 103:14)  He is not angry with you for struggling, and He isn’t shocked, disgusted, or impatient with your feelings — even the ones that may surprise you. This is the same God who openly wept when His friend Lazarus died. He sees your tears and they are precious to Him. 

Even the greatest saints wrestled with their emotions and struggled under the weight of their crosses. I was reminded of this when I re-read St. Augustine’s Confessions. There is a section in the book where Augustine reflects on the death of his mother, St. Monica. Augustine was consumed with grief after she died and struggled with his feelings. He says:

“It was misery to feel myself so weak a victim of these human emotions, although we cannot escape them, since they are the natural lot of mankind, and so I had the added sorrow of being grieved by my own feelings, so that I was tormented by a twofold agony.” (Confessions, Book IX, p. 201)

How relatable! I feel that twofold agony all the time. I experience deep sorrow about infertility, and then I also feel frustrated with myself when I can’t get it under control. 

But what my husband has reminded me, and what I want to share with you, is that it is normal for a cross like infertility to be an emotional rollercoaster. There is no easy or quick fix for this wound. Yes, we are called to carry our crosses with love and courage. We don’t want to become bitter or let suffering consume our lives. But it is all right to struggle. 

So have a good cry. Let yourself feel the pain, the sadness, and the unexpected emotions. Ask for the support and help you need from your husband, from a close friend or family member. And, most importantly, share your feelings honestly with God — every single one of them, from frustration, to hope, to pain, and even anger. Remember Hannah, from the Book of Samuel. She came to the temple and literally sobbed out loud before God, telling Eli: “I am a woman deeply troubled . . . I have been pouring out my soul before the Lord.” (1 Samuel 1:15)     

On the days when this cross seems unbearably heavy and you feel powerless to stop the grief or the frustration, I invite you to bring it to Jesus and lay it at His feet. We don’t always need to put a brave face on things. The truth is we can’t power through on our own — but happily, we don’t need to. Jesus is with each of us, and His power is made perfect in our weakness. May we continually strive to be vulnerable with Him. He desires to carry us, comfort us, and wipe away our tears.

 

Written by an anonymous Springs in the Desert Author.