The defining experience of my life has been permanent infertility. Not the kind many people eventually overcome, but the kind that doesn’t change. While one in six couples struggle to conceive, less than 5% of the population remains permanently infertile. So it’s hardly surprising that this has been a lonely journey.

I speak openly about my experience to try and help anyone else going through it feel less alone. Yes, we may be a small percentage of the population, but that still equates to millions of people globally, so where are they all? The stigma and shame around infertility often keep us quiet - blending into the background, hoping nobody asks those probing, painful questions we dread about our children - or lack thereof. 

I met my husband Liam in Ibiza in the heady party days of the late 90s, when we were in our early 20s and children were the last thing on our minds. The first indicator that something might be wrong with me was in my mid-20s when a smear test revealed abnormal cells. A procedure was required to remove the precancerous cells from my cervix, and we assumed that would be the end of that. 

Years later, after a decade of fun and adventures together, having got married (in Ibiza, naturally!), we decided to start trying for a baby. And nothing happened. Eventually, we were referred for tests. I was advised to have both fallopian tubes removed to improve IVF success, since the fluid which blocked them could pass into the womb and be toxic to an embryo. At the time, we trusted that advice. Later, I was told the issue may not have been permanent but the surgery was. I’d been unwittingly sterilised by the doctors employed to help us conceive. Of course, this piled even more pressure on IVF success. Talk about putting all your eggs in one basket! 

Having had my tubes removed, it emerged that the blood supply to the ovaries had subsequently been restricted, reducing their function and resulting in very few eggs being collected. Each cycle brought a rollercoaster of emotions: an arc of anticipation through to crushing disappointment. Despite the highest drug doses, only a few follicles developed. We begged doctors to continue. “It only takes one egg,” we pleaded.

We managed to get three embryos: one the first cycle, none the second, but then two on our last attempt. Could we even be blessed with twins? I carried this precious cargo inside me…until I didn’t. None of them stayed. I was labelled a ‘poor responder’ with ‘premature ovarian failure’ and an ‘inhospitable womb’ all such negative terms, heaping even more blame and shame on my shoulders. We were discharged from the hospital, numb. The sliding doors closed behind us and our journey to parenthood came to an abrupt end. I say abrupt, it had been more than five years by this point. 

Meanwhile, everyone else seemed to be getting pregnant easily, sometimes accidentally. It’s hardly surprising it took a toll on our marriage. We went from a carefree couple to the only infertile people we knew. Casual questions, comments and unsolicited advice from well-meaning friends, colleagues and family members landed like gut punches. They had no concept of the finality of our situation, since most people who miscarry go on to have children. We never would. We dragged ourselves to work every day, going through the motions as we had throughout our journey, only now we’d lost the one thing which had kept us going: hope. 

Hope, and three babies. 

On top of grieving the family we’d never have, I was in the throes of premature menopause without support or hormone replacement therapy. By the time I finally received HRT years later, our marriage had ended. It was the darkest period of my life.

So why share something so painful? Well, because this isn’t where the story ends. Liam and I did go on to divorce, after 15 years together, but today we’re friends and have both moved on. Neither of us have remarried nor had children, but we both have full and happy lives, busy with work, friends, family (including nieces and nephews), and plenty of travel. I have a fiancé and a beloved mini dachshund called Honey. After several abdominal surgeries, a total hysterectomy in my mid-40s eventually brought closure to decades of gynae hell. I started The Non-Mum Network Facebook group nine years ago in an attempt to connect with other non-mums amidst a sea of parents, and today the group boasts 6.5k childless and childfree women. 

So if you’re reading this having experienced infertility or a loss, particularly one which may be your last attempt, please know that although this may be the end of a chapter, it’s not the end of your book. Your story may be different to the one you envisaged, but it’s not any less worthy. You will have reserves of strength and resilience far beyond your expectations which will see you through the darkest moments, and you will give and receive as much love as anyone else. Nobody gets through life without loss, it just takes different forms. Don’t let anyone make you believe your life matters less just because your children live only in your heart.