It’s September, which means it’s been a little over a year since my husband and I started trying for a second child. If it’s any indication of how long this might take, I’ve been married for eleven years (in November) and have not prevented pregnancy in any way since 2010 (nine years ago), but my husband and I only have one living child to show for it. When you’re going through infertility for the first time and have no children – it’s called primary infertility. But when you have a child (or children) and you’re going through infertility again, it’s called secondary infertility. My primary and secondary infertility experiences have been drastically different from one another and as a full year of trying and yet another failed cycle ends, I’m thinking a lot about these differences.

If I could describe my primary infertility experience in two words, those words would be tunnel vision. Despite the challenges I faced in getting pregnant, I was absolutely convinced that motherhood was supposed to be a large part of my existence on earth. And not just biological motherhood. I felt like a mother in so many ways. I studied early childhood education in college and worked with and for children in my professional life. At one point, I held three jobs – all related to children. My biggest personal goal was to one day work from home and raise ten children of my own. My biggest professional goal was to start my own school (not sure how I was going to have ten children, work from home, and have a school – but I was going to figure that out when the time came). Aside from my desire to be a biological mother, I wanted to be a foster and/or adoptive parent. My husband was adopted and has always been on board with the idea of adopting as a way to grow our family. It was killing me that I didn’t have any children, especially as friends who’d married a few years after me started having one, two, and in one case even three children before I had any children of my own. At work, the children that I taught each day became my own children. I was committed to those kids in a way that I don’t think I’d ever committed to anything in my life before them. I enjoyed teaching, and infertility made me a good teacher.

During primary infertility everything was new. Every test, every shot, every procedure, every medication, every dietary change, every chart – it was all a learning curve and I spent copious amounts of time researching every conception and pregnancy related thing I could find. The theme of motherhood continuously popped up in my life during primary infertility. Whether it was someone prophetically speaking motherhood into my life, or me randomly running into something motherhood related that I had told God years before and had since forgotten – it was almost as if God had put something in my spirit that kept telling me – it doesn’t seem like it now, but you do have a child coming. Hold on to that. I trusted that feeling and was willing to keep trying month after month after month, for five years, before finally getting pregnant with our little boy.

I bled for five weeks in the second trimester, and though it concerned me to think that I might be losing my baby – there was still that assurance – it doesn’t seem like it now, but you do have a child coming. Hold on to that. I felt so sure that I would have a healthy living child, I barely allowed anything else to enter into my mind. Tunnel vision.

But, if I could choose two words to describe my secondary infertility experience, they would be: less certain.

I’ve always been a free spirit. Before primary infertility, I thought I would grow up to become a professional wanderer. I never wanted to follow a routine. I never wanted stay in one place. I’d always be learning. Always be exploring. Some mornings I still wake up and think I’m just going to start walking in some direction and never return. I have always wanted to disappear. It’s a deep, intense feeling that I often have to fight. During primary infertility, achieving motherhood became somewhat of an obsession. Though I think the initial impulse toward motherhood was healthy and good, I’m not sure it was healthy for me to lose touch with myself the way I did. But my self has returned, and as much as I love children – I am sometimes unsure my free spirited nature is cut out for another child.

Don’t get it twisted, I am more than willing to sacrifice my wants and needs for any children that come into my life, and as an infertile it feels ungrateful to spend time complaining about the trivial frustrations of parenthood. I expected that having a child would mean putting myself on the back burner and that was okay with me. But as our son grows I feel closer to the freedom that I’ve always envisioned. And while I would not prevent the conception of another child, I keep questioning if I am really selfless enough to be trying to have another child whose existence would cause me to put my free spirited identity on hold again?

I’ve also lost the feeling of assurance that I once felt God had placed in my spirit. I’m not feeling, anymore, that sense of you do have a child coming. This doesnt mean that there isn’t one coming, I just don’t carry that same certainty. Maybe our son is going to be it, for us. Instead of tackling the tests, the shots, the procedures, the medications, the dietary changes, and the charting with single-minded drive and determination, I’m tackling them numbly, slowly, distantly, from some odd land far away in my mind. I used to feel so sad when I started a new cycle – now it feels numb. I want more kids. I hope for more kids. I love children, I really do. But I also just want to walk away. I want to get lost. I want to disappear.

Speaking of disappearing.

When they cut me open to deliver my sweet boy, it caused blood clotting issues for me. Another pregnancy would be high risk, doctors have told me, and we barely have enough money for another child – let alone enough money for a high risk pregnancy, a new child, and new hospital bills. And the way healthcare is set up for Black women in this nation?

If I were to die in childbirth or from anything pregnancy, heart, or blood clot related – where would that leave the husband and son I already have? In a tough spot financially, for one thing. My husband would soon remarry – I hope – but no woman will ever love my son the way I do. Is it even fair to risk him having to be without his mother?

As much as I’d love to vanish into thin air, I will never willingly leave my child nor purposely put myself in a position where that might happen.

Despite my doubts about second time motherhood, my insatiable desire to wander off, and concerns about pregnancy health risks – I do still hope that we will have more babies. I’m also still open to fostering or adopting, as soon as we are able.

What I do know for sure – maybe more now than before – is that I’m not in control. We waited so long for our son and it was so hard but when he arrived, the timing was perfect. We didn’t feel like God had been holding out. We didn’t feel like God had been ignoring us. Everything about our son’s existence was (and is!) perfect. He is exactly what I prayed for. From the moment of conception (thanks to all the medical intervention, we know exactly when that was) right down to the second he entered our world. Perfect.

People have value and purpose independently of their parents’ desire to have kids. It’s not about me and when I think I should have children. It’s about the life God is creating and God’s timing in bringing that life into our realm. One of my favorite quotes is a Buddhist quote that describes patience. It says, “Patience is a mind that is able to accept, fully and happily, whatever occurs. It is much more than just gritting our teeth and putting up with things. Being patient means to welcome wholeheartedly whatever arises, having given up the idea that things should be other than what they are. It is always possible to be patient, there is no situation so bad that it cannot be accepted patiently, with an open, accommodating, and peaceful heart.” – Geshe Kelsang Gyatso

I don’t take this quote to mean that I should be inactive about changing things that are within my control, but there are plenty of times in life where, instead of wishing things (beyond my control) were different, I have just had to settle in and accept what was. Infertility is one of those things. I hate it. I can work to beat it. But ultimately, it is my current reality and I have to accept it. Whatever happens (or doesn’t happen) concerning second or third children being added into our family will be what it will be.

And we will be okay.