I’m a relatively private person. When it comes to my social media presence, I am very surface level for the most part…with the exception of this blog. This is pretty much the only place online that I allow a bit of the curtain to rise. I’ve talked about my relationships, my mental health, stances on polarizing topics and today – fertility, specifically my own.

When I was in my 20s, not being pregnant was like a badge I wore with honor. (Also, quick note, there is nothing against those who have families sooner – whether planned or unplanned – I am the OVERLY PROUD daughter of someone who was only 20 when I came rolling into play. I have friends and I have a sister who are phenomenal young parents and their kids are the light of my life.) But for me personally, and possibly because of my experience of having a young parent and it being drilled into my scull, throughout middle school and high school and into college, I was under the overwhelming assumption that if I thought about unprotected sex I would be with child in a matter of seconds. So when I reached my late 20s, I patted myself on the back with an “atta-girl” for making it through. Then I found my husband, I turned 29, decided that all I wanted in life was to become a mom and then all of that cheering I was doing for myself slowly faded out. Had I really been lucky? Or was something wrong?

One in eight couples deal with infertility. And after 15 months and counting of trying, I think Grant and I have joined the statistic – at least for the time being. We have done some testing and right now our definitive, super straight-to-the-point answer is “unexplained infertility” – so not a ton to go on. During the past year+, I have felt an array of emotions – confusion, frustration, self-loathing, impatience… I have dug myself into more than one internet hole on what cocktail of vitamins I should be choking down. I’ve researched the science of ovulation to near-expert level. I’ve quit caffeine entirely to the point that an Excedrin is all I need for a mood boost. I have started questioning every shot, birth control, or McNugget that I’ve shoved into my body over the last 32 years. I have given the fine people who create ovulation tests a profitable year. In short, I have become obsessed – and oh yea, those stress levels don’t help either.

I’ve debated talking about this, because this is a deeply private matter and everyone’s experience is so different and the content can be triggering for a lot of different people in a variety of ways. But I’m writing this, because while I was investing my free time getting my unofficial certification on what the hell is wrong with my body via the world wide web, the things that truly helped me were the pieces and conversations of women my age sharing their stories. Someone sharing the hand they were dealt and how they were coping helped me feel less alone, it made me feel like less of a broken toy and more part of a community that was working toward the same goal line, but had some injuries on the field.

I will say, so far the positives that I have gained are that I have learned a lot about my own body. I have been able to talk with those close to me and it has been reinforced that I not only have amazing people in my life, but that they are all fiercely protective of me and my journey. And I know that I picked the right partner, because no matter where this road leads, we are ready to see it through together and become a larger family in whatever way works out for us.

I don’t know if this is something I’ll continue writing about, but for me, putting (digital) pen to paper, has always been a therapeutic process for me – like poison being sucked from a wound. If I don’t revisit the subject, I’ll leave with this sentiment: for anyone out there confused about their body’s abilities, anyone who feels a little broken or just a little sad that the stars aren’t aligning quite yet – I see you. You aren’t alone. And there are a million ways to make a family. And I’m talking to myself when I say that too.

The silver lining is Soph loves being an only child-dog. For now.