I sat in stunned silence as my fertility specialist, Dr. Kelly, bluntly stated, “In my professional opinion, I doubt you’ll be able to conceive again or carry a pregnancy to term. Have you thought about consulting other experts?” Was she really breaking up with me? What did I just hear?
This doctor boasted impressive credentials and a track record of success that made my hopes soar. After waiting for months for this appointment, I had prayed she would finally provide the answers I desperately sought. But when I finally met her, she turned out to be unsympathetic. She glanced at my history of severe endometriosis—an agonizing condition where tissue grows outside the uterus—and dismissed my concerns as if they were insignificant.
I was “only” in my twenties, yet she callously remarked that my miscarriages were “too early to matter.” But to me, they mattered immensely.
I stumbled back to my car, dazed and overwhelmed. As tears streamed down my face, I sobbed in a way that felt primal—like I was suffocating. Eventually, anger and bitterness crept in, quickly followed by profound sadness.
In the weeks that followed, I felt inconsolable. The world around me seemed oblivious to the tidal wave of emotions crashing over me. Insensitive phrases like “just relax” or “everything happens for a reason” only fueled my frustration. Relaxing wouldn’t cure my endometriosis, and my idea of a divine plan was one that didn’t involve endless misery. I felt fear and anguish grip my soul, making even the act of breathing painful. At times, I thought I might be having a heart attack. Vivid nightmares and sleepless nights haunted me. Seeking some semblance of normalcy, I visited my primary care physician, who diagnosed me with severe panic attacks and debilitating anxiety. She prescribed a series of medications designed to help me cope, but they worked no better than placebos.
I felt like a total failure. I mean, I’m a mammal, right? Aren’t mammals meant to reproduce? I couldn’t control my emotions, let alone my reproductive system. I convinced myself I was losing at this thing called life. Though I never contemplated suicide, I felt like I was already dying. Anxiety and depression can drain the joy out of your heart, suffocating your faith, hope, and dreams. The depression made me indifferent to life, while the anxiety kept the turmoil fresh in my mind. I couldn’t even work anymore due to my inability to function normally.
In the depths of despair, I found my way to an anxiety clinic—not willingly. I had a complete breakdown that left me with little memory of the events that transpired. My husband, desperate to help me, confronted me alongside family members. I felt betrayed. He would never join me in therapy despite my repeated requests, yet he treated me as though I was the problem. I was furious! Everyone around me acted like I should have had no reason to feel upset. But they were wrong; my feelings were valid, and I was entitled to my emotions.
I vaguely recall yelling and retreating to my bedroom to escape my family. In a moment of desperation, I attempted to sneak out of a window but ended up falling and injuring my eyebrow, requiring stitches. In that instant, I learned three important lessons: 1. That window was higher than it looked. 2. I am not a cat and do not land gracefully. 3. Sneaking out was a poor choice.
At the emergency room, I found myself battling with a nurse who mistakenly accused me of being suicidal and drunk. I was neither but suggested I could use a glass of red wine after that awful evening. She did not appreciate my humor. In my anger and frustration, I may have said something inappropriate, which likely led to my being placed under observation.
As I sat there, I cried huge, uncontrollable sobs. Never in my life had I felt so isolated and unwanted. The resentment I felt towards my family was unbearable. In that moment, I was convinced I was dying from a broken heart.
Initially, at the clinic—which felt more like a mediocre hotel with locked doors—I was steeped in shame. But a psychologist helped me realize that my behavior stemmed not from insanity but from profound grief, compounded by my anxiety and depression. For the first time in ages, my feelings made sense.
Grief is not rational; it can cloud our judgment and lead to a whirlwind of emotions, including anger, sadness, denial, bargaining, and hopefully, acceptance that we deserve happiness. There is no prescribed timeline for grieving, just as anxiety and depression affect each person differently. The journey through infertility is a form of grief; each unsuccessful cycle feels like a part of your soul dies. Millions of women are navigating this struggle, mourning with each new cycle. After years of trying to conceive naturally, many turn to fertility specialists, only to discover that success is never guaranteed.
Infertility is a daunting foe. It is cruel and relentless. The realization that your body has let you down can be profoundly devastating. Many women have dreamed of becoming mothers since they were little girls, playing with dolls. The pain of infertility is not comparable to missing out on a job promotion or finding out your favorite coffee shop is out of soy milk. It’s a soul-crushing experience that alters your life forever. You are in a battle that often feels solitary; it can consume you before you even recognize it. The resulting depression and anxiety can suffocate you—no doctor could prepare me for this horror.
However, leaving the anxiety clinic marked a turning point. I emerged feeling empowered, not defeated. If I couldn’t conceive and carry a child, I was mentally ready to explore alternative paths to parenthood. I rediscovered myself, now stronger than before, with a renewed appreciation for life. I once thought that admitting I had a problem signaled weakness, but it was merely an acknowledgment that I needed help. Through the support I received, I felt loved and understood again. I learned vital tools to rebuild my life.
Recovering from a mental breakdown also necessitated mending relationships that had suffered. My therapist warned me this would be challenging; many people cannot grasp the depth of our emotions and lack empathy. Some family members mistook my struggles as personal attacks, when in truth, I was lashing out irrationally. One relative still refuses to speak to me six years later, despite my numerous apologies. However, most were genuinely concerned for my well-being.
I occasionally still feel resentment towards my husband, but I remind myself that he was grieving too. Fear held him back from attending therapy with me, and I should have sought help regardless. Infertility can erect walls between couples, draining their spirits. Yet now that we have emerged from this battle, we are stronger than ever.
My six-year journey through infertility was the most painful chapter of my life, and its scars remain. Time may heal wounds, but it doesn’t erase memories. I no longer carry shame for my breakdown. I am a fiercely strong woman who reached her breaking point. This is ME, and if you cannot accept me—flaws and all—I don’t need you in my life! Society often stigmatizes anxiety and depression, but these are real illnesses. Millions suffer in silence, just as I did, not recognizing how deeply they are affected.
There are no medals for enduring this solitude. Don’t become the person at the ER with a bleeding injury, too proud to admit the need for help. If you experience a breakdown, know you are not alone! Stand tall. You are not failing. You are a human navigating this complex journey of life. I may never be completely free of anxiety, but I have learned how to cope and manage it. I refuse to let it overwhelm me again.
Despite the cold treatment from my previous doctor, I understood she was wrong to dismiss my potential. With my newfound strength, I sought out a new doctor who was compassionate and optimistic. I also began acupuncture alongside a new fertility regimen, and within a year, I was pregnant with my first daughter.
Through this challenging journey, I learned to stand firm against life’s challenges, including infertility. Things can and will get better. Keep fighting. You are not weak, forgotten, or unloved. Repeat after me: I am a survivor. I am strong. Anxiety, depression, and infertility will not define me. Demand happiness in this moment and fight for your peace. Refuse to hide in shame. You have battled. You can rebuild. That makes you courageous.
Summary
This article recounts a personal journey through infertility and mental health struggles, highlighting the emotional toll of trying to conceive and the impact of anxiety and depression. It emphasizes the resilience required to navigate these challenges, encouraging readers to seek help, acknowledge their feelings, and find strength in their struggles. Ultimately, it conveys a message of hope and empowerment, affirming that despite the hardships, one can emerge stronger.