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What No One Warned Me About Infertility: The Depression That Came With It
When people talk about infertility, they talk about the medical parts — the IUIs, the IVF, the endless appointments. What they rarely talk about is what it does to your mind. For me, the hardest part of trying to conceive wasn't any single procedure. It was the quiet depression that settled in somewhere between the hope and the disappointment, and refused to leave.
I was diagnosed with PCOS at seventeen. Years later, when my husband and I started trying for a baby, I thought my science background — I studied bioinformatics — would somehow protect me. I understood the hormones. I could read my own charts. But understanding the biology did nothing to soften the emotional weight of it.
There's a particular grief in infertility that's hard to explain. You grieve something that never existed. Every negative test is a small loss. Every pregnancy announcement is a complicated ache — happy for them, hollowed out at the same time, then guilty for feeling hollow. After repeated failed cycles, an unexpected IVF round, ovarian hyperstimulation, surgery, and a painful tubal pregnancy, I stopped recognizing myself. I withdrew. I smiled through conversations while feeling nothing. I told everyone I was "fine."
If you're in that place right now, here's what I most needed to hear back then: what you're feeling is real, and it is not a weakness. Infertility-related depression is common, and it is valid. You are not being dramatic. You are not ungrateful. You are carrying something heavy, mostly in silence — and that would wear anyone down.
A few things slowly helped me. Naming it mattered: the moment I let myself say "I think I'm depressed" instead of "I'm just tired," I could finally reach for help. Talking to a professional mattered — I wish I'd done it sooner instead of treating therapy as a last resort. And finding other women who had been through it, who didn't offer "just relax and it'll happen," reminded me I wasn't broken or alone.
I started writing, too. At first just for me — a way to make sense of the science and the sorrow living side by side in my body. Eventually it became something I wanted to give away, so the next woman sitting alone in a clinic waiting room might feel a little less alone.
If you're struggling today, be gentle with yourself. Reach out — to a partner, a friend, a counselor, a community. There's no timeline you're failing to meet. You're allowed to grieve, and you're allowed to ask for help.
It does get lighter. Not all at once, and not on any schedule — but the version of you that feels this heavy right now is not the version you'll be forever. You are not alone in this. I promise you that.
Author bio: Sonali Sheetal Appikonda is the author of Turning Fertile*, a memoir about PCOS, infertility, and pregnancy loss. She holds degrees in bioinformatics and computer science.
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