I have a superpower. I can predict when my friends are pregnant before they tell me. I just have a sense, and no joke, about 2 weeks later, I always get the call. I think God gave me this superpower as a way to protect me and help me be a better friend. See, I get to process ahead of time the idea that my friends are pregnant and I {save for the 9 months that I was} am not and will struggle to get pregnant every time I want to. So, by the time they actually tell me, I can be present for that conversation. I can give them the response they deserve, my joy. I can save the tears for later so they don’t have to be burdened in their time of happiness.  I’m not always great at that part, despite my superpower, but I can certainly respond better than if I hadn’t been predicting it when they told me.

But you know what is really interesting, during that time before they tell me, I often fear that they won’t tell me because they are afraid to upset me, knowing what I am going through.  I have vivid dreams of running into them at the grocery store, their belly clearly pregnant, and despite having spoken recently, they hadn’t told me. It’s almost a worse feeling than that of them being pregnant when I am not.

What would it say about me if the people I love don’t think I can handle hearing their joy in the midst of my pain? I want to be someone who can love my friends exactly where they are at, no matter where I am at.

Because here’s the thing, it always stings. It doesn’t matter if they get pregnant in the thick of my struggle or while I’m pregnant and in the height of joy. I literally was holding my newborn in my arms when I found out a friend was pregnant and even then, even when I had my miracle baby safe in my arms, it stung. Infertility never stops hurting. One of my older friends is 25 years removed from her fertility struggles and she told me it still stings when she hears of people getting pregnant. It’s not logical anymore, but it’s real. The sense of being an outsider, of missing out on one of life’s most anticipated, longed for experiences in its fullness; I don’t think that ever goes away.

It shows up all the time- when hearing a birth story, at a kids birthday party, in a memory of a time we were all together, but I was still not pregnant, in a passing complaint about how hard pregnancy is, or how hard motherhood is, or how “oops she’s pregnant again”.  It will show up on a random Tuesday in the hallway at work when a well meaning colleague presses you about when you’re going to give your son a sibling- time is ticking you know. The sting feels the same whether it’s a stranger or my closest friend. The mom at the park who’s pregnant with her 4th, all the kids are less than 2 year apart and she looks…tired…ya, that hurts too.

It is always going to sting; I have a choice in how I deal with it. It doesn’t feel good to wallow in “Why them? Why not me?” It feels better to celebrate with them. It’s okay to cry about it. It’s okay to feel the sting, to acknowledge the pain and the unfairness of it all. But really, what good does it do me to take away from them the joy that I wish was mine? None. It does me no good. In fact, it only makes things worse.

And the truth of it is, every single one of them has their own pain. Things I wouldn’t wish upon them in a million years. Things I am grateful I haven’t had to walk. Things I’m not sure I would be able to cope with as insanely strong as they have. So feeling jealous, feeling sad, feeling angry…that is normal and has its place, but I could flip that around and they could have felt that way about my joys, too. We all have our stories. They become more bearable, and perhaps more meaningful, when we can walk alongside each other through the good and the bad, the highs and the lows. Being strong when they are weak, letting them be strong for me, when I am weak. I’m lucky to have found friends like that.

Comparison is the thief of joy. The truth of that couldn’t be clearer than when you are walking with infertility. But if I focused on comparing my path to being a mama with everyone else’s, I would miss….everything. I would put distance between us at a time when I need their companionship the most. I would miss out on the depth and richness of friendships that I treasure. I would live my life with everyone at arm’s distance, suspended between the need for connection and the wall of my pain. That’s no way to live. I choose to be present in my relationships. I choose to be vulnerable. I choose to be brave.