My baby is a year old now. And it’s got me reminiscing about how this all started.
After several unsuccessful months of trying, I started investigating alternative therapies that might help me in my quest. I heard about “fertility yoga” and started a search for a studio near me that provided this type of class. I quickly came upon Pulling Down the Moon, which I have mentioned in previous posts. However, after perusing their website, I discounted it. “That’s for people with infertility,” I told myself. “That’s not me – I’m just having trouble getting pregnant.” (Ha .)
Fast forward a year, a miscarriage, and many more unsuccessful months of trying. I walked into PDTM for a “Dealing with Disappointment” seminar with much uncertainty. But the warmth and the understanding with which I was met made all my anxiety melt away. I found a place where I could vocalize my hurts and frustrations, and others who were going through the same. I don’t know if it was that night or shortly thereafter that I came to accept the word “infertility” as a description of my reality. Once I did, everything changed.
I have to imagine that this is true for lots of things in life. Fighting against something you don’t want to be, rather than embracing the truth, is draining. Somewhere, deep in your subconscious, you know that you’re fooling yourself. It’s only when you come to a place of honesty and acceptance that you can begin the work of changing your situation. That’s why, as strange as it may sound, accepting infertility was empowering for me, not weakening.
At that point, I was able to throw myself into testing and treatment. I did lots of research and was open to trying any and all ideas of how to conquer this problem – diet, acupuncture, yoga, herbs, meditation, massage, and medical intervention. I reached out to other women going through the same thing – both to give and receive support. All of a sudden, I was not alone. I had a team of people helping me and believing in me. It was relieving and strengthening. Ultimately, I wore my infertility on my sleeve like a badge of honor. As if to say, “this is what I’m willing to do to be a mother.”
I was recently having a conversation with another woman who went through treatment for infertility to conceive her son. She said, “you just get to the point where you’ll do anything to have a baby. And if that means accepting reality and going to the fertility clinic, you’ll do it.” I agree. I’ve met several people who, like me, were scared to take that next step. Scared of what that might mean for them and their future. Afraid that accepting the diagnosis meant that having babies would always be different and difficult for them. But having been in both places – one of denial, and one of taking charge – I can wholeheartedly recommend the latter. Accepting infertility is what brought me my son.