Some People Don’t Just “Relax and It Happens”
What to say (and not say) when someone’s journey to parenthood isn’t what they expected.
I recently met a new friend at a dinner, and in our back-and-forth “getting to know each other” questions, she asked if my husband had children. I responded with my standard line: “Nope, just a cat mom!”
“You know,” she said. “I just think it’s great how women your age are being more thoughtful about whether or not you’d like to have children. Back in my day, we just had children because we felt like we had to.”
Honestly, I was genuinely surprised by openness and sincerity in her response. When she heard that we didn’t have kids, she moved to a place of affirmation and support rather than judgment or questioning.
Her response was refreshing, but that’s mostly because of my current situation. My husband and I aren’t ready to have kids right now, and by sheer happenstance she accurately affirmed our decision to remain solely cat parents for the foreseeable future.
However, through her response, she did make some assumptions about our fertility situation that may have felt hurtful to someone else.
In my clinical work in reproductive mental health, I meet with a lot of clients who are dealing with infertility. Some of them also experience reproductive loss. All of them are navigating grief.
Part of this grief is feeling misunderstood by a lot of the people around them, many of whom say lots of things that are well-meaning but ultimately annoying, hurtful, or just plain ignorant. Each of my clients who are dealing with infertility have stories of dumb things that have been said to them.
And guess what, y’all? They talk about them in therapy with me.
So whenever I talk with people outside of work about having kids or I hear the comments they make about fertility, I find myself thinking about how their comments would land on someone struggling to have a child. (I’m a great time at parties.)
My lovely dinner party friend happened to say something that was supportive and gracious to me, but her words indicated an assumption that our childfree life was intentional. There was no way for her to know if we had been struggling to conceive or if we had lost babies. She didn’t know if my days rotated around IVF shots and doctor’s appointments. She didn’t know if my whole life was consumed with trying to have a baby.
Now, just to be clear, I’m not actually trying to give this woman a hard time. She was super kind and we ended up having an interesting conversation about what it was like to feel pressured into motherhood in her generation. I had the bandwidth for it and I’m endlessly curious about how people experience their reproductive stories.
I’m going to go ahead and assume that all of you are deeply empathetic and emotionally intelligent. You probably never put your foot in your mouth or say dumb things to folks. (Gold star for you! We’re all jealous.)
However, just in case you’re curious about how to be more intentional and trauma-informed in the words that you use with others, here’s a quick little cheat sheet of things that you should avoid saying (along with some of my unvarnished opinions about them) and suggestions of things to say instead.
“At least…” or “It could be worse…”
While the intention behind this is probably to offer comfort to the person, it’s inherently dismissive of the person’s experience. It also puts the pressure on the grieving person to play what I like to call the “Suffering Olympics,” evaluating the significance of their grief as compared to someone else’s.
Say instead: “I’m sorry this is happening to you.”
“Have you tried x…”
I’m sorry, are we trying to coach them in the bedroom now? GROSS. I assure you, if someone is dealing with infertility, chances are high that they’re deep into Dr. Google and they’re probably already doing all of the things that they possibly can.
Say instead: “That sounds really hard. Can I do anything to help?”
“God has a plan.”
Okay, y’all, I have a Masters degree from a seminary, I’m a person of faith, and I’m officially calling time-out on this one. If this person isn’t religious, this comment is obviously tone-deaf. If the person has a faith in God, they probably have some thoughts and feelings about how God’s plan seems to not be aligned with theirs (to say the least). Do you really want them to have to tell you about how they’re mad at God in the middle of this cocktail party? Probably not.
Say instead: "This really sucks, and you shouldn’t have to go through it."
“Just relax and it’ll work out.”
I can’t even begin to tell you how often this one comes up in my counseling room. There’s a big myth that stress and anxiety directly causes infertility, miscarriage, and stillbirth, and basically every single person I’ve ever met who struggles to have a baby worries that their stress has caused that somehow. Don’t perpetuate this.
Say instead: “Wow, this sounds so difficult. Do you feel like you’re getting enough support in this season?”
“You could always adopt!”
Adoption isn’t a magical solution to fertility struggles. It’s not a simple decision. Adoption is a huge calling and requires many resources and intentionality. It also involves several other humans (birth parents and the child) who have most likely experienced some degree of attachment trauma. It’s not something to be taken lightly, and it’s not the best fit for every person who struggles with infertility.
Say instead: “There’s no right thing to say, but I care so much and I’m here with you."
“Maybe it’s just not meant to be.”
Good grief. This might be the most efficient way to completely invalidate someone’s experience. Don’t say this one. Ever.
Say instead: “I’m here if you want to talk.”
Here’s the main takeaway: When someone shares with you that they’re struggling to have a baby, the best way to respond is with gentleness, kindness, and openness. Avoid making assumptions, giving advice, or trying to fix the problem. Focus on validating their pain and giving them space to talk if they’d like to. Don’t be overbearing, and let them lead the conversation. Lastly, don’t take it personally if they don’t want to talk about it or if they don’t take you up on your offer to provide a meal or other kinds of help.
Thank you for being a kind, safe presence for your loved ones in this sensitive space. It makes a difference, I promise.
Disclaimer: This essay is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Reading or engaging with this content does not constitute therapy, nor should it be considered professional advice or a substitute for therapy. Everyone’s experiences are unique, so what’s shared here may or may not resonate with you. For more details, please review the full disclaimer on my About page before reading. To learn more about my clinical work, please click here.
Such a gentle, wise and helpful article! Thank you, Ginny. Greatly appreciate the dialogue suggestions at the end.