Claiming Shame and Finding Strength While Navigating Infertility
For a long time, I struggled to find the right words to describe my experience with infertility, not the medical details, and not the outcome, but the emotional truth that lived underneath it all. Then I read a line from The Gifts of Imperfection by Brené Brown that stopped me in my tracks: “When we don’t claim shame, it claims us.”
That sentence named what I had been living with for years.
For the first three years after my diagnosis, I didn’t claim my shame. Instead, I was consumed by it. I believed my body had failed me, and that somehow meant I had failed. As a woman. As a wife. As a daughter. As a Jew. I internalized the idea that infertility made me broken, different, and unworthy of connection.
Rather than speaking about that shame, I hid behind it. I let it quietly shape how I moved through the world, until it became so heavy I could barely function. I stopped going to simchas, Shabbat meals, and shul. I struggled to face friends and family. Eventually, I hit rock bottom and could no longer get out of bed.
What saved me was not a sudden burst of clarity, but a small, fragile moment of courage. I reached out for help. And in doing so, I gave my shame a voice beyond the one in my head—the one that told me I was undeserving of love and belonging. Naming it softened its grip.
Over time, I learned that infertility would always be part of my story, but it did not have to be a source of secrecy or self-blame. It is still a reality I wouldn’t wish on anyone. The path to parenthood was filled with pain and uncertainty. And yet, walking through it changed me. It made me more compassionate, more attuned to the unseen struggles of others, and more willing to accept all parts of myself, even the ones I don’t always love.
Through infertility, I also found community. A community of individuals and couples who show up with courage and vulnerability. Who hold space for one another with empathy. Who lean in, even when the conversation is uncomfortable. My life is richer because of these connections, and I am endlessly grateful for the strength and solidarity found within the fertility community.
One of the most important lessons I’ve learned is that claiming shame is not one-size-fits-all. There is room for privacy. There is room for boundaries. The shift is not from silence to public disclosure; it’s from secrecy to self-respect. Infertility is not something to be ashamed of. It is not a personal failure. And neither you nor I are broken.
As we prepare to enter a new year and reflect on all that has been, I’m holding space for both gratitude and growth. The past year may have carried loss, resilience, unanswered questions, or quiet victories, sometimes all at once. In the year ahead, my hope is to continue building spaces where more people feel supported in claiming their shame in whatever way feels right.
Whether you choose to process your story privately in a journal, share it with a trusted friend, or speak it aloud in community, I hope you find what I continue to find: that claiming shame, in whatever way feels right, can transform it into strength.
Healing does not require visibility; it requires compassion, safety, and connection. As we move forward together, may the coming year bring gentler conversations, deeper understanding, and more pathways for individuals and families to feel less alone.