How to support someone through infertility (without saying the wrong thing)

I’m generally a very open person, and I’m happy to share my experience. When it comes to IVF, I get it; unless you’ve walked this path, there’s a lot you won’t understand. So often, people speak before thinking. 

But I’m asking you: pause. Just for a second. Before you ask your question or say something you think is meant with kindness, ask yourself: Is this really appropriate? Is this mine to know?

A few years ago, I was standing next to a colleague at a work baby shower. During all the oohs and aahs over tiny onesies and rattles, she turned to me with a smile and said, “So, you’re next, right?”

My heart sank. I could feel my cheeks heating up, that familiar tightness in my throat. I was shocked not that she’d asked, but that she’d assumed. That she’d made my fertility her conversation starter without knowing a single thing about my story.

Up until that point, I’d kept my infertility struggles private. Tucked away. Safe from moments exactly like this one. But standing there, surrounded by laughter and pastel wrapping paper, something shifted. Why was I the one carrying shame? Why was I the one protecting everyone else from discomfort while swallowing my own?

I was tired. Tired of smiling through comments like these. Tired of carrying the weight alone.

So I looked her in the eye and said, “No idea. We’ve been struggling to fall pregnant over the last five years. Not even IVF has helped.”

The colour drained from her face. I think she genuinely wished the ground would open up and swallow her in that moment. She stammered an apology and disappeared.

That was my pivotal moment. I realised people often speak without thinking, but their words land with weight. There are countless reasons people either choose to have children or have that choice taken away from them. And none of those reasons are owed in a casual conversation over cake.

More recently, after I shared the news of another failed transfer with a friend, her response was immediate: “What is meant to be, will be.”

That broke me.

It made me feel like my turn was never coming. Like I was fighting against fate itself. Because how many more times would I need to try before my “meant to be” arrived? How many more transfers? How many more losses? When would it finally be my turn?

I’m not alone in this. @zo.fertility asked her community: What insensitive comments have you received during infertility?

The response was heartbreaking. And so, so relatable.

“Why don’t you just adopt?”

“Being a parent isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“It will happen if it’s meant to be.” 

“You can borrow my kids anytime.”

“There’s a reason for everything.” 

“What is meant to be, will be.”

“At least your miscarriage was early.”

“Have you tried x, y, or z?” 

“Just stay positive.” 

“It will happen when you’re not thinking about it.” 

“Just relax and it’ll happen.” 

“God has a plan.”

These comments, no matter how well-intentioned, cut deep. They dismiss our grief. They minimise our pain. They suggest there’s a simple fix to something that’s breaking you from the inside.

Here’s what I wish people understood:

We’ve already tried relaxing. We’ve tried everything. We’ve Googled until 3 am. We’ve spent money we didn’t have. We’ve put our bodies through hell. Please don’t assume we haven’t thought of the thing you’re about to suggest.

It’s not about staying positive. Some days, hope is all we have. Other days, hope feels cruel. We’re allowed to feel both. We’re allowed to grieve what hasn’t happened while still fighting for what might.

Your success story isn’t comforting. I’m genuinely happy your friend/sister/cousin got pregnant after [insert miracle cure]. But right now, in this moment, it just reminds me that I haven’t. That I’m still here. Still waiting. Still failing.

We don’t owe you updates. If we want to share, we will. But asking “any news?” or “how did it go?” puts the burden on us to relive disappointment or manage your curiosity. If there’s news worth sharing, you’ll hear it.

Silence is okay. You don’t need to fix this. You don’t need to fill the space with words. Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is just sit with us in it. 

Say, “I’m here.” 

Say, “This is shit and I’m sorry.” 

That’s honestly enough.

Words that help instead:

• “I’m thinking of you.”
• “How are you doing, really?”
• “I’m here if you want to talk. Or not talk.”
• “What do you need right now?”

We really don’t expect anything but support, whether that’s dropping off a meal without asking might be, sending a message that doesn’t expect a response, remembering the hard dates and checking in quietly.

The psychology behind why people say these things

I totally get it – uncomfortable silences are uncomfortable. Most people mean well; they just don’t know what to do with pain they can’t fix. When they say, “just relax” or “it’ll happen when it’s meant to”, it’s not usually cruelty; it’s discomfort. They’re trying to patch over silence with something, anything, that sounds hopeful.

They’re also drawing from their own limited experience. Maybe they know someone who conceived after “letting go”, or they read a feel-good story online. In their minds, sharing is empathy. But in reality, it can feel like dismissal, like they’re reducing a medical and emotional marathon to a mindset problem.

Society doesn’t help either. We’re taught to “stay positive”, to find the silver lining, to always end hard stories with hope. It’s well-intentioned toxic optimism, and it silences the messy middle – the grief, anger, fear, and exhaustion that deserve space, too.

At the core, people genuinely don’t know what else to say. They want to help, to make it better, to see you smile again. But sometimes, there’s nothing to fix. There’s nothing you can do. And that’s okay. 

Silence, held with compassion, is far more comforting than hollow reassurance.

IVF is a long game and you may need to offer support over many years

Infertility isn’t a sprint; it’s a marathon you never signed up for. The first year, people rally. They check in, send messages, drop off care packages. But as months turn into years, the noise fades. The world moves on, even though you’re still right there – waiting, hoping, healing, trying again.

The truth is, support matters just as much in year two, three, or four as it did at the start. Remembering the important dates – transfer days, scan days, anniversaries of losses – shows you see us, still. But we also don’t expect you to remember it all! 

A quick “thinking of you today” can mean the world.

Don’t assume silence means we’re okay. It might just mean we’re out of words. Check in anyway. Not with pressure, but with presence.

Infertility is a long game of endurance – physically, emotionally, financially. Showing up consistently, even quietly, is what gets us through. We don’t need you to fix it. We just need to know you’re still here, even after everyone else has moved on.

A note to those going through it

This is your permission slip. 

You don’t owe anyone an explanation. 

You don’t owe anyone your story. 

You’re allowed to protect your peace.

Set boundaries and keep them, even if others don’t understand. You can choose who to tell, when to tell them, and how much to share. You can also choose not to. Protecting yourself doesn’t make you cold or distant; it makes you wise.

If someone keeps crossing the line or saying things that hurt, you have every right to step back. You’re allowed to curate your circle to include only the people who get it – or at least try to.

It’s your journey, your rules. Whether you’re in the thick of treatment, taking a break, or choosing a new path entirely, you don’t have to justify a single decision.

Sometimes silence says enough

Infertility is isolating enough without having to explain, defend, or educate every person who means well but misses the mark.

So before you speak, pause. Ask yourself: Is this helpful, or is this for me? 

Will this comfort them, or will this make them feel more alone?

And if you’re not sure, maybe just say: “I don’t know what to say, but I’m here.”

That’s almost always enough.

Disclaimer: The information shared on What the Fertility is for general awareness only and should not replace medical advice. Always consult a qualified healthcare professional for guidance on your personal situation.