There’s a kind of heartbreak many couples carry in silence — one that’s rarely talked about openly, yet weighs heavily behind closed doors. It’s the heartbreak of trying to conceive and not seeing those two pink lines month after month. If you’ve been here, you know how raw, personal, and exhausting it can be. And if you haven’t, then this post is especially for you, too.

To the Couple Walking This Path:

If you’re reading this and you’ve struggled to conceive, I want you to know: you are not alone.

I see you. I know the weight you carry—the monthly hope followed by disappointment, the well-meaning but painful comments, the quiet grief that lingers even in moments of joy. You are not alone.

It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been trying, how many tests you’ve taken, or how often you’ve been told to “just relax and it’ll happen.” The pain is real. The questions are endless. The grief is complex. And often, it’s all carried in silence — not because we want to hide, but because we’re protecting our hearts.

Trying to conceive without success is a journey that tests more than just the body; it tests your heart, your patience, and sometimes even your relationships. Society often assumes pregnancy happens easily, and when it doesn’t, the questions and assumptions pour in. The woman is often scrutinized more, but conception is a shared journey. Sometimes, despite all efforts, it just hasn’t happened yet.

You’ve likely heard it all:

• “Just relax, and it will happen!”
• “Maybe you’re not praying hard enough.”
• “You’re lucky—enjoy your freedom while you can!”
• “Have you tried [insert unsolicited advice]?”

And then there are the particularly painful comments—like the “friend” who suggested that babysitting her children might somehow “transfer fertility blessings” to you. As if your struggle could be solved by proximity to someone else’s baby. As if your pain was just a matter of not being around children enough.

These moments sting because they reduce your deep longing to a superstition. They imply that if you just did this one thing—held this baby, took this herb, prayed this prayer—your miracle would come. But you know the truth: this journey doesn’t work that way.

What many don’t understand is that trying to conceive is not just a physical journey. It’s emotional. Spiritual. Mental. Relational.

And it’s not always about fixing something.

But here’s what I want you to know:

1. Your feelings are valid. You don’t have to justify your grief to anyone.
2. This doesn’t define you. You are more than your journey to parenthood.
3. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. Your path is private—share only with those who deserve your trust.
4. There is no “right” way to feel. Some days, you’ll be hopeful; other days, you’ll be angry or numb. All of it is okay.

If you’ve reached a place of peace—where others’ words no longer shake you—that is a victory. If you’re still in the thick of the emotional storm, that’s okay too. This is your journey, and you get to navigate it at your own pace.

To the Friends, Family, and Well-Meaning Outsiders:

You may not realise it, but your words—even when spoken with love—can cut deep. Struggling to conceive is an invisible battle, and unless someone chooses to share, you won’t know the pain they carry. Here’s how you can offer support instead of unintentional harm:

What Not to Do/Say:

• Don’t ask invasive questions. “When are you giving us a baby?” seems harmless, but it can reopen wounds.
• Don’t offer unsolicited advice. Supplements, prayers, or “just adopting” aren’t helpful unless asked for.
• Don’t assume it’s the woman’s “issue.” Conception involves both partners.
• Don’t minimize their struggle. Saying “At least you can travel!” dismisses their grief.
• Don’t suggest that exposure to babies will “help.” Comments like “Maybe if you babysit more, it’ll happen for you!” are hurtful, not hopeful.
• “You’re not getting any younger.”
• “You need to hurry before it’s too late.”
• “It’s probably because of your lifestyle/weight/career/faith/lack of faith.”
• “So-and-so drank this tea and now has twins!”
  
  Instead, ask yourself: Is this helpful? Is this kind? Have they invited me into this part of their life?
  If not, just love them. Let them know you care without needing all the answers.

What You Can Do Instead:

• Listen without judgment. If they open up, just be present. No fixes, just empathy.
• Acknowledge their struggle. “I can’t imagine how hard this must be, but I’m here for you.”
• Respect their privacy. If they haven’t shared details, don’t pry.
• Offer support in practical ways. “I’m here if you ever want to talk—or if you’d rather not talk at all.”

A beautiful example? My mother once simply asked, “Do you want children?” Not pushing, not assuming—just giving me space to share if I wanted to. That kindness meant everything.

Final Thoughts: Finding Peace Amid the Noise

I won’t lie. I’ve been mad. Hurt. Tired. Even numb. But I’ve also come to peace.

Peace doesn’t mean I don’t care anymore. It just means I no longer give weight to every comment, every whisper, every unsolicited piece of advice.

My worth is not defined by my ability to have children. Neither is my womanhood. Neither is my marriage.

So, to every couple walking this difficult path: take your time. Protect your peace. Set your boundaries. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.

And to those on the outside looking in: speak less. Love more. And when in doubt, just ask — kindly.

Because sometimes the most powerful thing you can say is simply, “I’m here.”

To the couples still waiting: Your journey is yours alone. Whether you pursue medical help, alternative paths, or simply take things one day at a time—your worth is not tied to parenthood.

To everyone else: Love looks like listening, not lecturing. Like holding space, not handing out solutions—magical or otherwise.

And to those who, like me, have found peace—where the comments no longer shake you—I celebrate you. Healing isn’t about the absence of pain but the presence of resilience.

You are enough, just as you are.