Words by Kelly Donougher // Photo by Angel Balashev
When you’re longing for a baby, every comment about fertility lands differently. I know this intimately. Across my 15-year fertility journey, one filled with IVF cycles, miscarriages, endless tests, and an eventual acceptance that motherhood by birth was not my path, I discovered that words can wound more deeply than silence. And often, they come from the people who love us most.
Well-meaning friends and family would offer advice or encouragement, thinking they were helping. But instead of comfort, those words often left me feeling unseen, judged, or dismissed. Here’s the truth: if you’ve never sat in a fertility clinic waiting room, counting blood test days and hoping against hope, you can’t fully understand the weight of those words. That doesn’t mean you can’t support someone who is struggling. But support rarely looks like “solutions.” It looks like presence, empathy, and love. Below are some of the phrases that hurt the most:
“Just relax, it’ll happen.”
Relaxation doesn’t cure infertility. Trust me. I tried yoga, acupuncture, meditation, and even taking extended breaks from work. None of it changed my diagnosis. What comments like this really do, is put blame back on the woman as though the reason she isn’t pregnant is that she’s too stressed.
“You’re still young, you’ve got time.”
When you desperately want to become a parent, every year feels like a hundred. I started IVF in my mid-20s, but even then, the ticking clock loomed large. Youth doesn’t make repeated negative pregnancy tests easier to bear, and it doesn’t soften the heartbreak of miscarriage.
“Have you tried…?”
Legs in the air after sex, herbal teas, diets, timing, morning sex only, the list is endless. Everyone has a story of someone who did X and then miraculously conceived. What these “tips” do is trivialise the complex, often heartbreaking medical and emotional reality of infertility. It’s not a problem you solve with Google hacks.
“It’ll happen eventually.”
This one stings because it presumes certainty where none exists. I used to smile and nod, but inside I wanted to scream: Do you have a crystal ball? Are you God? The truth is, not everyone gets their happy ending in the way they first imagined. Telling someone it will “definitely” happen erases the very real possibility that it may not.
Through all the clumsy advice and awkward conversations, I also learned what real support looks like.
Simple empathy. Sometimes the most powerful words are, “I’m so sorry. That must be incredibly hard.” You don’t need to fix it. You just need to sit in the discomfort with us.
Remembering without prying. I had friends who quietly checked in after a doctor’s appointment, but didn’t press for details. They left the door open for me to share, without expectation.
Acts of love. A coffee dropped off, flowers, a text on a blood test day, or an invitation to do something non-baby related. These small gestures reminded me that I was still me and not just a woman defined by infertility.
Respecting boundaries. Some days I couldn’t face baby showers or kids’ birthday parties. The friends who understood without guilt-tripping me gave me the gift of breathing space.
One of the hardest parts of infertility is how it collides with society’s narrow definition of womanhood. From childhood, we’re taught that marriage and children are the ultimate markers of success. When that path is blocked, women are left questioning their worth.
In my book No Fence, No Limits, I write about how I eventually found another version of fulfillment. It wasn’t the white-picket-fence life I imagined, but it turned out to be rich, meaningful, and deeply my own.
And that’s why the words we choose matter so much. When we tell women, “Don’t worry, it’ll happen,” we reinforce the message that motherhood is the only outcome worth hoping for. But life is bigger than that. A woman’s worth is not measured by her womb.
So, if someone you love is navigating infertility, remember this: you don’t have to say the “perfect” thing. In fact, you don’t have to say much at all. What matters is showing up without judgment, without rushing them to solutions, and without making their pain about your need to comfort.
Instead of offering advice, offer presence. Instead of platitudes, offer compassion. And instead of assuming their life is less valuable without children, celebrate the many other ways their story can unfold.
Because sometimes the greatest gift we can give is not words at all, it’s the reminder that no matter how their journey ends, they are already enough.
