The "Maybe Baby" Dilemma: Breaking the Silence on Infertility

Infertility is a strange, winding road paved with contradictions. One moment, you're told to keep your journey a secret—shh, don’t tell too soon, just in case. The next, people are prying into the most intimate details of your life as if your uterus is a public forum. It’s like an emotional tug-of-war where the only rule is that you never quite win.

The Silence Trap

Why did it ever become a “rule” to keep pregnancy a secret until the second trimester? Was it to avoid burdening others with the weight of loss? As if experiencing something heartbreaking is only valid if no one else knows about it. The message is clear: suffer quietly, just in case. It’s as if the emotional toll is easier to bear when carried alone. (Spoiler: it’s not.)

And yet, on the flip side, infertility somehow makes your body a free-for-all topic of conversation. The moment you don’t conceive within what others deem a “reasonable” timeframe, suddenly everyone has an opinion. Aunt Susan wants to tell you about her friend’s cousin who got pregnant after a trip to Mexico. Your coworker casually suggests you “just adopt,” as if it’s the equivalent of picking up a new hobby. It’s like you’re a contestant on a bizarre game show where everyone gets a say—except you.

The Judgment Balancing Act

Depending on where you live, infertility treatments come with their own baggage. In some places, discussing IVF is like whispering a scandalous secret; in others, it’s a badge of honor. When my grandma offered to help with the cost of IVF, it came with one condition: never tell a soul—especially not anyone from her church. It was as if, by trying to bring life into the world, I was somehow committing a sin. The irony burned deeper than the hormone injections.

The judgment doesn’t just come from outdated traditions. Even well-meaning friends can land gut punches with their advice. “Just relax,” they say, as if stress is the only thing standing between you and a baby. (If only relaxation could spontaneously generate human life, we’d all be raising kids from a beach in the Maldives.)

Choosing Your Narrative

Through all of this, I learned one thing: the only right way to handle your fertility journey is your way. Whether you want to keep it private, scream it from the rooftops, or document every shot and scan on social media—that’s your call. No one else gets to dictate when or how you share your story.

For me, transparency was healing. When we lost the twins, I only had to send one text—to my best friend, who became my spokesperson. She spread the word, shielding me from having to repeat my grief over and over. Colleagues stepped in, handling my work without question. The support, the grace, the understanding—it made all the difference.

For others, privacy is their sanctuary, a protective cocoon while navigating the unknown. And that’s just as valid.

Therapy: A Safe Place to Be Seen

In the maze of secrecy, unsolicited advice, and emotional whiplash, therapy can be a lighthouse. Individual therapy offers a space to process the grief, the hope, and the exhaustion that comes with infertility. It’s a place to unravel the tangled thoughts without judgment, to release the weight of expectations and just be.

Couples therapy, on the other hand, helps bridge the divide that fertility struggles can carve into a relationship. One partner might feel helpless while the other carries the physical toll. Resentment, pressure, and fear creep in like uninvited guests at an already overwhelming party. Therapy helps you both find common ground, to communicate beyond the tension, and to rediscover the team you always were.

Your Story, Your Timing

At the end of the day, whether you share your journey in whispers, through tears, or not at all—it's your decision. There’s no wrong time, no wrong way, no rulebook to follow. Trust yourself. Let support in when you need it, and shut out the noise when you don’t. Infertility may be a road full of detours, but you are still in the driver’s seat.