There is a calendar version of infertility and then there is the body version. The body version keeps count in different ways.
Month eighteen taught me that grief and optimism can live in the same person without cancelling each other out.
The women who understood this best were not the ones with perfect words. They were the ones who stayed. They texted after appointments. They remembered dates I wished I could forget.
Trying changed my marriage, my friendships, and the language I used with myself. It made tenderness feel less decorative and more necessary.
Every mother carries a story. We believe the telling matters almost as much as the survival.
