Why Minimizing Infertility Pain Misses the Point

If you’ve ever opened up about something painful — infertility, postpartum anxiety, partner stress, burnout, first responder family life — only to hear, “Well… it could be worse,” you know the feeling.

The emotional full-body ick.
The instant shutdown.
The internal eye-roll so strong it should count as resistance training.

Because let’s be honest: “It could be worse” is never as comforting as people think it is.

It’s the conversational equivalent of a participation trophy—technically offered with good intentions, but completely missing the point.

And when you’re already in a vulnerable season of life, it doesn’t soothe you… it silences you.

Let’s unpack why this phrase lands so badly, what it does to your nervous system, and what healthier emotional support actually sounds like.

(And don’t worry — I’ll also give you some therapist-approved comebacks if you’re feeling spicy.)

Why “It Could Be Worse” Misses the Entire Assignment

When someone is struggling — with infertility, miscarriages, hormones, injections, sleep deprivation, panic, trauma, or the weight of a spouse who works in a dangerous job — they’re not looking for a comparison chart.

They’re looking for connection.

“It could be worse” is an emotional bypass. It unintentionally communicates:

• Your pain isn’t valid.

• You’re being dramatic.

• Someone else has suffered more, so suck it up.

• I’m uncomfortable with your feelings, so let’s shut those down.

And here’s the kicker:

Pain doesn’t need a hierarchy.

You don’t need to earn compassion by proving you’ve suffered the most.
You don’t need to “be grateful” while you’re drowning.
You don’t need to downplay your emotional experience just because someone else has endured something different.

Your pain deserves acknowledgment — not comparison.

Why It Hits Infertility and Postpartum Clients Especially Hard

If you’ve ever been on a fertility journey, you’ve almost definitely heard:

• “It could be worse — at least you know you can get pregnant.”

• “It could be worse — at least the treatment exists.”

• “It could be worse — at least you’re young.”

• “It could be worse — people have it harder.”

• “It could be worse — just relax.” (The OG of icks.)

These comments don’t comfort.
They isolate.

They make your grief feel inconvenient.
They turn your lived experience into a problem someone wants resolved quickly so they don’t have to sit in discomfort.

Postpartum mothers hear similar hits:

• “At least the baby is healthy.”

• “At least you’re not pregnant anymore.”

• “At least you have support.”

• “At least it’s just hormones.”

And for first responder families:

• “At least you knew what you were signing up for.”

• “At least they provide good benefits.”

• “At least you’re used to it by now.”

As if being “used to it” ever makes fear, loneliness, or uncertainty easier.

The Nervous System Reaction: Why Your Body Says “Absolutely Not”

When someone minimizes your emotional reality, your body feels it before your brain does.

Here’s what happens internally:

• Your shoulders tighten.

• Your jaw locks.

• Your stomach drops.

• Your breath cuts short.

• Your emotional walls shoot up like a fortress.

Why?

Because your nervous system interprets minimization as a threat.

Your body shifts from: “I’m opening up” → “I need to protect myself.”

That’s why the ick hits fast.
Because you were vulnerable — and then emotionally invalidated.

Why People Say It (And No, It’s Not Because They’re Monsters)

Most people mean well — they just don’t know how to handle other people’s pain.

“It could be worse” is usually code for:

• “I don’t know what to say.”

• “Your feelings make me uncomfortable.”

• “I want to fix this for you.”

• “I’m anxious right now and need the conversation to end.”

Our culture teaches people to jump toward positivity instead of presence.

But real support isn’t positivity.

It’s sitting with someone in the hard.

It’s witnessing their pain instead of bypassing it.

It’s being a soft landing instead of a spiritual motivational speaker.

So What Actually Helps? (Therapist-Approved Options)

If people want to support you, here’s the stuff that actually works:

1. Validate the feeling

“I’m so sorry you’re going through this. It makes sense that you feel overwhelmed.”

2. Offer support instead of solutions

“Do you want to talk about it, or do you want distraction today?”

3. Normalize their humanity

“Anyone would feel this way in your situation.”

4. Ask what they need

“How can I support you right now?”

5. Hold the space instead of filling the silence

Sometimes presence is the full medicine.

If You’re the One Hearing “It Could Be Worse”… Here’s What You Can Say

Depending on your mood:

The Calm Boundaries Version

“I know you’re trying to help, but comparing pain doesn’t make me feel supported. I just need you to listen.”

The Therapist-But-Real Version

“I’m not trying to rank suffering. I just need space for my own feelings right now.”

The Slightly Petty Version (I support this in spirit)

“Trust me — minimizing my experience doesn’t make it feel any better.”

The Polite Exit Strategy

“Thanks. I’m going to pause the conversation for now.”

Pick your flavor.

How Therapy Helps Undo the Damage Minimizing Comments Create

A big part of healing — especially for infertility, postpartum, and first responder families — is learning that what you feel is allowed to take up actual space.

In therapy, we work on:

• Reclaiming emotional permission
  You get to feel what you feel without apologizing for it.

• Understanding your triggers
  Why certain phrases hit deep (hint: they echo past invalidations).

• Rebuilding vulnerability
  Especially if you’ve learned to shut down around unsafe people.

• Establishing boundaries
  You can protect your peace without guilt.

• Healing identity wounds
  Minimization often chips away at self-worth — we repair that.

You’re not “too sensitive.”
You’re not “making it a big deal.”
You’re not “overreacting.”

You’re having a human response to an invalidating culture.

Here’s the truth:

You don’t need someone to remind you that things could be worse.

You need someone who can sit with you in the “this is hard.”

You deserve support that doesn’t shrink your experience.
You deserve understanding that doesn’t compare.
You deserve connection that doesn’t require you to minimize your grief to make someone else comfortable.

So yes.
Please stop telling me it could be worse.

It gives me the ick — and my nervous system agrees.