Infertility Is a Silent Grief.
Therapy for the Emotional Toll of Trying to Conceive
Some pain is loud. This one isn’t.
This one shows up quietly, in the bathroom, after a negative test. In the pit of your stomach when a friend sends you a sonogram picture.
You’ve learned how to move through the world holding joy for others in one hand, and grief for yourself in the other.
You didn’t think it would be this hard.
No one tells you what it does to your mind, your relationship, or your sense of self when your body keeps saying not yet, or not at all.
This page is for you if you’re in it, whether you're going through IVF or just hoping it will happen on its own, whether it’s your first time trying or you're coming back after loss, whether you have a child at home or are still hoping for your first.
Therapy doesn’t make the pain go away. But it can help you make sense of it. And that might change everything.
Primary Infertility
“I never imagined it will be this hard.”
You expected it might take a little time. But not this.
Not the months turning into years. Not the quiet dread that builds with every cycle. Not the fear that something in your body just doesn’t work, and might never.
You track symptoms obsessively, plan your life in two-week windows, whisper maybe this time into every test, and watch the single line appear like clockwork.
You're spending money you hadn’t planned to spend on tests, consults, and treatments. Every decision feels high-stakes. The costs add up fast, but what if this is the thing that finally works?
You don’t say how heavy it feels to carry hope and disappointment at the same time.
Sometimes you find yourself pulling away from friends who got pregnant without trying, from baby showers, from conversations where you feel like a stranger in your own life.
The stress seeps into your relationship. Sex turns into scheduling. A means to an end. And if there’s already a known reason why you can’t conceive naturally, it can start to feel like there’s no reason for it at all - just another reminder of what your body won’t do.
In the quiet moments, the blame turns inward.
Why didn’t I try sooner? Did I wait too long? Did I miss my chance?
You keep going. You keep trying. But it’s wearing you down.
Secondary / Unexplained Infertility
“I should be grateful… but I’m heartbroken.”
You’ve heard it all:
At least you already have one.
Just relax and don't think about it.
Just stop trying.
They mean well. But they don’t see how deeply it hurts. They don’t see the vision you held - of siblings close in age, of your child having a built-in companion.
That dream is still alive in you. And each passing month feels like time is stealing it away.
There’s a particular kind of sadness in packing up clothes your little one has outgrown, storing toys they no longer touch, not knowing if you’ll ever unpack them again.
You imagined those things being used again soon, not becoming relics of a chapter that might be closing before you’re ready.
You’ve done the tests. The bloodwork. The ultrasounds.
Everything looks fine. So why isn’t it working?
That word 'unexplained' becomes its own kind of diagnosis.
You start to question everything: your body, your choices, your sanity.
You swing between obsessive research and wanting to give up entirely. You want to stay hopeful, but hope feels dangerous. You avoid people, parties, and sometimes even your own thoughts.
And underneath it all is this quiet, rising panic: What if this just… doesn’t happen?
You live life in two-week increments: waiting to try, waiting to test, waiting to recover.
Pregnancy Loss / Termination
“I was pregnant. And now I’m not.”
Whether it was a heartbeat or a line on a stick, you attached.
Maybe you were already imagining names.
Maybe you had a due date saved in your phone.
Or maybe you had just started to let yourself feel excited.
And then... everything stopped.
Pregnancy loss can feel like it doesn’t “count.”
People might not know what to say. They say the wrong things, or they say nothing at all. Either way, you’re left holding a grief that doesn’t seem to fit anywhere.
You don’t just lose a pregnancy. You lose a version of the future. A version of yourself. And that kind of grief doesn’t have a script.
There’s the physical recovery. The emotional freefall. And then questions no one can answer for you.
When do I start trying again?
Should I want to try again yet?
If I try too soon, does it mean I’ve moved on?
You don’t want to feel like you’re rushing to replace something that mattered so deeply.
But you also don’t want to sit in this limbo forever.
What Therapy Can Offer in the Midst of All This
I work with women who are in the thick of it. Waiting, grieving, hoping, and holding it all together on the outside.
Our work together can help you:
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Make meaning of what’s happened, and what hasn’t
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Discern external pressure (from doctors, family, friends, timelines) from your own inner truth
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Normalize the grief, fear, anger, and longing you're experiencing
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Put pain into words, so it doesn’t stay stuck in your body
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Understand the emotional patterns that keep repeating each cycle
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Reconnect with yourself, your partner, and the life happening now
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Begin to feel agency again in a process that so often strips it away
Support isn’t a luxury right now. It’s a foundation.
For your emotional health, your connection with your partner, and the life you’re still trying to bring into the world.
"In many cases in therapy the patient who has come to us has a story that is not told, and which as a rule no one knows of.
To my mind, therapy only really begins after the investigation
of that wholly personal story."
Carl G. Jung