Dear 2021: Be Better.

You know what's funny? Every single time that I start a blog post, I feel the need to start it with a disclaimer or an apology for what's to come.

"Apologies in advance because I'm about to get real and raw."

No, no I can't say that. Plus they already know I'm real and raw. Why am I apologizing?

"There's a chance I might offend you in this so buckle up."

Too forward.

"IMMA CUSS. A LOT. CUZ I GOT SOME SHIT TO SAY TODAY. SORRY BOUT IT."

True, girl. But too intense.

With infertility, I think I feel this constant need to apologize and explain myself to people before I speak about it because it's so misunderstood. It's also probably because by being so public about the issue, I've seen first hand how deeply this topic has been buried away in our society- blanketed by centuries of shame and secrecy. I've also felt the judgment of IVF first hand. I've been called selfish. I've been told I'm obsessed with my own genetics. I've been told I'm using my struggles to get attention.

So yeah- that's probably why I've conditioned myself to provide apologies & disclaimers throughout the journey. Not to mention I'm a people pleaser (to an extent), so I have this constant desire for people to like what I'm putting out into the world.

But what I'm realizing is that infertility isn't likable. Nor is it my fault. And it's not my job to make it likable. So if what I'm going through makes someone uncomfy, or if my stance on it is one that they don't agree with, they can stop reading, or unfollow me, or block me whenever they want.

Ooooo she's feeling FIESTY today. You sure you wanna keep reading? You up for this? Lots of spice in the first thirty seconds and you're getting a wholeeee range of emotions tonight. But your girl is tired. She's exhausted. She's officially been in the fight for over 2 years now and her tank is empty.

Oh, and hey- Merry Belated Christmas (to those like me who celebrate).

It was our 3rd Christmas wishing for a baby and our 3rd Christmas without one. This time last year feels like 10 minutes ago.

I remember telling myself "this time next year you'll either be a mom or at least be pregnant."

I remember watching the ball drop on New Year's Eve & silently crying because we hadn't gotten pregnant in 2019.

I remember saying "2020! This is the year! We're seeking treatment in a few weeks so it HAS to happen this year!"

I feel like I just said those things and yet, here we are. Another year ending. And still no baby. No pregnancy.

Nothing.

I'm truly baffled that I'm typing that.

And listen, I know what you're thinking. "But you DO have something! You have 7 frozen, genetically tested normal embryos!"

Yes, Sharon. I know that.

Don't mistake my disappointment for what I don't have as a lack of gratitude for what I do have. The point is that I didn't want to be in a position where I would need those embryos in order to start my family AT ALL. No one wants to take the long road to parenthood. And it's okay to feel heartbroken over the fact that I've, yet again, watched an entire year of my life go by without getting out of it the one thing that I truly want.

And as the ball dropped yet again last night with no baby in my arms or pregnancy in my body, that silent cry from last year manifested into this year's all-out sobbing breakdown. By the time I got to 3 in the countdown, the first tear was already streaming down my face and the cracking of my voice kept me from even being able to utter the last two numbers. But the most profound thing about this year's New Years Eve cry was that in the silent moments between my gasping inhales, I heard the same sobs coming from the person sitting next to me on the couch.

We both sat there and wept. In that moment, I saw the year go by like chapters flying through my mind:

Our first appointment in February with our RE where I watched him break down in her office.

Our first scheduled IUI on his birthday that was cancelled an hour before the procedure.

All three of our failed IUIs.

My choice to pause treatment in July to focus on work during the re-opening.

Our IVF consultation where we signed off on heavy, existential decisions about the fate of our potentially unused embryos.

The low of only retrieving 13 eggs.

The high of 7 embryos testing normal.

Going under anesthesia twice in one month.

And finally- our decision to hold off on an embryo transfer until 2021 so that we could spend time with our parents & siblings over the holidays.

We were mourning what could have been. What should have been.

This year has been a challenge for so many obvious reasons and our infertility battle has only added another layer on to it. One thing that has been a particularly prominent part of the struggle is the ability to be happy for others.

And before I go any further on this topic, there are a few things I want to say (here goes the people pleaser with disclaimers and apologies).

First and foremost, this is a topic that I've wanted to discuss for a while now. Actually, I wrote an entire blog post on it last summer just after creating my very first one. I didn't post it because soon after I started it, we found out my sister in law was pregnant and it didn't feel right to post. I didn't want it to come off the wrong way considering the timing, so it stayed in the drafts.

Secondly, if you are pregnant and reading this I want to make something abundantly clear. This isn't against you in any way. It is not to make you feel bad. At ALL. And I mean that with all of me so please know the intentions of my heart from the get go. I feel the need to talk about this for the same reasons I talk about anything related to infertility- to help raise an awareness & more common understanding for what infertility is and how it affects those battling it. And to help those battling it know that their feelings are valid.

Okay. So.

*Deep breath because the people pleaser doesn't want anyone offended even though she just did her best to give a disclaimer.*

It's hard to be fully happy for other people when they get pregnant.

But let me clarify. It's not because I'm a bitch. It's not because I don't want to be happy for someone else when they get pregnant. I actually do. I really, deeply, truly do. And I try. I try so, so hard.

And I say it's hard to be"fully" happy for a reason. Because at the end of the day I really am happy for them. Those going through infertility know more than anyone what an incredible gift it is to have a pregnancy so when it happens for anyone, it's obviously incredible. So I have no problem celebrating it. And there is true joy in that moment. When one of my best friends told me about her pregnancy this summer, we wept HAPPY tears together because we both knew how badly she wanted that baby.

The shadow of infertility, however, causes there to be a part of me that is always so sad no matter who it is. Sad for myself. For my husband. And I don't want to feel that way. I'm gonna say that again for emphasis.

I do not WANT to feel that way.

And that's what kills me about it.

I've talked in the past about the things that infertility has stolen from us and one of those things is the ability to act and feel the way I truly WANT to feel when I hear someone else gets pregnant. There's a part of me that just won't allow myself to 100% get there. I've recently learned that it's okay to feel a certain way while also being angry that you feel that way. Does that make sense? It angers me that I'm unable to feel how I honestly want to feel. It's like I'm not in control of my emotions because this looming infertility cloud just sits on my shoulder reminding me of my own lack of success.

Ugh. This is hard to explain without sounding like an ass.

I guess it's like this- let's say there's an upcoming promotional opportunity at work. You work your ass off with that promotion in your sights and you base every move you make off your desire to get that spot. You practically dedicate your life to it- working long hours, stressing, doing more work than is required of you.

Then your boss decides that it's too hard to pick between the top few performers, so they choose by a random draw. And you don't get picked for it. Your peer probably deserved it too and you're happy for them because now they get extra cash for their own family- plus you know how badly they also wanted that promotion. But naturally, you feel bad for yourself and heartbroken that you can't have it for yourself even though it was out of your control.

It's like that. Except the boss is God and what seems like everyone around you is getting a promotion except you. Even the ones that weren't even necessarily looking for it.

I've been patient. I've waited for my turn. I've watched the yearly onslaught of announcement posts about adding more pumpkins to the patch, being *extra* thankful this year, and "not social distancing." While, as I mentioned, I'm truly thrilled to see them, those posts are also reminders of how easy it is for some people and yet so hard for us. They're reminders that people actually get pregnant for free- which is something that I can't even quite wrap my head around.

The waiting is exhausting and has affected us in ways that expand beyond what anyone else probably even thinks about (and in ways that maybe we will someday share).

So when I find myself feeling this way, and apologizing, and giving disclaimers, it's because I don't want to scare you off. I don't want you to stop reading or listening to the voices of infertility. Am I gonna bitch and complain in these posts? Abso-fuckin-lutely because this shit sucks. But if I can implore just one person to empathize even in the smallest way through sharing the in-depth struggles of this hellish journey, I know it will help someone else who is experiencing it to get the support they need. Infertility is complicated, so it's hard for those who are removed from it to understand it.

And as I've said to many people recently,

You don't have to understand it. Just be grateful that you don't.

Fuck 2020. Here's to a new year of hope- for all.

(Here's a photo my mom snapped at about 12:03 am- right after we'd wiped our tears.)