The Loss That Doesn’t Come With Permission to Grieve

There’s a type of grief the world struggles to acknowledge.

It doesn’t arrive with flowers.
It doesn’t stop time.
Sometimes, there isn’t even a body to mourn.

Because of this, grief from infertility and baby loss is often treated as optional — something you’re expected to bear quietly, move through quickly, and even feel grateful for.

Because There’s No “Proof”

People struggle to understand grief they can’t see.

There’s no funeral.
No death certificate.
No empty crib that others can point to and acknowledge.

Sometimes there isn’t even a positive test yet — just years of trying, treatments, injections, surgeries, hope, and collapse.

So the grief is questioned.

“It could have been worse.”

“At least it wasn’t far along.”

“There will be other chances.”

“You can always try again.”

As if love only counts once it’s visible.

Because It Makes People Uncomfortable

Infertility and baby loss forces people to confront things they’d rather avoid:

That bodies fail.
That effort doesn’t guarantee outcomes.
That love doesn’t protect you from loss.

So instead of sitting in the discomfort, people rush to silver linings.

Not for you — for themselves.

They minimise because it’s easier than acknowledging how unfair and fragile life really is.

Because Hope Is Mistaken for a Cure

There’s a dangerous belief that optimism equals healing.

That if you just stay positive, grief will dissolve.

But infertility doesn’t respond to mindset.
Loss doesn’t disappear because you’re grateful.
And hope does not cancel out heartbreak.

When people say:

“Don’t give up.”

What they often mean is:
Please don’t make me sit with your pain.

Because There’s No Clear End

Infertility grief doesn’t happen once.

It resurfaces every month.
Every announcement.
Every ultrasound photo on social media.
Every offhand comment about “when you have kids.”

Baby loss grief doesn’t resolve neatly either.
It reappears on due dates that never arrived.
On anniversaries no one else remembers.
On the version of life that should have existed.

Grief without an end date makes people uncomfortable.

Because It Challenges the Fairytale

Society sells the idea that if you want something badly enough — and do all the right things — you’ll get it.

Infertility and baby loss shatter that lie.

They prove that:

• Good people suffer

• Effort doesn’t equal reward

• Love doesn’t guarantee outcome

And that truth is confronting.

So it’s easier to downplay your grief than admit the story we’re told is flawed.

Grief That Must Be Grateful

There’s always an “at least.”

“At least you can try again.”
“At least you already have a child.”
“At least it happened early.”
“At least you know now.”

Gratitude is demanded.

You’re expected to carry your grief in silence, while convincing the world you’re thankful — as if sorrow and gratitude can’t exist side by side.

The truth? They can.
And they often do.

Because Your Grief Doesn’t Fit the Script

Infertility and baby loss grief is messy.

You can feel:

• Deep sadness and irrational jealousy

• Love and resentment

• Hope and dread

• Gratitude and rage

That contradiction confuses people.

So they label your grief as “too much,” “dwelling,” or “negative,” rather than recognising it for what it is — unresolved loss with nowhere safe to land.

Because You Learn to Hide It Well

Eventually, you stop talking.

Not because you’ve healed — but because you’ve learned your pain is inconvenient.

You say you’re fine.
You change the subject.
You cry in private.

And because people no longer see your grief, they assume it’s gone.

Invisible grief is easily dismissed — even when it’s ongoing.

The Truth That Needs Saying

Infertility and baby loss grief is dismissed because it asks society to slow down, sit still, and acknowledge suffering without fixing it.

And most people don’t know how to do that.

But the absence of recognition does not make your grief smaller.
It makes it lonelier.

Your loss mattered.
Your longing mattered.
Your pain did not need permission to exist.

And if no one ever said it out loud:

You are not overreacting.
You are not weak.
You are grieving something real — even if the world never learned its name.

Linda