Infertility Doesn’t End Once You Decide to Move On

There’s a version of this story people think they know:
→You struggle.
→You try.
→You miscarry

→You try some more.
→You make peace.
→You move on.

But the truth is… it’s never that linear.
And it’s rarely that tidy.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that I will never carry a child.
I’ve sat with it. I’ve cried through it. I’ve grieved it more than once. I’m tearing up just writing these words. It still hurts so much. But I’ve found ways to live a life I love and a future I’m excited about, even without the path I once imagined.

And, I still get sad sometimes. I think I will for a long time.

I can’t imagine the pain ever really going away. It’s grief. It’s loss.

Sometimes, I’ll catch myself imagining the version of me who didn’t have to give this dream up and the sadness slowly creeps in.

Or, it sometimes gets me outta nowhere when a friend or loved one announces their pregnancy. It’s not their fault, and I never show it (at least, I hope I don’t). It’s not jealousy, it’s just a dull panging of sadness that creeps in and sits in my chest later that day.

And, it especially happens almost every time I get my period. A monthly reminder of what could never be.

When I am downward spiralling sometimes, my husband, always trying to be gentle, sometimes asks,

“But haven’t we moved on? We made our decision. We know the universe has other plans.”

And we have.
We have made peace.
We have moved forward.
But that doesn’t mean the pain disappears.

Because here’s what I wish people knew:
Just because I’ve accepted that I’ll never birth a child…
doesn’t mean the natural nurturing instincts in me are gone.
It doesn’t mean I don’t still ache sometimes.
It doesn’t mean I don’t feel that deep, primal urge to love, protect, and raise a child.
It doesn’t mean I don’t wonder who they would have looked like.
Or who they might have become.

It’s not about regret.
It’s about grief, and grief doesn’t need permission to revisit you.

What I wish people knew about infertility, even now:
• That “moving on” doesn’t mean forgetting
• That some dreams take longer to stop aching for
• That there’s no expiration date on nurturing energy
• That hope can live beside heartbreak
• That you can create a beautiful life and still mourn the one you imagined

Infertility shaped me.
It made me more empathetic. More grounded.
It deepened my capacity to hold space for others and myself.

So if you’re in this in-between space, like I am…
Where you’ve “moved on,” but your heart still aches sometimes—
You’re not broken.
You’re just human.
And your feelings are valid, always.

xo Robyn, your infertile friend