Do You See Me?

Do you see me?

Do you see me sitting among the group?

As we’re all laughing over drinks, do you remember mine and my husband’s infertility?

Do you see me?

Do you see me when the topic turns to how hard it was to avoid intimacy this month, and everyone—but me—nods in agreement?

Can you sense the deep pain and jealousy I feel at the amount of control you all seem to have in planning your pregnancies? 

I wonder what it would be like for my husband and I to be aware of our fertile days. 

Would we avoid them, too?

Would we fear and stifle our consistent capacity to create a new life to love?

Do you see me?

Do you see me when someone tells a story about how this month was a “close one” because she and her husband were “reckless”?

The memories of my husband and I gathered around yet another pregnancy test come flooding in, and I try to hide the pain gathering on my face. 

It would be weird to cry about this right now while she’s sharing about how relieved she and her husband were that the test was negative.

Our tests were negative too, but for us it was heartbreaking.

Do you see me?

Honestly, I don’t know if I want you to see me.

Usually I try to hide behind a neutral face, fade into the background, and pretend I’m not here. 

This isn’t a conversation I want to hear or join. 

I’m embarrassed.

I want to turn my back on all of this before you realize what’s been said in front of me.

There are many times when I try to disappear:

Like when I overhear someone talking about how much they love “big Catholic families,”

or when someone asks me how many children I have.

Being seen in these situations thrusts a spotlight onto me that highlights my hidden pain.

Squinting in the blinding light, I can make out the silhouettes of those in the shadows.

Those who can’t relate, but who try to understand.

Am I too much? It feels like I’m too much.

Do you see me?

This moment isn’t really about you seeing me, is it?

No, it’s about me seeing you.

And see you, I do, because your pain is real, regardless of mine.

You deserve to be seen, even when seeing you hurts me.

You are allowed to carry your cross in the presence of your friends, and perhaps seeing me will change how you view it.

My pain does not mean that yours is invalid or not allowed.

I do see you. 

I see your struggles and your fears. 

I see the way you laugh it off and try to lighten the weights that weigh you down with worry.

We dance a fine line of supporting one another.

When I take time to listen and see you, I know that your cross is heavy, too.

So, see me.

See me sitting among the group.

Let that moment of seeing me show you what life without your cross could be.

Perhaps seeing that will lighten it a little for you and increase your gratitude.

I’ll do the same when I see you.

And I will trust in the plans that Jesus has laid out for me.

Amy Ambrose lives in Emmitsburg, Maryland, with her husband, Kyle, and daughter, Winnie. She and Kyle work together as photographers at Amy and Kyle Catholic Photography. The Springs in the Desert community has made her cross of secondary infertility feel less lonely to carry, and she’s working toward carrying it with great joy.