The Silent Losses of Infertility: Grieving What Could Have Been
Infertility is often seen as a medical condition—something to be diagnosed, treated, and “solved.” But underneath the lab results, failed cycles, and calendar tracking lies something less visible but just as real: grief.
Not just grief for the child who hasn’t come, but for the dreams, rituals, and identities that haven’t been lived. This is the grief of what could have been—and it is often silent, unspoken, and deeply misunderstood.
The Losses No One Talks About
Infertility brings many kinds of loss:
The loss of ease and spontaneity in building a family.
The loss of time, as months turn to years of waiting.
The loss of identity—as others move forward into parenthood while you feel stuck in limbo.
The loss of expectations—about how and when you would become a parent, what pregnancy would look like, or who would be there to celebrate with you.
And sometimes, the loss of fertility itself—when paths like IVF or third-party reproduction become part of your story.
These losses don’t always have rituals or recognition. There are no sympathy cards for “another failed embryo transfer.” No casseroles dropped off after a negative test.
But the grief is there.
Grieving the Invisible
Disenfranchised grief—grief that isn’t acknowledged by society—can be particularly heavy. You may feel like you don’t have the right to grieve because there wasn’t a “real” loss. You may feel pressure to stay hopeful or “be grateful for what you have.” But grief doesn’t go away just because we try to silence it.
It lingers. It aches. And it needs to be witnessed.
You are allowed to grieve the baby you never conceived, the pregnancy you never got to announce, the name you picked but never used. You are allowed to cry over the calendar that was supposed to hold due dates, not medical appointments.
Holding Space for What Hurts
Grieving what could have been doesn’t mean you’ve given up hope. It means you’re honoring the truth of your experience. And that’s a courageous thing to do.
It means saying, “This is hard,” without needing to explain why.
It means allowing space for both grief and hope, anger and gratitude.
It means giving yourself compassion, even if others don’t understand.
Healing begins when we stop minimizing our pain and start giving it room to breathe.
You Don’t Have to Do This Alone
If you’re navigating infertility, know this: your grief is real, and you don’t have to carry it in silence. Whether you find support through therapy, support groups, journaling, or trusted relationships, your feelings matter.
And if no one else has said it yet—I'm so sorry for all that you’ve lost, named and unnamed.
Sometimes the hardest part of infertility isn’t just what’s happening—it’s what never happened at all. And that grief deserves space, too.
N. Elizabeth Spires, MSW, LCSW
Anchorage Counseling, PLLC: A Safe Harbor in Life’s Changing Winds.
