How infertility changed my friendships

A story about navigating the grief of losses, and a new relational landscape

A view of beautiful Barafundle Bay in Wales, taken by Louise

Hi friend,

You know that the word “more” has been top of mind for me this year. What you might not know is that I’ve also spent a lot of time thinking about friends and friendship. Over the past few years, the landscape of all my relationships has changed dramatically, but this feels particularly true of my friendships. I have intentionally ended some, naturally let a few fade, and felt a few others pull away from me as well. Some of this has been a byproduct of healing (recognizing patterns that weren’t working for me anymore, setting new boundaries, etc.) and some of it has been a result of big life events (trauma, the pandemic, other relationships, time, and my move to the UK).

It’s been a big topic of conversation in my life and feels like a big one to dig into here. There are so many subtopics and stories and learnings I could share. I’ve wanted to write about it, but haven’t known where to begin. So, when I read the pitch for what Louise wanted to share with us, I thought… maybe she can help us start this conversation. Because, while her story is personal, it also feels universal. We haven’t shared these particular experiences (I’m child-free by choice), yet when I read the final version, I saw myself in her words.

Louise is a writer from Oxfordshire in the UK. By day she works in publishing, but her passion project is writing stories to make sense of the unexpected paths her life has taken. From retraining and then self-employment resulting in a failed business, to the grief and pain of infertility—she writes to show the humanness of it all and to lift any shame from hiding our stories away. And that’s exactly what she does here, friend. Louise is open about how the pain of infertility has changed her friendships, while being honest about the role she’s played in those changes too. Her story is vulnerable and nuanced. It’s deeply human. And I’m honoured she chose to share it with us.

Thank you, Louise. I’m certain your words will help at least one person feel less alone. ❤️

xx Cait

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How infertility changed my friendships

by Louise Lewis

I turn forty in January. When I turned thirty, I admit, I freaked out a little. But I made up for that by ensuring to celebrate well. I organised something with each group of my friends: school, work, university, ex-housemates. But for forty, my friendship landscape feels very different. My relationships to those same people are different. So I’m not sure how, or if, I will celebrate this new milestone with the same friends. 

In my younger years, friendship groups were always core to my identity. There was a consistent thread of strong female bonds throughout those years and I proactively defended these friendships above all else. I didn't have boyfriends or romantic relationships until my mid-twenties. I was proud of the platonic relationships I had formed and managed to maintain.

It sounds naive but I didn’t ever think too much about any of these friendships drifting in the future. Which is a bit silly of me really, because our thirties are naturally a time when people change and our paths diverge. Careers, marriages, relocations can all lead to creating distance between previous close ties. Busy lives means we can go months or years without seeing some friends. Priorities widen and friendship gets supplanted by life.

The biggest factor for me in this divergence is having children. Or not, in my case.

While many of my friends have joyfully started their own families, I have been stuck in an endless loop of unsuccessful attempts to get pregnant and failed IVF treatment rounds. And not just for months, for years. Friends had their babies and then had their second babies, their lives changing instantly. I, meanwhile, sometimes feel like I am living the same life over and over, where not much has changed from the life I was living ten years ago.

During these years, my friendships have shifted, some have faded, or even disappeared completely. In this life experience that is full of loss and grief, this is one type that isn't talked about or often honoured. 

And it’s not just with infertility; it can happen whenever our own life experiences start to diverge from that of our peers. Ties weaken and things that we once shared in common dwindle, as we move along our own path—one that may look quite different to those around us. 

It’s a messy landscape to navigate. I have felt simultaneously sad for friendships that have been lost and angry at people for leaving me behind. My social circles contracted whilst theirs seemed to expand with new friends from antenatal/prenatal classes, baby clubs, and the like. The pool of people available to meet up at weekends shrunk as my mum friends’ commitments for their children grew. Their priorities changed (quite rightly, I should say!) and I’m not at the top of that list. It sometimes feels like I have become marooned on an island in a sea of mums. 

When meet-ups and gatherings do come, it can be painful for me as chat revolves around babies and complaints about motherhood. I have come home in tears a few times, a whirlpool of emotions inside of me—sadness, resentment, anger at them, anger at myself—all in one hit. Did they have to talk about babies so much? Why didn’t they ask me about my life? Am I just an awful and selfish person for thinking these things? 

Jealousy has swept in. And not just I’m jealous because I want her lovely hair, such was a principal concern of mine when I was sixteen. But a deep raging jealousy that burns in the pit of my stomach. I’m jealous of the ease with which they got pregnant and maintained a pregnancy, I’m jealous that they don't know the traumas of infertility, and I’m jealous of the family lives they are living. With jealousy comes its good pal, guilt. Because how awful a person am I if I feel such bitterness towards my friends? 

I try to remember that my friends are humans and are fallible. I know it might be hard to be there for me for something they haven’t been through themselves and don’t understand. People don’t know what to say. I can also think now of many times when I likely wasn’t fully there for friends in the past during their hard times. I also know they might not have the capacity right now, given all they are dealing with themselves—raising kids is hard, after all. It’s not easy to practise this forgiveness when we’re hurting or feeling isolated, but I am learning to try.

I acknowledge that I am not blame-free and have played a part in my friendships changing. I have had contrasting feelings of clinging on to the embers of friendships whilst, at the same time, have actively pushed people away. I recognise that I have done that. Deep down I know it’s not their fault that procreation is taking much longer for me, but rational emotions go out the window with such deep personal pain.

The loss of these friendships has left a space in my life. In the last few years, and aided by the pandemic boom of online groups, I have tried to make new friendships. It took a while to form bonds that felt anywhere near as meaningful as what I had with my old friends. What I have found, though, is that when meeting others who understand my experiences, we skipped a lot of getting to know each other on a trivial level and a deep understanding is there from the beginning. I have made beautiful connections with some incredible women. I’ve even travelled across the country to meet up with them in person after lockdowns! These connections have been invaluable to me and I would not have got through the hard times so far without them.

Making new friends as an adult is tricky, but possible. I’ve learned that through another big life change, outside of all this. When I quit self-employment in 2021 and took a full-time job again, I didn’t anticipate that a new circle of friendships would also bloom from that. Most of these people are at least ten years younger than me but it’s been just what I need. I haven’t told them about my infertility experiences—they don’t need to know and that’s not what I am looking for from them. My co-workers don’t need to also be the deepest friendships of my life. I appreciate them for what they give me in this moment: the energy of those in their twenties who want to do social things after work—and don’t talk about kids.

Some old friendships have come back around in the midst of hardship. There are one or two of my friendships that have actually deepened over the last five years, either because they have also experienced some level of fertility trauma or are also on a different path to parenthood. A few other friends have had other awful things happen in their lives and I found I was able to be sensitive and conscious of their suffering, knowing what it’s like to be on the other side. My yoga teacher and guide, Helen, calls these “orbiting friendships.” I remain hopeful that some of my other older friendships may orbit back around in the future.

But they may not. 

It’s hard to admit when something isn’t working. I have gotten much better over the years at learning what I am willing to do and what I am not. I (mostly) no longer sacrifice myself to please others or go along with the group (it’s a tough lesson for a people-pleaser). That means no baby showers, no meeting friends in big groups (it’s easier to get them off the topic of babies when we’re one-on-one), and unfollowing friends on social media to avoid baby spam. When friendship circles are historic, it is always hard to be the one missing out, but we have to be a friend to ourselves first and foremost and honour what we need.

I feel like we have been led to believe through media and books that we will have the same best friends forever and ever. If we do, that’s wonderful, but for many of us, that doesn’t happen. Maintaining a friendship requires time, effort, courage, and mutual consideration, and sometimes we don’t get these (on either side—I’m as much to blame for this in some places). I haven’t given up on my older friendships completely, but I’m trying to see my friendships as an evolution. They will change throughout life. We change, they change, the world changes. That doesn’t mean it’s easy—it’s not. But it’s true.

For my fortieth birthday celebrations then, I so far only have things planned with my husband and my family. I could organise some other smaller celebrations with my older groups of friends, but it feels a bit forced. After so long, there is almost too much time lost. Or perhaps it’s a chance to reconnect, I don’t know yet.

My other plan is to celebrate with those in my life right now. A potential pub lunch with my new online friends, an after-work outing with my new work friends. When I think about it, that’s essentially what I did at thirty. I celebrated my life milestone with those around me at the time. That landscape may look different now to how it did ten years ago, but that can be ok. I can be grateful for the connections that exist now, at forty.