Dear Friend,
I feel like I’ve sat down to write to you one hundred times. I seem to fall short often, but it’s important for you to know I’m thinking about you every day. Sometimes, in the early morning hours, I find that I cannot go back to sleep until I’m on my knees praying for you. I’ve sat on the floor more times than I can count, asking God why this fertility journey is yours and not mine. Don’t get me wrong, I love my children, but you were always the dreamer. The one dreaming of a minivan full of crazy kids, sprinting to make it to soccer practice. I’m very self-aware that was not my dream. While you were stuffing the Barbie car full of as many dolls as it could fit, I was dressing my Barbie in her work outfit or for a date with Ken. It took many years for our dreams to become the same, and you should be experiencing this one with me, too.
I can describe you in many ways: my spontaneous friend, my carefree friend, my hilarious friend, my never-going-to-say-no friend, my FOMO friend, my courageous friend, and, to be honest, the very BEST friend. I can think of a million words to describe you, infertile shouldn’t be one of them. It seems like a gut-wrenching, cruel word if you ask me. That word doesn’t describe you, and it sure as hell doesn’t define you. You are defined by how you treat those around you, your grace, and your ability to put everyone before yourself- every single time. I’m in awe at times at how much the world has sent your way over the last few years. Yet you bend, you do not break.
But the truth is, every time I post a photo of my family, of my growing children, I know you do break a little. I truly don’t blame you if you glaze over texts of my kids doing something crazy or ignore my call when I need to vent about toddlers. I love how you are always there, but I don’t want anything I do to ever be a painful reminder of your current reality. As your friend, I want to fix it; I want to take the heartache of the last few years, not resulting in pregnancy, away. Countless nights, I lay awake going through fertility clinic websites looking for solutions, options where I can help.
I don’t know what the future holds; none of us does. But I just want to tell you that I am sorry; this is the path you and your husband are currently walking. It isn’t fair. You’ve listened to me over the years, often offering a listening ear. In times of my personal desperation, I found comfort in your check-ins, your conversation, and just your presence. So today, that’s what I will continue to offer during your journey to motherhood. Night and day, I’m just a phone call away. I may not have a solution, but I will continue to give you my time. On days you want to joke about all things kids, I’m there. On days you want to call crying because you saw another pregnancy announcement, I’m there. If you never want to talk about getting pregnant ever again, I’m there. You have my time, my friendship, and my prayers.
I will continue to pray fiercely that your greatest desire is fulfilled. Until then, I am immensely grateful for our friendship. You are a part of our family. For the rest of this journey, I am here for you.
I love you,
A
