Just Spit It Out
A few weeks ago, I went in for a laparoscopic surgery for suspected endometriosis. Turns out, there was a little something to be found. It wasn't tremendous, but it was enough to apparently be wreaking havoc on my body. And yet, I had no obvious, "typical" symptoms. "Silent endometriosis" is what they call it—carefully tucked away, but potentially at the root of our infertility challenges (and yet, also maybe not).
Those close to me know that I have a very low pain tolerance, and an even lower mental tolerance for anything involving blood and needles. So going under general anesthesia for a surgery that, at best, was considered "exploratory" at the start wasn't exactly my idea of a good day off.
The recovery wasn’t as bad as I imagined (honestly, neither was the IV I feared so much), but it did force me to slow down. Much like the silent endometriosis itself, my "outsides" look perfectly fine. But inside, the healing takes time. I wasn’t able to take a bubble bath for several weeks (my ultimate favorite evening indulgence), I can't swing a golf club yet, and quite frankly, my energy levels were really low. A forced slowdown, if you will.
It was humbling, especially during what was my third week of what I have deemed my unofficial sabbatical. Fertility journeys have a way of continually humbling you—and making you ridiculously comfortable sharing deeply personal details with strangers.
In the beginning, when people would ask, "Oh, do you have children?" we would simply say, "Oh, not yet." After a year or two, that shifted to, "Not yet, but we are hopeful." Most recently, it became, "No, unfortunately we've been navigating infertility."
The truth is, changing that answer was more for me than it was for them.
At the SAIS conference last month for heads of school, psychologists Rob Evans and Michael Thompson encouraged us to practice the art of just spitting it out. Rob challenged us: "If you could just spit it out—you frame it, you don't fudge it." He was talking about navigating potentially challenging conversations with parents and faculty members, but honestly, I believe this is incredibly practical advice far outside of the head's office.
It's not about being rude, unprofessional, or lacking decorum. It is simply about saying the thing you actually mean to say, so that everyone involved is having an honest conversation.
I realized that when I used to caveat my answer about kids for the comfort of the person asking, I wasn't really offering myself—or them—an opportunity for genuine connection. Sometimes, when you answer plainly, people will just say, "Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that," and the conversation moves on. And that's not a problem.
Other times, though—and much more often than you might think—people open up and share their own challenges or the obstacles they faced with fertility. And it helps. I think it really helps.
As many of you who have been reading along for the last year or so likely know, I am a deep believer that two things can be true at once. Our ability to hold space for complexity is one of the most grounding orientations for me personally—particularly when it comes to joy and grief.
So whether we are talking about infertility, a new diagnosis for a child or a parent, an impending move, or a challenging classroom environment, joy and grief can exist at the exact same time. And I do believe that the more comfortable we can get with (gracefully!) just spitting it out, the better we will all be at holding those two things together.