Why Crying Saved Me on My Infertility and Childless Journey

If going through miscarriage, infertility, failed fertility treatments, and ultimately accepting a childless life taught me anything, it’s this: it’s important to cry.

For a long time, I believed I had to be strong. 

Strong for my partner. 

Strong for my family, friends and colleagues. 

Strong for everyone who didn’t know what to say or how to show up.

So I pretended I was okay. I swallowed my pain. I held it together in public and fell apart quietly—if at all—behind closed doors by myself. And honestly? That approach didn’t protect me. It didn’t make things easier. It only made my pain heavier and more excruciating when it finally came out.

Because grief doesn’t disappear just because we ignore it.

When I didn’t let myself cry, the emotions still found a way out. They showed up as irritability. As snapping at the people I loved most. As resentment, bitterness, and complete emotional exhaustion. And while those reactions were understandable given what I was carrying, they only made me feel so much worse afterward. They left me feeling guilty on top of already being heartbroken.

What I eventually learned is that my tears are not a sign of weakness—they’re a release.

Crying became one of the few places where I didn’t have to perform, explain, or minimize my pain. It was honest. It was raw. And it was absolutely necessary. And not only was this about allowing myself to cry, it was also about allowing myself to cry with others that loved me, especially my partner who shared my pain. Each time I allowed myself to cry—alone or held by someone who truly understood—it felt like letting a little bit of pressure out of an already overfilled container.

So if you’re holding back tears because you’re afraid they won’t stop—here’s your sign to let them come.

If you’re worried about what it means if you cry—hear it from me, someone who has been there, it simply means you’re human.

And if you’ve been telling yourself you should be coping better by now—please be gentle with yourself.

Pretending you’re okay won’t  change the depth of your loss. The loss of a future you longed for, a role you desperately wanted and a family you imagined having.

Holding it together doesn’t make the grief smaller. And pushing your emotions away won’t make them disappear—it only delays their expression.

Eventually, they will come out anyway. 

And when they do, you deserve for them to come out in a way that feels safe and compassionate, not in moments of anger or regret that leave you feeling even more depleted.

Letting yourself cry doesn’t mean you’re giving up. It doesn’t mean you’re stuck. And it certainly doesn’t mean you won’t find joy again.

It means you’re allowing your body and heart to process something that was deeply painful and deeply unfair.

There is no shame in tears—especially tears born from longing, loss, and love that had nowhere to go.

Even now, years later, I still cry. The grief of being childless is still part of me. But it doesn’t feel as sharp or as heavy as it once did. Each year, it softens a little more. And I truly believe that allowing myself to feel—fully and honestly—is a big part of why.

So if today calls for tears, let them fall. You are not broken. You are grieving. And you are allowed to feel every bit of it.