The Loneliness of Infertility

Let’s pretend—for just a moment—that you’re ready to admit you’ve seen Mean Girls.

I’ll go first: “Guilty, your honor.”

There’s a scene in the movie where the high school cafeteria is mapped out like a war zone of cliques. The camera zooms out to show a cartoon-style diagram labeling every table: the geeks, the goths, the jocks, the art freaks—and, of course, the group we love to hate (and secretly want to join): the Plastics.

Everyone knows where they belong. The unspoken rules are clear. You sit with your people. You don’t move tables unless someone tells you you can—or unless you’ve somehow earned a promotion. Until then, you stay in your lane.

Now imagine a version of that cafeteria today, but this time the tables reflect your social world as a woman navigating relationships, motherhood—or the hope of motherhood.

At the first table: the newlyweds. They’re glowing with post-honeymoon bliss, having playful date nights, spontaneous weekends away, and uninterrupted sex. They’re full of hope and optimism. Babies are still a twinkle in their eyes. I was there once. Maybe you were too.

A few tables over sit the young moms. They're bleary-eyed but radiant, wearing their stretch marks like badges of honor. They’ve crossed into a new world, seemingly overnight. They’ve had their gender-reveal parties and maternity shoots. They talk casually about epidurals and sleep schedules. They’ve made it—at least from your view.

Further down: the seasoned moms of school-aged kids. Their strollers have long been folded and stored away. They’ve got parenting rhythms down. They send their kids off to school with a smile, reclaiming parts of their old life—date nights, exercise, maybe even a longing to do it all again. Or not. Some are nudging their partners toward vasectomy appointments, quietly closing the door to more.

At another table, the veteran moms. Their children are launching—headed off to college, jobs, adulthood. These women have one foot in full-time mothering, the other in letting go. They babysit for the younger moms now, blinking back tears as they remember when it was their turn.

And then, there’s your table.

The quietest one.

It’s the table of the waiting women—the wannabe moms. The ones in the “not yet,” the “not sure,” or the “maybe never.” You’re not invisible, but some days it feels like it. You listen to laughter from the other tables while discreetly dabbing the corner of your eyes. You want to belong. You long for the day you might be “promoted.” But for now, you sit, trying not to cry into your lunch. Hoping no one notices. Hoping, like in high school, that this isn't the day you unexpectedly get your period.

From this vantage point, the cafeteria’s divisions are painfully clear. Everyone here is a woman.

Biologically speaking, you're all the same. And yet—one thing quietly divides the room.

Some are mothers.

Some are not.

I (Cathie) ended my reproductive journey at that final table. I know the ache of it. I know what it feels like to wait, to hope, to grieve.

If this resonates with you, you are not alone. Please reach out. We have therapists and an infertility support group here to support you on your journey.