The Reason Behind One More Letter...

In 2020 I wrote a letter to my partner as we struggled with infertility. In December, I thanked him for fervently believing in me. Today, I'm sharing the why behind writing last letter in this series.

Three months ago, I wrote the article Thank You for Fervently Believing in Me, an ode to my husband after the hardest year of my life, of our lives; expressing my profound gratitude for his choice, for our choices to choose each other every minute of every day. I felt an overwhelming need to truly thank him for believing in my ability to survive, especially when I wasn’t capable of believing it myself.

As you know by now, three weeks ago I underwent a devastating, medically necessary hysterectomy, and with that procedure we permanently closed the door on my ability to carry another child, to give our living daughter a living sibling, and to fill the bedrooms in this house that we bought four years ago - when they days were different, when we were in the thickest throws of infertility, before the veil had been lifted, before the losses started destroying me.

That post I wrote and shared in December, it was after we knew we were moving forward with the surgery, but before there was a date on the calendar. It was on our minds but not permanently circling every thought, and we still had time to process what it meant - for me, for him, for our family, for our future.

My husband is an incredibly kind, patient and understanding man who has seen me at my very worst, and has held my hand and wiped my tears through every stage of grief, every feeling of loss, and every moment of devastation - not just in this impossible season in which I’ve been trying to reclaim myself, my body, my life, my heart, my emotions, my wifehood and my motherhood, but going back all the way to 2017, to everything that has effected me physically and emotionally since we first started trying to have a family.

I wrote that piece as a promise to him. A promise that I would never undo us. I would never undo me. And that I will gladly and easily choose him, every minute of every day until we run out of time. As a team, I feel like we’ve navigated some of life’s worst tragedies, traumas and moments, interspersed with beautiful moments of joy and love and happiness, and I truly believe that by now, at this point in time, nothing can take us down or pull us apart - because we’ve already survived the best and the worst of it.

Writing through Infertility

This belief he’s held for me, with me, for us, for our family, it’s been a pillar of my strength, a tentpole in my recovery from postpartum depression and anxiety. It’s taught me that in hardest moments, with the worst feelings, I am not and never will be alone. That even when it feels like my friends don’t have space or understanding, my partner will find the time, the ability, the strength to stand beside me, to hold me, to encourage me to release my feelings, to be open and honest about what I need, and to let him support me, even when I’d rather he not see me in that light.

It’s made me think so much about the 7 years we’ve lived through, struggled with, and been failed by infertility. Back in 2020, our living daughter was nearly 18 months old when we returned to IVF. We had two genetically normal, male embryos in the freezer, and we were sure they’d become B’s brothers, one at a time. However, that’s not how it worked.

After the first early miscarriage, I felt both kicked to the ground and also more motivated than ever before to get up and push harder. The thing with infertility, however, is that there is ZERO correlation with effort, time, or dedication. It’s chance. Fate. However you look at the universe making decisions on your behalf.

During the time leading up to what would become our second early miscarriage, I was already working as an infertility doula, and my work and my life became enmeshed. The word infertility came out of my mouth more than nearly anything else, and I was so adamant about us pursuing our dreams and helping support others as they followed theirs too.

The biggest benefit from that chapter, in retrospect? I wrote some of the clearest, most honest pieces about my continued search for motherhood during that season.

One article in particular, was picked up and published by a popular blogging site called Scary Mommy, titled “A Letter to My Husband as We Navigate Infertility,” and it feels really appropriate to share it here, now, incase it resonates with any of you.

To my overly patient and incredibly kind husband,

When I think of you, I think of my immense gratitude. I think of what my life looked like before, and how beautiful it is now. Not because it’s perfect, or because we have everything we could want, but because I get to share it with you. Honestly, this season has felt really difficult for so many reasons, but difficult together I can handle. It’s difficult apart that would be too hard to face.

When I think of our family, of our IVF miracle daughter and the other babies we’re still hoping to have, I think of you first and foremost. I think of the ways that we’ve come together. The things we’ve gone through to get to this point, and the things still ahead on our path. I think about the ways in which my heart can’t make up for the things my body has fallen short on, and the silent frustrations you’ve been forced to carry. I think about the passionate, fierce advocate you are for all things silenced and stigmatized — first, mental health, suicide awareness and prevention, and now infertility and fatherhood too — and I feel a lump in the back of my throat. How did I get so lucky to find a partner so encouraging, so compassionate, so faithful, so strong?

I know that when we first met, we talked about wanting babies from the very beginning of our relationship. We’d stay up late at night, dreaming about becoming parents. We talked about all of the things we wanted for our littles, like siblings and support and community. We talked about how living with an autoimmune disease might mean something about if or how or how many times I could carry a baby, and we agreed that we’d find a way to make it work. That we were open to any of the avenues that built a family, as long as I could be Mama and you could be Dada.

When we started trying to get pregnant before, we were optimistic and hopeful. We naively thought that it would be fun and games, an increase in intimacy and a joyful route to our littles. I’m continually and forever sorry that wasn’t our story.

I am sorry that our route to parenthood meant you were asked to literally ‘come’ into a cup, several times, for analysis and then for procedures. I am sorry that at those appointments, you were only offered “sexy” magazines or whatever you could find on your phone for inspiration, and that I was not able to be in the room with you, to support you or make the experience even slightly less awkward. I am sorry that you then had to watch me go through test after test, injection after injection, and procedure after procedure — for a long time with no success. I am sorry that making a baby was so much harder than we ever imagined it would be, that it was expensive and exhausting and scientific and not in any way romantic or enjoyable. I’m sorry that time isn’t our on side, and that luck isn’t either.

But I also want to thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

Thank you, for riding every aspect of the highs and lows with me. Thank you, for cheering when my scans noted additional follicles, and my hormone levels rose accordingly. Thank you, for sharing your grief, and mine throughout the whole process. Thank you, for fervently celebrating when we finally found success, and for being the best parent to our little girl. Thank you, for not seeming to be disappointed, frustrated or angry that a BOGO baby wasn’t in the cards for us, even though we desperately had hoped for one. Thank you, for knowing that my patience and persistence is sometimes equally matched by doubt and discouragement, and for holding my hand through each season and “adventure” of this journey we’re on. Thank you, for sitting with me and my sadness, that not one single thing could feel easy for us as we started again to try to grow our family. Thank you, for letting me share with the world the hard and intimate details of our marriage, our relationship, and the things that we’ve experienced. Thank you, for believing and supporting that our story could help others, and that I too could help others in the process. Thank you, for your unequivocal and unending love, encouragement, strength and persistence.

When we took our wedding vows, we talked very seriously about how marriage was choosing each other every single day, not just at the altar in front of our friends and family, and not just in that beautiful white dress I wore while we were standing in the sand. That choose each other attitude is what has gotten us through every rollercoaster we’ve faced in the last several years, including infertility (both before, and again) and I’m honestly really proud of it, and of us.

I believe that forever is for real, and that we will make it there because we have and will continue to choose each other over everything.

I am eternally lucky for you, my partner, my best friend, my person.

Thank you for fervently believing in our family — both the pieces that do and do not exist yet.

Always,

Amanda

& Today, it’s time to write the sequel.

After re-reading this almost 4.5 years later, having gone through three additional egg retrievals, the first trimester of a twin pregnancy ending in delivery at 12 weeks gestation, a spontaneous ectopic pregnancy which caused my fallopian tube to rupture and my to nearly bleed out, and a diagnosis of Endometriosis nearly 20 years too late - I feel like my entire outlook on our struggles with infertility is both exactly the same and completely different than the version of me that wrote the letter above.

Now that I’m three weeks post-op, and finding clarity in my thoughts again, I felt called to write one more letter to my partner - a letter on letting go and finally saying goodbye to infertility. That’s what this post was going to contain, but I realized there was some back story to share first.

Thank you, for reading along as I write to process and process by writing, and know if you see or hear yourself in anything above that you are anything but alone. Please don’t hesitate to comment, to reach out, to send a DM - I want you to know you and everything you’re feeling in this moment in time is real, valid, and understandable.

Stay tuned, friends. The last letter is actively being drafted as we ‘speak.’