Throughout the many months my husband and I spent trying to conceive, my two full-term pregnancies, the time surrounding a miscarriage in between those two successful pregnancies, and every year of parenting since, I’ve experienced a veritable rollercoaster of emotions. But when I reflect on those years of my life that I’ve been all too happy to see behind me, I can’t help but notice that strong feelings of guilt permeate so many of my experiences.

I felt extreme frustration with my body for not doing what it was “supposed to do,” and guilty because it was my body that made conception difficult. Even though we both went through all the required tests at the start, it was clear that my PCOS—and resulting anovulation—was to blame. It can feel pretty shitty to know it’s your body that presents the problem, especially when the solution is outside of your control. 

I felt so incredibly angry during the years we spent trying to conceive, and that anger was directed in large part towards my family. We’ve all heard the statistics that demonstrate that—contrary to popular belief—a surprising number of people experience infertility and loss. But apparently those stats don’t apply to my family. My mother had four children, no miscarriages. My older sister had four children, no miscarriages. All the women in my immediate family got pregnant at the drop of a hat. At that time, I was the only one who couldn’t, and I deeply resented all of them for it. My feelings of anger and jealousy caused significant tension in an otherwise tight-knit and congenial family. I thought I would receive sympathy, but much of that sympathy was instead directed to the family member who bore the brunt of my anger. I felt guilty (and still do) for causing rifts in family relationships that are still being healed to this day.

When I finally became pregnant, I felt pure, unbridled joy. All the months, tests, tears, and dashed hopes led to what I wanted most of all. But, sitting in a meeting room at the fertility clinic in a group therapy session, holding close to my heart the sweet knowledge of my positive pregnancy test just days before, I was overcome with guilt. How could I be so happy when everyone around me was pouring out their hearts with stories of sadness and loss? What had I done to deserve this joy?

The pregnancies that resulted in my two children were—on the whole—uneventful, and for many months, actually quite enjoyable. Despite one of my children being born slightly premature (which resulted in a longer hospital stay at the start) the two births were quick and without complications. I felt so grateful for these experiences, but very guilty whenever I shared my birth stories with other mothers. I have known many women who had it so much worse; friends and family members who spent weeks on bedrest, who felt physically miserable their entire pregnancy, or who had traumatic birth experiences.

Being pregnant and having children is truly amazing, but can also be very demanding on your body, time, and patience. Whether your body is wrecked by pregnancy and birth, or sleep deprivation finally gets to you, or your children drive you up the wall with behavioural choices that really push your buttons, it can be exasperating. But I feel guilty nearly every time I express exasperation with all the hard parts of having children, because then I think—didn’t I want them SO badly? How dare I complain about them, after all that we went through to have them? I know too well that many people would kill to have what I have. 

I’m really not sure how to end this story, other than by saying that I can see now that I need to be much kinder to myself. That guilt isn’t serving anyone. What I most wish people would have told me when I was experiencing infertility, miscarriage, and pregnancy was that all my feelings were valid—the anger, the joy, the grief, the exasperation. Even though those years have passed for me, it still helps to be able to read other stories of people who have gone through similar experiences, and had similar emotional responses. Thank you, all, for being so emotionally vulnerable in sharing your stories.

—O.D.