Lately, I’ve been praying with the idea that  the wound of infertility is linked to other wounds. Last month, I was convicted by a comment from an acquaintance.  She remarked  how all our lives we wrestle with something until we can be satisfied by God and only God. Shared in the context of living with primary or secondary infertility, she proposed that one could swap out “infertility” for another difficult experience undergone in one’s life prior to walking the path of infertility. By doing so, one could pinpoint the underlying lens through which she generally experiences her personal cross of infertility. 

Pondering and taking this idea to prayer daily since hearing the comment revealed that ultimately, what goes in the blank for me is: excluded. Feeling left out or excluded seems to be at the root of my experiences with infertility, and is also a familiar challenge. 

As I look back over my life, some memories that evoke these feelings of exclusion stem back to the early years. For example, as the only girl in my family, I longed for a sister. Also, as someone diagnosed with hearing loss as a toddler, there were times growing up when my parents and brothers would be enjoying a conversation that I would miss bits and pieces of, which, at times, left me falling a bit short within the dialogue. 

Thinking back on upper-elementary or middle school years, I experienced the common pre-teenage drama of being friends today but not tomorrow. Then, in adulthood, there have been social events planned but no personal invitation extended. In this day of social media, it is more obvious than ever if one has been left out of a gathering. It can be painful to see posts of get-togethers of which one is not a part of, or was not invited to attend. 

Similarly, the sharp pangs of feeling excluded occur quite regularly during my current  season of life.  Birth announcements are a weekly occurrence, my commute regularly has me stopped behind a multi-passenger van at a traffic light, and meal train requests for growing families are shared almost daily within my community. These daily reminders of what others have and what my husband and I do not are like small swords that pierce the heart…hence my growing love for Our Lady of Sorrows as I seek to place myself at the Foot of the Cross and to not run from the wounds. This requires an act of rest on my part and to not bury myself in the busy-ness.

However, what I also see in these examples of feeling left is the tender love and mercy of God and His Presence in the pain. He has shown me ways I can triumph and persevere amidst the perceived lack or feeling excluded. I have way more joyful and happy family memories than painful ones. I have special relationships with each of my brothers which I cherish. Even though I grew up as the only girl, as an adult, I experience the love and joy of my sisters-in-law, and have found sisterhood in the friendships with other women I’ve met and befriended over the years. 

Right now, I’m especially grateful and thankful for the sisters in Christ I am journeying with through the local small group the Springs in the Desert team helped to form. I can see how God has used my infertility to help create something new for others…and for me. All my life, I’ve witnessed how He has gifted me with a desire to create and cultivate community so it makes sense to utilize those gifts and lean into those strengths now even when facing infertility every day. Over the last two years, my co-facilitator and I have been helping create a small group, and now a retreat, for those on this path of infertility and/or loss. I can say that since forming and continuing the small group, my daily experiences with infertility have been enriched through their presence. They’re just a text away, and I can call any one of them and ask to meet for a coffee chat if I’m having a hard day. My husband and I have also been able to go on double dates with some of the women and their husbands, which has been lovely. Having this accompaniment and support definitely provides comfort during the daily ups and downs of living with infertility. 

Every day, we are reminded of our infertility. Sometimes we may try to busy ourselves or distract ourselves to the point of exhaustion in efforts to not think about it. However, what if this is the very thing God is using to transform us? What if, in this deepest wound, He is working through it and creating something beautiful out of it that we just don’t see yet? 

St. Augustine says we are restless until we rest in God. In prayer recently, I pondered what it must feel like for God to look longingly at us, desiring nothing other than to be united to us, yet we’re so busy focusing elsewhere and looking at other things, such as the wished-for pregnancy or baby that we completely miss His gaze.

Living here in Ohio, we have been getting lots of snow over these last several days. Something I have always loved about the snow is how quiet it gets especially after a fresh snowfall. I think our experiences of infertility, in all its forms, can be so still and quiet yet so deafening at the same time…kind of like that stillness and quiet after the snowfall. Perhaps it is in that stillness God is inviting us to rest. 

Perhaps in the next week, spend some time each day resting, trusting, and surrendering in the Lord. Hold that space for peace even amidst the sadness. God is still there. He’s waiting for you and wants to transform the hidden wounds of infertility in each of us. Let Him.

Megan Reister, wife to Adam and mother of one young daughter named Charlotte, loves peanut butter and chocolate combinations, puppies, and her home state of Pennsylvania. Now an Ohio resident, she is a teacher who enjoys working at a Catholic university and helping preservice teachers become advocates for the children they will serve in their vocations. Spiritual motherhood has always had a place in Meg’s heart, and even more so as she and her husband face secondary infertility. You can read more from Meg on her personal blog.