I was already a PhD in Biology when I was diagnosed with unexplained infertility.
I understood the biology. I knew the statistics. I could read the studies, interpret the data, and explain the mechanisms better than most people in the room.
And it still happened to me.
That’s the part no one prepares you for—that even when you “do everything right,” fertility can still unravel your sense of certainty. Knowledge doesn’t protect you from the waiting. Or the grief. Or the quiet panic that creeps in when there’s no clear answer and no one can tell you what to fix.
That disconnect—between what we know and what we feel—is where the whispering begins.
Fertility gets whispered about not because it’s rare, but because it sits at the intersection of shame, sex, identity, and expectation. When something so personal doesn’t go according to plan, silence feels safer than honesty.
But silence is exactly what keeps people stuck.
A Very Long History of Blame (and Why It Still Shows Up Today)
From a scientific perspective, infertility is complex and often shared between partners. From a historical perspective, it was treated as anything but.
For most of human history, infertility was blamed almost entirely on women. Modern medicine didn’t seriously acknowledge male-factor or shared infertility until the 20th century, which means that for roughly 99.97% of human history, infertility was framed as “her problem.”
That kind of narrative doesn’t disappear just because science finally caught up.
Ancient marriage contracts allowed husbands to hire temple slaves if their wives couldn’t conceive naturally. Religious texts framed infertility as punishment. Early medicine coined the term “hysteria” to explain women’s distress and reproductive challenges. Even studying women’s reproductive health could get you punished or labeled a witch.
So when someone today feels ashamed, broken, or morally suspect because they can’t conceive, that feeling didn’t come from nowhere. It’s inherited.
Understanding that doesn’t erase the pain, but it does explain why it cuts so deep.
What Infertility Does to You—Even When You Understand It
Here’s what surprised me most: knowing the science didn’t make infertility easier. Sometimes I wonder if it made me harder on myself.
Infertility destabilizes you. It takes away your sense of control over your own body and replaces it with uncertainty. It forces you to live in cycles of hope and disappointment, while the rest of the world moves forward as if nothing is happening.
Clinically, we know infertility is associated with:
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PTSD-like symptoms
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Anxiety and depression rates similar to those seen in serious chronic illness
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Repeated grief responses, month after month
But living it is different than studying it.
It’s waking up already exhausted.
It’s feeling betrayed by a body you thought you understood intimately.
It’s questioning things you never thought you would. I even wondered if I should leave my husband, so he could be a father with someone who could give him children.
And when no one talks about it openly, people assume they’re weak for struggling.
They’re not.
Men, Partners, and the Silence That Hurts Everyone
One of the biggest failures of how we talk about fertility is that we treat it like a women’s issue.
It isn’t.
Male factors contribute to infertility far more often than people realize, yet men are still much less likely to be evaluated, to talk about it, or to seek help. Many don’t discuss health concerns with their doctors or partners. Many never discuss it at all, ever.
That silence doesn’t protect anyone. It delays answers and shifts the emotional burden onto one partner—usually the one already carrying the physical weight.
Fertility is and needs to be treated as a shared experience, however your family is formed.
Why Silence Keeps People Stuck
Silence doesn’t make infertility less painful—it makes it more isolating. When people don’t talk, they don’t learn:
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That depression, anxiety, and trauma are common—not personal failures like I shared with Huffington Post
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That “unexplained” doesn’t mean hopeless
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That there are often more options than they’re initially shown
I’ve watched people move quickly toward invasive, expensive treatments without ever being given the space to ask whether there might be another path—or at least a more informed one.
That’s not because they didn’t try hard enough. It’s because the system doesn’t always leave room for curiosity.
Why I Created PherDal
PherDal was born at the intersection of my expertise and my desperation. It was a science experiment on myself.
I knew the biology. I understood the timing. I could see where the gaps were—between what the research supported and what people were actually being offered. So I built what I needed and what didn’t exist.
Something grounded in science, but designed to feel human. Something that gave me more control and more dignity in a process that often strips away both.
If you’re navigating fertility right now, I want you to hear this from someone who has lived it and studied it
You are not broken.
You didn’t miss something obvious.
And this is not a personal failure.
Fertility is complex, emotional, and sometimes unfair—even when you understand it deeply.
We don’t whisper about things that don’t matter.
We whisper about things that feel loaded with meaning.
And I’m done whispering.
