I remember it vividly..

I feel so alone. My heart is broken in a way that no one understands, and just when I think it can't break anymore, another piece quietly shatters.

It could be anything that triggers it, every part of me is on the brink...a pregnancy announcement, someone talking about their kids, a couple pushing a buggy...and another piece splinters and crumbles away.

But no one notices the flash of pain on my face before I hide it behind a smile that never quite reaches my eyes, no one hears my heart breaking, because life for everyone else carries on while my own is frozen in time.

Trying to get pregnant has become the loneliest journey I've ever been on. Like I'm shouting into a giant void for someone to hear me, and say "I know how you feel", but there's not even an echo. Just silence.

Everywhere I look I see everyone's life falling into place with the family life I'm desperate for. Yet my womb remains empty of life and there's a hole in my heart relentlessly searching, and aching to welcome it in with open arms.

When will it be my turn?

There’s a kind of grief that doesn’t come with flowers, sympathy cards, or casseroles left on the doorstep. It’s the grief you carry quietly, hidden behind a tight smile and a voice that says, “I’m fine,” even when your whole world feels like it’s collapsing.

It’s the grief of infertility.

It’s not a single moment in time, it’s a never-ending loop of hope, fear, disappointment, and invisible loss. Every month is a cycle of emotional whiplash: the prayers, the symptoms you convince yourself might mean 'this time' yet you're too scared to hope, the Googling, the bargaining… and then the crushing reality that brings you to your knees all over again.

And the hardest part?
Most people never see it.

Infertility is a grief so misunderstood that it gets dismissed with well meaning comments like:
“Just relax.”
“It’ll happen when you stop trying.”
“You can always adopt.”
“At least you know you can get pregnant.”
“Maybe it’s not meant to be.”

Words that land like knives.

So women learn to go quiet.
To protect themselves.
To stop burdening people who don’t understand.
To hide the tears that come every time they see a scan photo online or walk past the baby aisle in Tesco.

You start to feel like you’re the only one breaking.
Like everyone else is moving forward while you’re stuck in place.
Like your body has betrayed you.
Like maybe you’re not good enough to be a Mum.

And that silence... that loneliness... is where the real damage occurs.

Infertility isn’t just about trying to conceive.
It’s about losing pieces of yourself every month, grieving the loss of future memories, of what might have been and having nowhere safe to put the pain.

I know that grief intimately.
I lived it as a woman desperate to become a mum,
and I lived it as a midwife... supporting others in the joy I was denied.

Two identities pulling in opposite directions.
Hiding behind a uniform. Smiling on the outside.
Dying on the inside.

Nothing prepares you for that.

And maybe it’s time we stopped suffering in silence.

What other grief is so universally brushed under the carpet?

What other grief is considered too taboo to be openly talked about?

Is there another medical condition that people can feel so ashamed of that they often keep it secret from everyone, even family, and hide it from work in fear of losing their job?

Some women even spend their life savings to increase their chances of being a parent by as little as 25%.

Research from Harvard Medical School (Domar 1992) shows that the emotional stress of infertility can mirror the psychological impact experienced by patients with cancer or heart disease.

No wonder it feels like survival.

No wonder your whole world can collapse from a single trigger.

Your reaction isn’t being dramatic, it’s your nervous system trying to protect you.

Your body is reacting to infertility like a trauma, because it IS one.

So if your heart feels like it’s constantly breaking,
If your chest tightens and your stomach drops when you see a pregnancy announcement,
If the smallest thing sends you spiralling…

You’re not overreacting.
You’re not being dramatic.
You’re not weak.

You’re having a natural nervous-system response to trauma and accumulated grief.

When infertility becomes an ongoing cycle of hope and loss,
your mind and body learn to live in fight or flight or survival mode, and are constantly preparing for the next heartbreak.

A pregnancy announcement isn’t just news.
To your subconscious, it can feel like an attack.

So, your amygdala; the primitive part of the brain that protects you from threat, sparks up immediately.
telling your stress hormones; cortisol and adrenaline; to increase instantly.
All preparing you react urgently to survive something painful.

That’s why you suddenly feel:

• your chest tighten

• you can't speak

• your stomach drops

• tears burn behind your eyes

• numbness or panic rises

It’s not because you’re jealous.
It’s not because you’re bitter or unkind.
It’s not because you can’t be happy for someone else.

It’s because your nervous system has been stretched beyond capacity for too long.

So when you say:
“I feel like I’m breaking…”

It’s because you're trying to hold everything together in an environment that keeps asking you to carry the unbearable and pretend you’re fine anyway, day in, day out, with no end in sight.

And when we don’t talk about it,
when we keep it hidden,
when we smile through the pain,
when we hold it all in alone…

That’s when the situation becomes unbearable.

What hurts the most isn’t always the situation itself...it’s the isolation.

The silence.
The feeling that no one really understands the scale of what you’re living through.

So where can you put all of this pain?

How do you keep breathing when it feels like your heart is falling apart over and over again?
How do you hold the weight of grief that no one else can see?

You don’t do it by pretending you’re fine.
You don’t do it by forcing yourself to “be positive.”
You don’t do it by carrying it alone.

It starts when you allow yourself to FEEL.

Yep, I know. Scary, but trust me on this...

You begin by giving yourself permission to stop being strong for everyone else for just one moment and sit with the truth that this is hard. Brutally hard. Hard in a way that most people will never understand. It doesn't make you wrong or bad, it's okay to feel this way. It's human.

And then, gently...without pressure, without any urgency... you support your nervous system in coming back to safety, one breath at a time.

Because the body can’t heal in survival mode.

Try this Gentle Practice for the Moments You’re Breaking

Place one hand on your heart and one on your lower belly.

Breathe in softly through your nose for the count of 4
Hold at the top of your breath for 7 counts
And let it fall slowly out through your mouth for 8 counts.

Again…

In for 4 ... Hold for 7 ... Out for 8

Let your shoulders drop.
Let your jaw soften.
Let your body know:

I’m safe right now.

I’m allowed to feel this.

I don’t have to hold everything together in this breath.

Think it.

Feel it.

Know it's the truth.

This works by telling your body it's safe, the danger is over.

Your amygdala stops telling you to be in survival mode, your body slows down and feels calm, your hormones reset and rebalance.

This isn’t about fixing anything, you were never broken.
This is about surviving this moment, so that hope has somewhere to return to later.

Because you deserve moments of relief and time to feel what you need to feel.
You deserve somewhere soft to land and come home to.
You deserve support, not silence.

A hug of understanding and support.

You’re safe, you're seen, you're understood.

If your heart feels at breaking point today, if you’re exhausted from pretending, if you’re terrified of another month of hope and heartbreak, please hear this:

You are not alone.
You are not failing.
There is nothing wrong with you.

You are grieving the loss of something sacred and deeply longed for.
And grief deserves space, compassion, and community.

We’re not meant to do this alone

Imagine what would change if:

• you didn’t feel you have to hide anymore

• you could speak your truth without judgement

• you had a place where other women whispered “me too”

• you were supported instead of surviving in silence

That’s why I created The Fertility Nurture Hub a safe, heart-led community where you don’t have to be strong, positive, or okay to belong.

And because I know how painful daily triggers can be, I’ve created a free guide to support you in the hardest moments:

A Survivor’s Guide to Baby Announcements

A grounding audio, coping strategies, and ideas for when everything suddenly feels too much.

It’s there for the moments when:

• you feel the sting of careless comments

• your feel that pain in your chest

• tears fall before you can stop them

• you need someone to sit with you emotionally, even if no one is physically there

You can download it here:
https://thefertilitysanctuary.com/miracle-month

You don’t have to carry every piece of this alone anymore.

Take what you need today.
One breath at a time.
One moment at a time.
One tiny step toward feeling more supported and less alone.

I’m walking this with you.
And I promise, there is light ahead, even if you can’t see it yet.

With love, always

Sam