When we started this whole thing of trying to get pregnant, I learned very quickly how sensitive my wife was about sharing anything related to it with other people. From the beginning she asked that we not tell anyone we were trying to conceive, and explained that she didn’t want the pressure of family and friends in case something didn’t go as expected. To me back then it made total sense, and I agreed not to tell anyone we were trying to have a baby.
In general I’m a very open person, and I believe that by sharing with people you not only get relief, sometimes, but you also get the chance to hear insights, digest the experience, and get advice and connections to people in similar situations. I don’t think there’s anything to hide or be ashamed of if you’re trying to get pregnant and can’t make it work. I also don’t care what people think or say behind my back. I didn’t do anything wrong, and it’s their problem if they decide to get their nose into areas that aren’t theirs. And my wife knew it. She knew that if it was up to me I’d share it with our best friends, a great couple who know many other couples going through the fertility journey and could definitely share some stories or advice, and with her mother, who is very emotionally intelligent and had experience with infertility herself. But as you know, I couldn’t share our situation, because I’d agreed not to.
Time passed and we saw that we weren’t getting pregnant easily. We got to the stage where sex was no longer just for fun, it was also a task that had to happen at a very specific time. Months went by, and when we started thinking we might have to go to a fertility center, my wife kept reminding me that we were keeping it secret and no one should know. Even though I was starting to feel a little annoyed with all the secrecy, I agreed to keep it between us.
After our first miscarriage, at the six week mark, I started to see cracks in my wife’s approach to the whole thing. We obviously took it very hard and were sad and shocked that it happened, but my wife carried it with her, and she became more pessimistic about our chances of ever having a baby. We kept trying and had another pregnancy a couple of months later, which turned out to be another miscarriage, right before the first ultrasound, at around eight weeks.
All that time I felt devastated by the situation. My wife started showing signs of depression: not wanting to go out and spend time with friends, not speaking to her family, barely wanting to do anything fun. It felt like she was carrying the miscarriages 24/7, along with the feeling that it would never work for us.
At that time, what helped me most was distracting myself from it. I focused on the regular day to day stuff and managed not to spend all my time thinking about how I felt or about our chances of having a family. But very often I’d come home and find my wife in our bed watching Instagram reels, waiting for the next day to come. It hit me every time I saw her: she is deep into infertility depression. I tried as hard as I could to find ways to get her out of it, booking flights to places like Japan, Ecuador and New Zealand, and going to cool places around the Bay Area.
It hit me every time I saw her: she is deep into infertility depression.
Even though we talked about it many times, it felt like an endless conversation repeating itself. Talking about what happened, trying to understand why it didn’t work, what we should have done differently, what our next steps should be, how she felt about it, and how we could make our life a little better despite it. At some point I felt like I was living in a cycle of the same conversations, going nowhere, that I had no control over. It was frustrating, and eventually I stopped listening and just answered generically. “Yes, I agree.” “Yes, you’re right.” I didn’t want to disappoint her by saying I wasn’t interested in hearing it over and over, so I played along as if I was listening. Slowly I found myself avoiding anything that might even get us close to those topics. I wasn’t aware of it back then, but looking back I have no doubt that in a lot of cases I avoided communicating at all, afraid it would bring back the same endless cycle of sadness and desperation.
Despite my efforts to avoid it, it came up from time to time, and I wanted to be there for her. Three years into the fertility journey, cracks started showing in me. I couldn’t see it in real time, but I felt that I was changing and had no control over it. There was a small voice in my head saying “I’m disappointed in this life and in my day to day,” or “you’re not doing enough to improve your situation,” while I tried to fight it with logic, telling myself I was doing my best with the situation and that it truly wasn’t under my control. What made it even harder was that we had unexplained infertility, so there were no clear steps to take in order to have a baby. It was just to keep moving forward, hoping either that it would work or that we’d find out what the issue was.
Then one day, in the middle of a conversation with our best friends about our situation, I caught myself and realised I’d broken our number one rule. I was sharing our infertility journey with people. Even though I was a little worried about how I’d manage it with my wife, I felt so much better. Finally. I could say how I felt and hear other people’s opinions and perspectives. They didn’t have any specific advice at that point, but they finally understood why we’d been distant over the last few months, and why we’d skipped some of their kids’ events.
Knowing how it felt to share our situation, and how much it improved the way I felt and the way I handled things, I spoke to my mother-in-law and told her too. She’s a very compassionate and intelligent person and she never pressured us to have a baby. She’d dealt with infertility herself and knew how hard and stressful the process can be. She knew her daughter wasn’t interested in talking about it, so we kept it secret. Somehow I’d got myself into a situation where I had to keep it secret from my wife that I’d shared our biggest secret with our best friends and her mother.
I can’t even explain how much easier it made things to know I wasn’t carrying this alone. That I could call someone for advice, or just complain about the situation, without it turning into the same repetitive cycle of sadness and desperation. At some point I think I forgot I was keeping this from my wife, and I shared with her a piece of advice her mom had given me, not remembering that she didn’t know we were talking about it.
And then it exploded.
My wife was shocked to learn I’d shared our biggest secret. She couldn’t understand how I could do that. How I could break our rule, and then hide it from her for months. To her it was an emotional betrayal. And I didn’t understand how I’d done it either. It took me a couple of days of thinking to understand that I did it because I had no other choice. I was pushed into a corner. I felt I was losing it, and my only way out was to talk to other people. It was very tough to admit that to her. She’d thought the whole time that I could handle whatever was going on, that I was the strongest man on earth. Well guess what, even the strongest man on earth has a limit. I think that was the first time I admitted I was losing it, and that I had no other choice but to talk to someone.
Well guess what, even the strongest man on earth has a limit.
I also told her our best friends knew, and that made it really bad. We were seeing that couple often, and she kept thinking: all that time, we were talking about normal stuff, and they knew our secret. It was a mess.
For months my wife was very upset with me. It didn’t click for her that I have needs too. That I also needed help in some shape or form, and that this was my way of dealing with it. I had to explain many times that I had no other choice. I think it was only after a year, and a couple of podcasts she heard about the man’s side, that she understood it.
It didn’t click for her that I have needs too.
Writing about it now, I don’t blame her. I always played the role of the man in the house, the supporter, the one who adapts to the situation and finds ways to soften the bad news. I ignored how I felt and what I needed. Or maybe I didn’t know? Or maybe I didn’t think she’d be able to take in and accept that I needed help too. So why would she know that I needed to talk to someone?