“At Least You Know You Can Get Pregnant” — And Other Emotional Paper Cuts

Infertility has a way of weaving itself into every room of your life — quiet at times, but always present. It lives in the pause between questions at dinner parties. In the silence after another negative test. In the ache that follows a scroll through a baby announcement.

And then — sometimes when you least expect it — someone says something like:

“At least you know you can get pregnant.”

It’s meant to be comforting. Offered up like a warm blanket. But instead, it lands like a splinter in the heart — small, sharp, and lingering.

If you’ve ever flinched at words that were supposed to soothe, this space is for you. Let’s sit with that ache together, and name what’s real beneath it.

The Polished Stone That Still Weighs You Down

On the surface, a comment like this sounds like hope. Optimism. A silver lining.
But inside? It can feel like someone trying to patch over your grief with a sticker and a smile.

“At least you can get pregnant” suggests a kind of consolation prize — a breadcrumb to follow back to the possibility of joy. But when you’re holding the shattered glass of hope in your bare hands, a breadcrumb just doesn’t feel like enough.

Words like this may be polished smooth, but they still add weight to what you’re already carrying.

Why It Feels So Heavy

Infertility is not just a series of lab results or timed appointments. It’s a deeply lived experience — physical, emotional, spiritual. It's the tension of wanting something so deeply that your body becomes a battlefield.

And when someone simplifies that weight into a single sentence, it’s like they’ve walked past a burning house and said, “At least it’s not the whole block.”

Because what they don’t see is:

• The miscarriage that followed that one pregnancy

• The countless nights you’ve begged your body to cooperate

• The silent space growing between you and your partner

• The daily decision to keep going despite the heartbreak

It’s not just that their words don’t help. It’s that they miss the full scope of your reality.

The “Ick” — and What It’s Really Pointing To

When your body tenses after hearing something like this, that’s not you being too sensitive — it’s your nervous system signaling that you’re not being fully seen.

That full-body “ick” is a truth-teller. It points to the part of you that needs tenderness, not tidying.
It’s the soul whispering:
“Please don’t shrink this. Please don’t rush me toward the bright side. Just let me be here.”

And that request is entirely valid.

What Might Feel More Supportive

Most people don’t mean harm. They just don’t know the language of grief wrapped in uncertainty. So they reach for what they’ve been taught — optimism, comparison, distraction.

But what so many people in the midst of infertility truly long for is:

• Presence without pressure

• Comfort without correction

• Witness, not wisdom

Something as simple as:

“That sounds really hard. I’m here with you.”
can be more healing than a thousand silver linings.

What to Say Instead: Words That Hold, Not Hurt

If you’re someone who’s stumbled over what to say to a loved one facing infertility — you’re not alone. It's hard to know how to offer comfort in a space so private, so raw, so complex. But connection doesn’t require perfect words. It requires presence.

Here’s what can feel supportive — the kind of offerings that land like a hand on the shoulder or a warm cup placed gently in your palm:

Say Less, Mean More

Sometimes, the most healing words are the simplest:

• “I’m so sorry. I’m here if you want to talk.”

• “That sounds really heavy. Do you want to share more?”

• “I don’t know what to say, but I’m walking with you in this.”

No silver linings. No problem-solving. Just gentle presence.

Show Up in the Small Ways

Infertility can make the world feel like it’s closing in. Thoughtful gestures go a long way:

• Send a meal when you know they have a treatment coming up.

• Offer to sit with them during hard appointments or recovery days.

• Drop off a comfort gift with a note that says, “No need to reply — just thinking of you.”

This tells them: “I see your pain, and I care. Even if I don’t have all the words.”

Respect Silence and Boundaries

Not everyone wants to talk about their journey — and that’s okay. Let them lead the pace and depth of any conversation. You might say:

• “If you ever feel like talking about what you're going through, I’m here — and if not, I respect that completely.”

Your presence doesn’t have to be loud to be meaningful.

Therapy Is Where You Don’t Have to Perform Hope

One of the most sacred things about therapy during infertility is that you don’t have to pretend.
You don’t have to be grateful when you’re heartbroken.
You don’t have to make sense of the mess before you’re ready.
You don’t have to be okay.

You get to bring the raw, unfinished parts of this journey into the room — and set them down, one by one, in the presence of someone who won’t rush you to clean them up.

You get to name what hurts.
You get to say, “That comment gutted me.”
You get to exhale.

Because in therapy, the goal isn’t to move on — it’s to move through, at a pace that honors what you’ve lived.

If You’ve Been Wounded by Well-Meaning Words...

You’re not too much.
You’re not ungrateful.
You’re just in the middle of something profoundly tender.

And if no one has told you lately: your pain makes sense. Your story matters — even the pieces you haven’t said out loud.

I offer therapy for individuals and couples navigating infertility, IVF, loss, and all the emotions that come with building a family in complicated ways. Our sessions are a space to slow down, feel seen, and move through this with care.