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This Sunday in the US, we celebrate moms. But what if Mother's Day is hard for you? What if it's bittersweet, or just flat-out painful?

If this sounds familiar, I wrote this article for you. Know that you are seen. You are understood. And you are loved.

Infertility and Other Grief on Mother's Day

I walked into church one Mother’s Day thinking I’d be perfectly fine. I was not.

For years, I’d wanted to be a mom more than anything. But this was the first Mother’s Day we had undeniable knowledge of our infertility. Barring a miracle from God, I’d never give birth.

My husband gave me a card that expressed the joy of “bringing a child into the world.” He’d scratched out “the” world, and wrote in “our” world.  After all, someone else would bring the child into “the” world.  Through adoption, we’d bring it into “ours.”

Sometimes I felt like an expectant mother (technically, I was expecting to be a mother relatively soon), but many times I felt like someone wandering the baby aisles at Target in search of a shower gift.

Like us, most couples come to adoption after infertility.  “After infertility”, they say, like it’s a condition that goes away, like “after” the flu.  For most of us, there is no “after” infertility.  There is just infertility, and what you do as a result of it. 

In our adoption classes, we talked about “resolving” our infertility issues. To resolve something, according to the American Heritage Dictionary, is “to make a firm decision about” (as if infertility is something we chose), “to decide or express by formal vote” (if God asked for our vote, we were definitely overruled), and “to change or convert; to remove or dispel” (if we could remove our infertility, we wouldn’t have been sitting in an adoption class).

How can infertility ever be “resolved?”  It can be accepted, but it never goes away.

I took hold of Irish’s hand. “I’m having a hard time,” I whispered in his ear. He moved closer. The warmth and security of his shoulder against mine brought me comfort, but tears still flooded my eyes.

Then the minister asked all the mothers to stand and be recognized. He instructed the teens to give a carnation to every woman standing.

My husband looked at me expectantly, letting me know that he’d approve if I chose to stand. But how could I?

If I was pregnant, I would have stood. After all, there would be no question that I was a mother. But “paper pregnant” doesn’t count. 

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