This is why you didn’t want to log in to social media today. You can’t handle another pregnancy announcement hunting you down, just to feel the instant gut punch followed by the shame spiral for not feeling happy about what is great news for someone else—just not you, not yet.
Another ultrasound photo. Another reminder that what you want so deeply seems to come so easily for everyone else.
You’re not a bad friend for not being happy. You’re not bitter. You’re not broken. You’re heartbroken. And that deserves space.
Because while everyone’s clapping for the moms-to-be, who’s holding your hand when the test is negative again? Who’s checking on you after another “Maybe this is our month” ends in another tear-soaked night?
This chapter of life—where baby showers fill the calendar and everyone seems to be lapping you on the road to motherhood—is excruciating when you’re still trying. It’s not just jealousy and the ensuing shame spiral. It’s even more than that: it’s grief, it’s loneliness, it’s trauma in real-time.
You deserve support in that moment, not after, not once you've “snapped out of it.” You need support, now.
So, while I can’t take away your pain, I can at least share what I wish someone shared with me during my own infertility journey. Let’s start by saying it out loud: This sucks.
When Every “Congratulations!” Feels Like a Gut Punch
In your 20s and 30s, the nature of party invitations shifts. First, it's weddings, and then, almost suddenly, it's baby showers.
Each one is a celebration you’re supposed to smile through. Each one a reminder of what still hasn’t happened for you. Each one is a tiny cut in your death of a thousand cuts. So instead of sucking it up and painting on the smile, let’s take a pause to consider some options.
Ask yourself, what if?
What if you didn't go? Sometimes, treating your mental health as if it were a physical health problem makes it easier to confront. You wouldn't ask someone with a broken leg to run a marathon with you. So you don’t need to celebrate while you're in crippling grief. First excuse—diarrhea... No one is going to question you for having an upset stomach. It could be Covid or the flu—no one needs to know why. You’re allowed to choose you.
Here’s your permission slip:
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You can say “no” to the baby shower.
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You can mute social media accounts that trigger you.
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You can let the tears come when the announcement hits too hard.
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You can cancel brunch when you just don’t have it in you.
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You can celebrate your friends later, when it doesn’t cost so much of your own heart.
Protecting your peace doesn’t make you bitter. It makes you brave.
Let’s Talk About Jealousy (It’s Not the Villain You Think It Is)
That awful twist in your stomach when another pregnancy announcement pops up, or when someone complains about how tired they are with their newborn… You feel it, and then immediately feel bad for feeling it.
Is it jealousy?
Is it envy?
Is it just… grief?
Honestly? Maybe it’s all of them.
Jealousy usually shows up when we’re afraid of losing something we already have.
Envy shows up when we long for something someone else has.
And grief? Grief is the aching gap between what we hoped for and what hasn’t come.
So when you see a friend’s ultrasound photo and feel that sting—that’s not you being mean or selfish.
That’s you longing.
That’s you grieving.
That’s you loving something so deeply that it physically hurts not to have it.
And you’re allowed to feel all of that. You’re allowed to want to be happy for someone else and still feel crushed. You’re allowed to be a good friend and still whisper, “Why not me?”
Whatever name you give that feeling—jealousy, envy, grief—it doesn’t make you broken.
It makes you human.
It makes you someone who wants to be a mother, living in a world that keeps reminding you—loudly—that you're not there yet.
But you’re still here. And you’re not alone.
This Kind of Pain Can Make You Want to Disappear
When I said it’s okay to skip the baby shower, to stay home, to turn off your phone, I meant it. Sometimes texting, “I’m happy for you,” but not showing up because it hurts too much is exactly what you should do.
Not because you’re selfish, but because you’re protecting your heart.
But here’s the tricky part: pain isolates you—and shame thrives in isolation.
It tells you, “You’re the only one feeling this way. You’re the bad friend. The broken one.”
You’re not. So if you need to say “no” to the baby shower—say no.
But maybe don’t stop there.
Maybe text someone you trust and say, “This is hard for me right now.” Maybe share just a sliver of what you’re carrying. Not because you owe anyone an explanation—but because you deserve support.
You don’t have to choose between protecting yourself and being seen.
You can do both.
Here are a few small things that might help soften the ache:
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Feel the feelings. Cry in the bathroom. Scream in your car. Write an angry journal entry. Nothing about infertility is polite or tidy—your grief, envy, shame, and pain don’t have to be either.
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Say no without guilt. You’re not required to show up to anything that crushes your spirit. A “Sorry, I can’t make it” text is enough.
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Create a support bubble. Whether it’s a therapist, an online TTC group, or that one friend who gets it—find your people and lean on them, hard.
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Set digital boundaries. Unfollow. Mute. Log off. Social media is a highlight reel, not a measure of your worth or your timeline.
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Do one thing that feels like progress. It can be something tiny: taking a walk, researching next steps. Feeling in control, even a little, can help.
When You're Ready to Try Again (But Differently This Time)
Sometimes the idea of “trying again” feels impossible.
Not because you’ve given up—but because your heart is still bruised from the last time you hoped. And maybe what you need right now isn’t a decision. Maybe it’s just a little more information. A way to learn what your options really are—without pressure, without overwhelm.
Knowledge is power. And power feels a lot like hope.
I remember googling “Can you do IUI at home?” through tears, in the middle of the night.
Not because I was ready to act—but because I needed to know there was something else.
Some way forward that felt less clinical, less out of my control.
So if you’re feeling that too—like you’re not quite ready to leap, but maybe ready to look—that’s more than enough.
You can start small. Quietly. On your own terms.
When it feels right, we’ve gathered some gentle, science-backed resources to help you explore next steps like ICI at home. No pressure. Just options.
If I Could Go Back and Tell Myself One Thing…
I’d tell her—the me crying in the bathroom stall at work, the me avoiding baby showers, the me googling symptoms at 2 a.m.—you’re not broken.
I know it feels like you are.
I know it feels like everyone else is moving forward while you’re standing still.
I know how lonely it is to carry so much hope and so much hurt at the same time.
But hear me:
You are not broken.
You are not behind.
You are not alone.
You’re a human being with a tender heart, doing her best in a season that asks too much. You’re allowed to fall apart. You’re allowed to feel everything. And you’re still worthy of everything good—especially the dream you’re holding onto.
If no one else has told you lately: I see you. I’ve been you.
And I’m still here—hoping with you.
