Nearly 10 years later, I still think about that version of myself that had to sit there and begin to process the reality of my complete infertility. There is still a part of me that has been frozen, stuck in that doctor’s office. And I avoided that 19 year-old as much as I could over the near decade. My fertility was gone and, with it, my worth. Or, at least that’s the lie I told myself.

I sat down to write a piece on Easter Sunday and inevitably I am brought first to Good Friday. For just as Venerable Fulton Sheen wrote, “Unless there is a Good Friday in your life, there can be no Easter Sunday,” without the painful cross of infertility, our family would not be the miracle that it is. My womb never bore children, I remain infertile almost eight years after my husband and I said “I do”. This might look like an abject failure, like the absence of a miracle, bu

Then, Easter changed. It became a season of darkness and perpetual death. This darkness settled in my heart after we miscarried our first and only biological child. I was left barren and fruitless. Although Jesus died and resurrected, I remained dead inside because my fertility was dead and would never resurrect.

There's a beautiful juxtaposition on this night between anticipation and dread, the not yet and the soon-to-be; the long-awaited and much-feared, a holy tension.