April is National Infertility Awareness Month, and before we go any further, let me say this upfront: infertility is not funny. It is painful. It is isolating. It is traumatizing. It makes you question everything—your body, your faith, your marriage, your worth. And yet, if you live through it long enough, there comes a point when the only thing left to do is laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because if you don’t laugh, you’ll break. And Lord knows, we were already in pieces.
My wife and I spent ten years in the trenches of infertility. We are now the proud, grateful parents of two boys and have a daughter on the way through surrogacy. But that decade-long journey? It was full of humiliation, desperation, and more specimen cups than I ever want to see again.
Let’s start with the public shame. If you’ve never been infertile, let me give you a taste: every barbecue, wedding, church gathering, and casual work meeting is just another chance for someone to ask, “When are y’all gonna have kids?” If you don’t answer with a baby announcement and a confetti cannon, you’re met with confused stares, awkward silence, or worse—advice. Oh, the advice.
We were told to eat pineapple cores, soak our feet in Epsom salt, use essential oils, adopt and then “just wait,” and of course, “try relaxing.” Yes, because stress is the spermicide of the soul, apparently.
My wife endured a pharmaceutical parade of hormones that hijacked her body, scrambled her emotions, and made her feel like she was trapped inside a rollercoaster that only goes faster, never stops, and has no seatbelts. She swallowed pills that messed with her mood, endured injections of medications that bruised her belly and spirit, and walked into every doctor’s appointment with a folder full of charts and a heart full of hope that would almost always be crushed by the time we got back to the parking lot.
But the men? Oh, we have our own walk of shame. Gentlemen, let’s talk about the specimen cup. It’s handed to you like it’s no big deal. But then you’re ushered into The Room. You know what happens there. Everyone knows what happens there. The nurses know. The janitor knows. The guy sitting outside in the waiting room knows. It’s the most awkward square footage in any medical facility on earth.
They offer you “materials” to help, but that doesn’t change the fact that it is a command performance like no other. It goes way beyond performance anxiety. The pressure is immense, the cost is high and all of it has to happen in a creepy room that smells like antiseptic and shame.
And then there was the fundraiser. That’s right. We sat outside an ice cream shop with a handmade sign asking for donations and got some of the proceeds from the shop’s sales to help us pay for fertility treatments. Nothing makes you question your dignity quite like offering sprinkles and your sob story in exchange for twenty bucks.
Infertility stripped us of our privacy, our plans, and our pride. But it also showed us who our friends were, how deep love can run, and showed me how strong my wife is. It forged our family in a fire I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
If you know someone who’s trying to have a child and can’t, do not offer remedies or platitudes. Offer love. Offer silence. Offer your presence. The rest is just noise.
And to those still in the fight: you’re not alone. You are seen. You are loved. And your dignity? It may feel like it’s gone, but I promise you—it’s just in hiding. It’ll come back. Probably right around the time your baby throws up on your shoulder at Walmart.
Infertility takes nearly everything from you, but if you’re lucky, it eventually gives you everything back in a form more beautiful and chaotic than you ever imagined. It doesn’t feel fair, and it certainly isn’t easy—but it’s real, it’s raw, and it’s love, multiplied.
B.T. Clark
B.T. Clark is an award-winning journalist and the Publisher of The Georgia Sun. He has 25 years of experience in journalism and served as Managing Editor of Neighbor Newspapers in metro Atlanta for 15 years and Digital Director at Times-Journal Inc. for 8 years. His work has appeared in several newspapers throughout the state including Neighbor Newspapers, The Cherokee Tribune and The Marietta Daily Journal. He is a Georgia native and a fifth-generation Georgian.
