Childlessness Can Be Alienating, But It Doesn’t Have to Be
No one should navigate this minefield alone

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I don’t go to baby showers anymore.
If I get an invitation, I’ll politely decline, sometimes give an excuse, and send a gift. Luckily for me, the last shower I was invited to was when I was out of town, so I had a real reason to not attend.
But I still haven’t sent a gift.
Being childless is hard. Some days I feel fine, but other days I feel like I’m constantly avoiding stepping on emotional landmines. Some of these landmines show up in the form of a pregnant woman, or a baby stroller, or even just the sound of a baby crying.
I tried for years to get pregnant. I did everything: timed intercourse, acupuncture, fertility diets, and more. When none of that worked, I did round after round of invitro fertilization (IVF).
In that time, I grew bitter towards the women around me getting pregnant. When I saw pregnancy announcements on social media, I had to hide their posts. I felt guilty about not sharing in their joy, but I had to set boundaries to protect myself.
I eventually joined an infertility support group and finally felt seen and heard. I had permission to share the feelings I couldn’t even share with my closest friends. Infertility can be alienating, but it doesn’t need to be. There are a lot of us and we need to lean on each other.
The support group wasn’t enough. I started therapy. My anxiety over the process led me to start taking medication to better manage it.
My years of infertility taught me how to build every type of support I needed. And how to block out anything that didn’t serve me, whether that was baby showers, pregnant women on social media, or sometimes even hanging out with mothers.
Then it finally happened. I got pregnant.
This was no easy feat. I used a donor embryo. I did loads of workup and met with lawyers and got contracts signed and notarized. I traveled to the clinic in Colorado in the snow (I live in Los Angeles, so the snow part is a big deal).
Once I was pregnant, I had to continue with hormone shots for the first trimester.
I was finally able to let down my guard and be happy for other pregnant women. But the bitterness was still there. Yes, I was pregnant. But not like them.
They didn’t spend years of heartache to get there. They didn’t have to spend thousands of dollars to conceive. They didn’t have to fly to another state to have a medical procedure. They didn’t have to give themselves shots in the butt everyday for three months.
I felt more entitled to being pregnant. I felt like I deserved it more. The trauma of infertility isn’t cured by getting pregnant.
Sadly, I didn’t get my happy ending. When I discovered my daughter had an unexpected genetic disorder, I had to have a termination for medical reasons (TFMR). I lost my daughter in utero at 19 weeks.
And I was back to all my reinforcements.
On the day of my TFMR, I came home from the hospital and started searching the internet for TFMR support groups. There weren’t many, but there were a few. I immediately reached out.
If there’s anything good about going through infertility, it has taught me how to build a support system and learn boundaries. When others aren’t taking care of your feelings, you have to take care of them yourself.
I learned to say no to invitations that didn’t serve me and yes to emotional support. I learned that it’s okay to be happy for someone else’s pregnancy and still be sad about my lost pregnancy.
Above all, I learned that the more I spoke openly about it, the more receptive people were. And if it put them off, then they weren’t the people I wanted in my corner anyway.
There have been a few. Sometimes your friends or family disappoint you. Now I know who I can lean on and who has to work on themselves before helping me. But I refuse to sit with my own discomfort in silence to make others comfortable.
I’ve put my heartache into my writing and standup. Yes, grief can be funny. I find laughter to be one of the most healing kinds of therapy.
The more I can vocalize this emotional roller coaster, the less heavy the burden feels. Additionally, if I share my story, another woman will undoubtedly feel less alone.
What can you do to support the childless? Check in with us. Some days we’re okay but a lot of days we’re not, and just a simple “how are you feeling?” can make all the difference.
For me, one of the hardest parts of navigating this journey has been feeling like no one cares. I don’t think that’s the case, but when no one asks how I’m really doing, it can feel that way.
Don’t be scared to bring it up. Odds are we’re already thinking about it. I hated it when I lost my daughter and people told me they wanted to say something but didn’t want to remind me.
I’m never not thinking about my daughter. So say something. Talking about her is the best way I can honor her memory.
And if you’re pregnant or have children, please be mindful of how we feel about that. If your childless friend turns down an invitation, it’s not always personal. Maybe they’re just not in the headspace to be around pregnant women or babies.
One of the most thoughtful questions I was asked after losing my daughter was, “What can I do to support you?” I didn’t have an answer, except that question alone was enough.
It can be as simple as that.
By Alice Cutler.
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Thank you for sharing your story and making me feel less alone in my story. Almost need to pivot out of my current friendship group while they are in the throws of raising small kids -
It’s just become too hard! Often feel alienated
Oh crikey, what a story. I completely agree, the how are you really would be so nice. Infertility and loss feels so consuming but so often unspoken about.
Thank you for writing and sharing 💚