You Are Not Alone: Breaking the Silence Around Fertility, Loss, and Love

You Are Not Alone: Breaking the Silence Around Fertility, Loss, and Love

When I started writing about my fertility journey, I made myself one promise: I wouldn’t pretend to have all the answers. This isn’t a guidebook, and it’s certainly not a medical manual. It’s just me, one person, trying to make sense of what I went through, and hoping that in putting it into words, someone else out there might feel less alone. Because the truth is, this is messy, it’s complicated, and it can feel impossibly lonely. If you’re somewhere in that silence now, please know: I’ve been there too.
 
When Grief Feels Too Awkward to Name

There were long stretches of time when I didn’t dare speak about what I was going through. Sometimes, it was because I thought it would make others uncomfortable, that my grief was somehow too heavy or embarrassing for them to handle. Other times, it was because I felt like I was too much. Too emotional, too broken, like everyone else was quietly moving on with their lives while I was stuck in this strange, private sadness I couldn’t seem to shake.

It’s a peculiar kind of loneliness, being surrounded by people yet feeling utterly alone in the room. I told myself grief was something to keep small, to whisper about in safe corners, to tidy away before anyone saw. But here’s what I’ve learned, the hard way: grief doesn’t have to shrink to fit other people’s comfort, and it certainly doesn’t need to be whispered to be real. If you’ve ever sat there feeling invisible, unsure if you’re allowed to say what’s on your heart, this is for you. You are allowed, you matter, and you are not alone.
 
Presence, Not Prescriptions

In those early days, people didn’t seem to know what to say, so many of them defaulted to advice. Practical tips or clichés like “Everything happens for a reason,” “At least you can try again.” But what I needed wasn’t advice, I didn’t need someone to solve it, I just needed someone to stay. A hand, held out without me having to ask. A hug that lasted just long enough for me to believe it. A quiet voice saying: "This is awful, and I’m here. That’s all. I’m here."
It’s not easy to ask for that kind of presence when you feel like you’re already a burden. And I didn’t always feel like I deserved it. But I know now that asking, or even just hoping, isn’t selfish. If you feel like nobody sees how much you’re carrying right now, please hear me: you don’t have to carry it all alone.

When It Feels Like Nobody Notices

I never imagined I’d find myself sitting in that waiting room, again and again, feeling like help was just out of reach. There’s a particular kind of loneliness that comes when you’re waiting, for answers, for support, for someone to really see what you’re going through, and it doesn’t seem to come. During that time, I wrote a lot. At first, just for myself, but slowly I realised how many of us carry the same quiet ache, feeling like we’re slipping through the cracks, unsure if our pain even registers with those around us. If that’s where you are right now, if you’ve felt invisible, or as though nobody quite knows what to say to you,  I want you to hear this clearly: it is not your fault. You deserve care. You deserve kindness. You deserve people who really listen and sit with you in it. And you are absolutely not alone.
 
Partners Carry It Too

One thing I hardly ever hear anyone talk about is how much this journey weighs on the people standing beside you. Whether it’s your husband, wife, partner, sibling, or closest friend, they live it too. They just don’t always show it in the same way. For me, it was my husband. There were moments I didn’t recognise myself anymore, moments when I was angry, withdrawn, broken in ways I didn’t know how to explain. And I wondered, more than once, whether he’d grow tired of me. But he didn’t, he stayed. He showed up even when I pushed him away. He held space for me when I couldn’t hold it for myself. This book is also for the partners, the ones who carry the grief differently but just as deeply. You matter too, your hurt counts too, and you’re not forgotten here.
 
Breaking the Silence Together

Fertility struggles, pregnancy loss, grief — these things have a way of convincing you you’re the only one. Like the world is moving on without you, and you’re stuck, silent, and unseen. But you’re not the only one. Every time someone shares their story, every time someone says “me too,” a little more of that silence breaks. And that’s how we find each other, in those quiet moments of honesty and connection. If you’re in the thick of it right now, or standing beside someone who is,  please don’t forget: you are not alone. Not now. Not ever.

Final Words

There’s no neat way to wrap this up, because this isn’t the kind of story that ends cleanly. But if there’s one thing I hope you take from this, it’s this: you don’t have to hide what you’re feeling. You don’t have to apologise for being in pain. You don’t have to shrink to make others comfortable. You deserve to be seen, to be cared for, to feel held, even in your darkest moments. So let’s keep breaking the silence together. Let’s keep holding space for each other, even when we don’t know the perfect words. Because you’re not too much. And you’re not alone.
 
- Laura