As our little girl’s due date looms closer and closer, it’s easy to get caught up in the hustle of preparation and the questions of inquiring minds…but it’s impossible to forget where we were just months ago. In March I was truly believing that God might be calling us to childlessness. My identity was steeped in infertility, my spiritual journey rooted in that ache, my hopes dwindled. And we were ok.

For the past many years, since first sharing our story, we have been covered in prayers and support. And then there’s the unofficial club we joined – the Infertility Club. There were a few friends who confided that they, too, were unable to conceive. Together we walked through the tears, the anger, the envy, the heartbreak. We experienced tests, doctor’s appointments, artificial hormones, invasive procedures, and shared all the details because one of us was inevitably headed down the same road. We knew what to expect when we walked into the doctor’s office because good friends told their own nitty gritty stories to reassure us.

And our entire goal was to see each of us become parents.

But when you leave you that Club, it’s with mixed feelings. You get a call from your friend who lovingly shares her joyous news with you hoping you won’t be devastated by it. This is the whole point, isn’t it? Yeah, but this is a sisterhood that can’t be duplicated. And it feels a little bit like betrayal to be the “successful one.”

So as I watch my belly bubble with little movements and complain about the weight gain and the heartburn, my heart aches for the friends I’ve left behind. In my joy, they rejoice. And in their sorrow, I mourn.

To the unspoken, hush-hush sisterhood of infertility, my love abides and my prayers continue.