I’m not infertile. I just can’t have children. That’s what I told myself anyway.
In my eyes, this was very different from my friends who got upset that they weren’t pregnant after the first month, or the sixth month or even after a year of trying to get pregnant. No matter how much time had passed for them, all I heard was, “I’m not pregnant…yet.” It’s that three-letter word that made all the difference…yet.
My diagnosis when I was 16 of Mayer Rokitansky Küster Hauser syndrome (MRKH) meant I was born without a uterus. MRKH affects 1 in 5,000 female babies.
My diagnosis at 16 of Mayer Rokitansky Küster Hauser syndrome (MRKH) meant I was born without a uterus. MRKH affects 1 in 5,000 female babies. Though I had functioning ovaries, the message was clear. Carrying my own child was out of the question. Whether I wanted to build a family using my own eggs or through adoption, it was going to take lots of work, research, planning, and money. Not to mention needing to find an understanding, open-minded partner.
What started as simply a factual diagnosis that day developed into a huge secret I would grapple with for years to come. It didn’t have to be that way, but I didn’t know that…yet.
Something happens inside when you find out you can’t carry your own biological children at age 16. At that time, the world I was living in had two paths – one for men and one for women.
The path to womanhood that I was on told me I would get my period, grow up, have a crush on a boy, date, get married, and have babies. The minute I found out I had MRKH, my life took a detour. In my mind, I was immediately different – on my own with this heavy secret to carry. Suddenly all the steps on the path I was originally on didn’t apply to me anymore. Not the period, not the growing up, not the getting married, and certainly not the babies. I had to brave it alone. Though I wasn’t really alone, I couldn’t see that…yet.
Suddenly all the steps on the path I was originally on didn’t apply to me anymore. Not the period, not the growing up, not the getting married, and certainly not the babies. I had to brave it alone. Though I wasn’t really alone I couldn’t see that…yet.
As I watched friend after friend begin then build their families – one kid, two kids, three kids, some even more – I continued to congratulate them and celebrate each of their motherhood journeys.
Surprisingly, their growing families didn’t make me sad. However, something else was happening below the surface. Rather than get emotional by the fertility successes surrounding me, it was people’s response to occasional infertility struggles that moved me to frustration.
I found it challenging to understand the intense emotions some women experienced while trying to conceive. For instance, when a friend expressed her distress with trying to conceive for more than two months, I struggled to relate and connect with her. I minimized her feelings because they didn’t seem as intense as mine about my own situation.
Similarly, witnessing another woman storm out of the room when her sister announced her pregnancy left me confused. I found it difficult to understand why she would react so strongly while waiting to conceive a second child, especially when she had a healthy child at home.
Reflecting on these encounters and priding myself on the ability to hide emotions, I viewed their emotional outpouring as weakness, which upon further reflection was not fair or accurate. Only I didn’t realize it…yet.
The word “infertility” didn’t move me, because in my mind, it had nothing to do with me. It was a term I reserved for other women who had something I didn’t. I viewed these women as lucky because they had the possibility, even if it was a small chance, that they might get pregnant someday.
At the time, I struggled to empathize with those experiencing fertility challenges because I perceived them as having the luxury of hope, something I never had. However, I later realized I was comparing our situations without fully understanding my own journey with infertility.
Infertility, as the dictionary puts it, is the inability to get pregnant after a specific amount of time. So, maybe it wasn’t too far-fetched that I didn’t fully grasp the concept, considering pregnancy wasn’t in the cards for me. There wasn’t any “trying” possible on my end. I unfairly judged others dealing with infertility. By doing that, I was brushing off their pain, while ignoring my own.
Of course, every time I compared my infertility to others, I made myself the biggest martyr of all.
But you can’t bury pain forever. Finding myself unfulfilled in another relationship, I sought the help of a life coach and therapist to examine that cycle. Coaching helped me realize that I was not only hiding parts of myself from my partner, I was hiding from myself. Pushing down emotions blocks you from so many parts of life. It was only in allowing my feelings – my pain and anger — to come to the surface that I was able to heal.
Then, just like the sun emerges after a strong rain, most amazingly, so did my compassion. Compassion for those angry at their bodies. Compassion for those yearning to be mothers. Compassion for those walking through the grief. Compassion for those longing for the story they thought they’d live.
Then, just like the sun emerges after a strong rain, most amazingly, so did my compassion. Compassion for those angry at their bodies. Compassion for those yearning to be mothers. Compassion for those walking through the grief. Compassion for those longing for the story they thought they’d live.
No one ever wins when you compare infertility. I’ve learned that comparison and judgment only serve to isolate and prevent you from finding connection and belonging. Liberating yourself from judgment allows you to see the similarities.
The experiences and the circumstances might be different, but you’ll find shared emotions, shared disappointments and the support from those walking a similar path with you.
Today I live an empowered life – free to shift my mindset, feel my feelings, and meet others with compassion, including myself. I choose words like “fertility challenges” over “infertility issues.”
Thankfully, family-building options for someone with MRKH have progressed since the days I looked into egg freezing. While it continues to be a viable path for many women, other possibilities include fostering, adoption, and incredible advancements like surrogacy, and successful uterine transplants.
Regardless of the choices available to us, the outcomes, or definition of infertility, what unites us is the unexpectedness of it – no matter when we find out pregnancy may not be possible. Whether at 16, 25, or 35 years old, not getting pregnant was never part of the narrative we envisioned.
No one ever wins when you compare infertility. I’ve learned that comparison and judgment only serve to isolate and prevent you from finding connection and belonging.
I know now that the first step forward involves letting go of preconceived notions about how our lives are “supposed” to go. I’d love to say that there is a way to dodge hardships and difficult emotions but we all know that’s not possible. Instead, I shifted my focus to empowering others. Now I coach women to relinquish secrecy, seek support, and build strategies to get through those emotions, supporting them as they confront life’s challenges head-on.
If you are struggling with fertility challenges or other life-altering diagnoses, know that you can find support and write your own story. You just may not have learned how…yet.
