Balls on a Roll
Yesterday at our bocce tournament, a stranger asked about our fertility journey. Not in a cruel way — more like a curious, well-meaning nudge into territory they didn’t realize was sacred. I answered with grace, but inside, a familiar cocktail stirred: frustration, reflection, and the weariness that comes from constantly having to explain something so deeply personal.
People love to share their own stories. “My sister went through that too.” “My friend swears by acupuncture.” “Don’t give up — it’ll happen.” These statements often come from a good place, but they land like weights on an already burdened heart. What they don’t see is that behind my smile is a decade of consultations, tests, surgeries, misdiagnoses, hope, loss, and the quiet decision to keep showing up.
We don’t need your comparisons. We need your compassion.
Our story is not a slot to plug your anecdote into. It is not a script you can rewrite with someone else's ending. It is layered, raw, and mine. Ours. And it’s still being written.
I think what makes these moments so hard is the assumption that we haven’t tried everything. As if we’re naive, or hopeful in a way that only needs the “right” tip to get us across the finish line. But the truth is, I’ve done the research. I’ve followed the protocols. I’ve adjusted my life and my body in more ways than I can count — sometimes at the expense of my joy, my spontaneity, and my sense of self.
And yet — I keep showing up to fight for this dream I want. Not just to clinics and appointments, but to my life.
Lately, that’s looked like leaning into creativity. Writing. Building worlds where control and chaos co-exist, where heartache transforms into power. I’ve found so much solace in crafting stories — not because they erase the pain, but because they give it somewhere to go. They remind me that even in the midst of uncertainty, I am still the author of something beautiful.
So while that stranger tossed their bocce ball and waited for my answer, I chose honesty. I gave them a window — not a wide-open door. Because I’ve learned that protecting my peace isn’t rude. It’s sacred.
This journey has made me more thoughtful, more self-aware, and more deeply connected to Drew. We’ve had the hard conversations. We’ve wrestled with the what-ifs. And maybe that’s the quiet gift of infertility — the way it forces you to look inward, to grow in ways you never imagined.
I don’t know what the next chapter holds. But I know I’ll meet it with open eyes, a full heart, and probably a peach milkshake in hand — because this fat ass knows how to find joy even on the hardest days.
