The Quiet Weight of Secondary Infertility (A Personal Story)
This is a hard one to write. Not because I don’t have the words—but because I have too many, and most of them feel heavy.
My husband and I have been trying to grow our family for a few years, but rigorously trying since the beginning of 2025, and somehow, that time feels both very specific and very blurry all at once. Like I can account for every single month, every negative test… and also none of them at all.
I don’t think anything quite prepares you for this, secondary infertility, and this kind of waiting.
This time feels different.
With our son, Hollis, it took us almost 10 months of diligently tracking—long enough for me to know that it wasn't going to happen instantly, but short enough that I still held onto a certain level of quiet confidence. This time feels different. Slower. Heavier. A little more uncertain.
And if I’m being honest, lonelier than I expected.
There’s this strange grief that comes with infertility that I didn’t fully understand until walking through it this second time around. You can be deeply happy for someone else while simultaneously feeling a deep ache for yourself. Those two things can sit in the same space, at the same time, and neither one cancels the other out.
I’ve had moments where I’ve asked questions I hoped I wouldn't have to again.
Why is this so hard for us?
Why does it seem to happen so easily for others?
Is there something wrong with me?
And maybe the hardest one to admit out loud:
Am I not meant to have more children?
That one lingers longer than I’d like.
When joy and grief exist together.
Living with endometriosis has always added a layer of complexity to this journey. It’s something I’ve learned to manage, but it also means that trying to conceive hasn’t been simple for us. We’ve done all the things—tracking cycles, ovulation tests, supplements, bloodwork, changing diets, semen analysis, TVS, HSG procedure—all of it.
And now, after tons of appointments, testing, and conversations, we're beginning the journey of fertility treatments like IUI and IVF. In some ways, it feels like we're moving forward. In other ways, it feels like we're carrying an entirely new layer of uncertainty—one that comes with its own emotional, physical, and financial weight.
And still, here we are—waiting.
That word feels like the theme of this season.
Waiting, while life continues to move around me.
Waiting, while multiple friends announce they're expecting.
Waiting, while I try to keep my heart soft and hopeful.
And I think what’s surprised me the most is how much this has affected both my husband and I in different ways. It’s been heavy on me, yes—but I see it in my husband too. In the quiet ways he shows up, in how much he wants this for us, and in the fact that he can’t “fix” it, no matter how much he wishes he could.
There’s a kind of helplessness in that. But also, a lot of love.
And if you’re in this place too—feeling like you’re stuck in between hope and heartbreak—I just want you to know you’re not alone.
It’s okay to feel sad.
It’s okay to feel frustrated.
It’s okay to have days where your thoughts spiral a little more than you’d like.
It's okay to celebrate others, even when it’s hard.
It's also okay to be genuinely happy for someone and still feel the weight of your own story at the same time. And on the days when it feels especially heavy, I’m learning it’s okay to take a step back and give myself a little space.
All of this can co-exist.
Holding onto hope.
I’m realizing (slowly) that this season isn’t about having all the answers or controlling the outcome. It’s about learning how to hold onto hope without letting it consume me. It's about choosing faith, even when I don’t understand the timing.
Because as much as I wish I could control this part of our story, I can’t.
What I can do is keep showing up. Keep loving my family well. Keep talking about the hard things instead of holding them in—even when it feels easier to stay quiet. Keep leaning on the people who feel safe.
One thing I've realized through all of this is how important those people are. Up until now, we've kept most of this journey between us and a very small circle of people. Not because we were ashamed of it, but because infertility is one of those things that people often don't know how to respond to.
Sometimes the comments are well-meaning but painful. Sometimes people try to fix it. Sometimes they say things they think are encouraging but leave you feeling even more alone and broken. And so, before I say anything else, I want to say “thank you” to the people who have sat with us in this season. The ones who have listened, checked in, given a hug, prayed for us, or simply held space without trying to make it better.
And to the women who have shared their own infertility stories with me—thank you. There is something incredibly comforting about being reminded that you're not the only one carrying this particular kind of grief.
I can also keep believing that the story of growing our family isn’t over yet.
Maybe part of that hope comes from hearing Hollis talk about it, too. He's at an age now where he notices that many of his friends have siblings. He asks us often if he'll ever have a brother or a sister (he's made it known he wants both)—and sometimes asks me why I haven't grown one in my tummy yet. He doesn't understand all the complexities of infertility, of course. He just knows there's someone missing from the picture he's imagined for our family.
And if I'm being honest, those conversations can be absolutely gut-wrenching. But they also remind me why we're still holding onto hope.
And if you’re here too…waiting, hoping, wondering—I’m right there with you.
I see you.
I feel it too.
And I’m holding onto hope for the both of us.
💙 Hannah
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