Finding Hope Again
I sat in a dark, cluttered room as a representative of the Reproductive Endocrinology department reviewed months of test results for the first time. She nodded, mumbling to herself. A small wave of hope surged within me. Then she turned from her computer, actually looking at me for the first time since I had sat down. A strained smile tugged at one corner of her mouth.
“I’m going to be honest. Your odds of success are about 20 percent, even with treatment,” the nurse practitioner said. “You should expect unexplained infertility. Do you have any questions?”
Those words were said with as much emotion as someone ordering a coffee. She didn’t offer any condolences or any hope. A few minutes later, with a xerox packet in hand that was supposed to answer my questions, I was ushered out of the room.
I felt as if all the light in the world had suddenly been snuffed out, and I was in the dark. Alone.
I didn’t know what to do with myself when I got back to my empty house. I went upstairs and stood in front of the bedroom that was supposed to be a nursery. My husband and I moved to Hawai’i full of dreams. I marveled at the crystal waters and lush, green mountains, thinking to myself, our child will be born in Hawai’i. We held hands as we watched sunsets, grateful to have the opportunity to live in such a beautiful place. Month after month we said to each other, “Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the month.” But Hawai’i is not the magical adventure we had imagined it to be; rather, it is the place where our hopes were crushed.
We had just started a six month deployment, and the quiet in my house was deafening. I shut the door to our nursery that would never be, gathered up my dogs, and went out for a walk. I needed to get away from my house. Tears poured down my face; my heart was broken and my world was in pieces. I had no idea how to put it back together, or if it was possible to put it back together.
I couldn’t bring myself to go back to my empty, quiet home, so I walked to a friend’s house. We sat out on the lanai as I told her about my awful day. She held me as I sobbed. Our dogs played in the yard, blissfully unaware of how much I hated my life in that moment. I looked at the sun sinking behind those beautiful, green mountains, and I thought to myself, I wish we hadn’t come to Hawai’i. I also wished that I wasn’t me.
I cried for weeks. I was tired, but could not sleep. I had assignments due for graduate school, but my brain could not focus. I knew I should eat, but I had no appetite. I had a constant headache. I spent hours upon hours researching infertility, watching YouTube videos and reading news articles and blogs. Over and over again, what I found were stories of broken women. I read about their pain, and recognized myself in their stories.
One single thought resonated in my mind: I do not want to become a shadow of myself. But how could I do that?
First, I had to accept that not only was I struggling with infertility, I was also experiencing depression. Reaching out for help was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I already felt inadequate because my body could not do what it is supposed to do — but to admit that my mind needed help as well? That was a blow I was not prepared to take. It was terrifying to place my fragile emotions in someone else’s hands. Seeking help also meant reaffirming to myself that I was worthy of help. I had not felt worthy of anything in months.
Any military spouse knows that bad things happen during deployment; it is an expected curse of this lifestyle. Sometimes it is broken appliances, car trouble, or trips to the emergency room. But sometimes… sometimes it is something that shakes a person to their core. I had lost myself, and I didn’t know how to find my way back. I was staring at six long months of being alone in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
Deep down, I knew my choices were simple: I could let myself fall into oblivion, or I could try to fight. I decided to try. These are the seven steps I took to find my way back to me:
1. Seeking help. My first step was to start seeing a therapist who specializes in cognitive behavioral therapy. My therapist listened to my story with compassion and guided me through understanding my emotions. Each week we discussed how I was feeling and how different events affected me. She gave me tactics to help manage my emotions. Together, my therapist and I came up with ideas of how I could handle the dark thoughts clouding my mind. I am blessed with a husband who cares deeply about me, but since he was deployed he had limited ability to help me. During this deployment, I also reached out to a few trusted friends for help.
Between my therapist and these trusted friends, I was able to form my own small support group of people whom I knew I could trust.
2. Studying myself. I thought I knew me. When my world came crashing down, I quickly learned that I had grown into a different woman. Losing hope changes a person; the woman I had spent 32 years with was gone, and in her place stood a stranger. At the recommendation of my therapist, I began to study the patterns of what made me feel steady, and what made me feel sad.
I felt most steady when I was able to be with friends who knew my struggle, and accepted me anyways. Though I know only a few people who have struggled with infertility themselves, I was able to connect with female friends over longing and hardships. Challenging myself creatively, through photography, crafts, or writing, helped take my mind off of my pain.
I felt most sad whenever I was surrounded by reminders of what I didn’t have. Although I love children, I had to stop attending family-oriented events. I live in a corner of the neighborhood that is saturated with children and they are always playing outside. To keep my home a safe place, I play music to drown out the noise. I had to accept that I don’t fit in with the majority of my peers now, for most women around my age are moms. I don’t belong in The Mom Club, so I stopped caring about it. I learned to walk through Target or the grocery store without focusing on all the pregnant bellies and babies. I trained my brain to ignore the things that would upset me as best as I can, and I found activities that children usually don’t attend, such as bar trivia.
I also had to figure out what still gave me joy. I love being outside. Spending time in nature is a remedy for my bad days. I am fortunate to live a short walk from a beautiful beach, so I spent a lot of time there. Standing in the waves reminds me of how big and powerful the ocean is, and that there is a whole world outside of my pain. Going to the gym gives me an opportunity to pound out my frustration, and handles my anger in a healthy way. With my photography, I found that I experience a rush of joy whenever I have family sessions, particularly if they are maternity or newborn sessions. While this may seem counter-intuitive, my struggles with infertility have shown me just how special each pregnancy is, and that each newborn is a precious gift.
I learned to find joy in showering other families with love, and helping them capture their happy moments.
3. Feeling my emotions. When pain tugs at my heart or tears threaten to spill, I know it is time to slow down and let it all out. I schedule time to cry. I find it relieving to know that I have some control of when my sadness will happen. I tell myself, “I have this time. I will cry. Then I will pick up and continue with my day.” When I decide the end to my tears, I can choose to feel better afterwards.
Since I allow myself to be sad, I also have to give myself permission to be happy. A couple months after I started therapy, there were moments when I found myself humming again. Because of my discussions with my therapist, I recognized these moments as incredibly important. Even if I have a deadline with school, or something else that I need to do, I take the time to feel happy.
I learned to embrace the moment. I find myself planning less and less, and instead taking each day as it unfolds.
4. Finding my anthem(s). Every woman needs an anthem, and this is especially true during challenging times. For me, it turned into a growing playlist. I found songs that touched upon the deep pain I felt and finding a way to be whole again. I downloaded these songs onto my phone and keep them with me always. I play these songs when I need strength; I play these songs as I cry. I play these songs as I run or work out, because they are the fuel that whispers to my heart, “Keep going. You can do this.” I play these songs on a loop until I feel their message: I am broken, I am messy — and I still need to be loved. I still need to love myself.
The songs that have kept me going are: “True Colors” by Zedd & Kesha; “Grace” by Rachel Platten; “Rise Up” by Andra Day; “This is Me” performed by Keala Settle and The Greatest Showman Ensemble; “Skyscraper” by Demi Lovato; “Alive” by Sia; “Invincible” by Kelly Clarkson; and “Courage” by P!nk.
5. Guarding my story. During this dark time, I opened up to some people about my struggles. Sometimes my story just spilled out, and other times I carefully chose a person with whom to share my story. I started to notice patterns in how people reacted to my pain. Some people were supportive and made me feel like I was heard and loved. Some people left me feeling more alone and like my grief was ignored. I had trouble understanding these interactions, until my therapist reminded me that people are afraid of pain. I wrote out the common things that people have said to me and put them into two categories: helpful and unhelpful.
When I looked over these lists, it suddenly clicked: people are not just afraid of their own pain. People are often afraid of any pain. In examining how others related to me, I found a way to separate my pain from people’s reactions. If someone reacts in an unhelpful way, that means they cannot handle my grief. I discovered a secret: that it is okay. My journey with infertility is my story; it does not belong to anyone else. Knowing this empowered me in a way I never imagined. Suddenly, instead of fearing how people might react to my infertility, I understood that I had choices. I do not have to tell someone about my struggle if I don’t want to. I do not have to go to events if it will make me sad.
Most importantly, I do not have to listen to unhelpful or hurtful things. It is okay to step away from people and friendships if I need to. With practice, I learned how to do this while still being kind to others.
6. Redefining my self worth. One of the hardest pieces of my journey with infertility has been to redefine myself as a woman. I have always known in my heart that I wanted to be a mother, but it was also something that was in the future. Now that I am ready, it is hard to not be mad at my body; it is hard to not hate myself. I had to find a way to accept that people think it’s strange that I don’t have children. I had to find a way to recognize that since I do not have kids, I am essentially irrelevant to most people. My husband’s unit is bursting with children, so almost all events are oriented towards kids. I had to get used to women walking away from me when they discovered I don’t have kids (yes, this has actually happened). And I had to acknowledge that as my friends have babies, our friendship will change.
To help myself navigate these changes, I set goals for the deployment. I determined what I could be proud of and I worked towards those goals. I focused on doing what I am good at and what I enjoy. And I really set myself to being helpful.
Helping people not only makes me happy, but it also helps me remember that I can make a positive difference. I value my self-worth in helping to make the world a better place.
7. Staying present in the joy. Once I found myself feeling moments of happiness again, I knew it was time to catch those happy moments and hold onto them. I choose to create happiness by allowing myself to be spontaneous. One of the ways I do this is by dressing up, just for me. Even if I am going to be staying home all day, I sometimes decide to curl my hair and do my makeup. The point is not who sees me, but that I value myself.
I developed a love for yellow because of the happy feeling it gives me. I purchased yellow clothing and wear it frequently. I bought myself a yellow notebook for school and yellow flowers for my kitchen counter. On a day I’m feeling cheery, I reach for yellow to keep that feeling. And on the days I think life might be hard, I reach for yellow to remind myself that I can still be strong. Like my anthem songs, yellow has become the color that reminds me to keep going.
I am a different woman than who I used to be, but I have found the new me. My heart has broken perhaps a thousand times in the past year. I have learned that breaking is part of life; some of the most beautiful things in life come as a result of pain. I was broken. I am broken. And I am being remade.
I have learned that it is okay to break, as long as I remember that what comes after breaking is putting the pieces back together.
I have hope again. I actively pursue joy. My husband has joined me in this endeavor. We’ve started a new tradition: each day, we tell each other the three good things that happened to us. Infertility drives a wedge into many marriages; we have grown closer. Any time I struggle to find good things that happened, I remind myself of this truth. No matter what we face, we face it together. We will always be that team.
There is new meaning in rainbows for me, and living in the rainbow state. A dear friend told me, “After every storm, there is a rainbow. You may not be able to see it, but it’s there.” I’ve been noticing all of the little rainbows in my life. Though my infertility has caused some friendships to shatter, I’ve found it’s given me a new determination to love and support fellow women. It has also caused me to pay closer attention to the emotions of those around me. Infertility has changed me for the better.
My resolve does not mean that dark days are not ahead of us. I still have tough moments. I still cry. I still wonder why I must face this struggle. I cried the night before my husband returned from his deployment. The refrigerator was fuller than it had been in months, and it was a visual reminder that he was coming home. Though I was beyond excited to have him back, having him home also meant that there are more opportunities to try to conceive — and more chances for disappointment. A part of me fears that the hope and strength I have found will not be enough to carry me through our infertility. We are walking straight into a storm, and I will have to continue to fight.
It is common for spouses to hold signs at homecoming. They might say sweet messages, or mark a big event that happened over the deployment. I had wanted to be able to hold one that read, Welcome home, Daddy. Since I could not have this, I chose to hold a scarf with a print of the American flag instead. I told my husband about my idea, and promised him that I would wrap it around him when he came home and never let him go. It was the most joyful homecoming that we have experienced yet. My pain may be deeper because of infertility, but it has also made the happy moments that much sweeter.
A few weeks ago, my husband and I babysat our godsons. I watched my husband play with the toddler. I cuddled the baby as I fed him his bottle. We both laughed as we ran around the house, trying to get the three-year-old to put his pants back on. When it was time for bed, I stood in the hall outside the boys’ bedroom as my husband read Peter Pan. I closed my eyes, allowing my husband’s voice to fill my heart as I swayed back and forth, rocking the baby to sleep. Tears filled my eyes. I don’t know when my husband will read our children to sleep; I don’t know if we will ever have our own baby to rock. So I stood there, soaking up every second to store away in my heart.
When the boys were both asleep, my husband wiped away my tears and hugged me tight. “Someday,” he whispered to me, “someday we will have our family.” I know all too well how fragile that hope is, but I’m holding onto it. Not knowing how or when the story will end may be the hardest part of infertility.
It is terrifying to let people into my story, to let people see this dark part of me. But it is even more terrifying to sit in the dark alone. One day, when my husband and I finally have a child, I want to be able to share our triumph with people. But before we can do that, I have to let people see my pain. What I hope is that when I tell someone my story, they are not afraid to stand in the pain with me. When I share my pain with someone, I don’t need that person to fix my problems. What I need is for them to hold my hand and remind me that I am still loved.
Author’s note: If you are reading this article and think you may be experiencing depression, please seek help. All of the suggestions and coping techniques within this article are things that my therapist and I discussed together. You do not need to do this alone; there is help. You are worthy of help.
Squared Away is comprised of military spouses who are your trusted assistants. We help CEOs, VCs, executives, and startup teams get their time back. US-based. #SquaredAwayLife #ChiefExecutiveAssistant
Drop by our social media and say hi👋 Instagram, Twitter & Facebook.
Ready to get Squared Away? Email Michelle@gosquaredaway.com.
