The casual question, ‘When’s his sibling due?’ from a fellow parent at my son’s sensory class, directed at me while touching my stomach, left me feeling violated and alone. I’m not pregnant, and after four losses, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to have another child. Teddy, our son, is a miracle, conceived through IVF after a grueling journey of fertility struggles. The question felt deeply insensitive, and the physical touch was even more intrusive. Despite the initial shock and anger, I chose to respond with grace, explaining that I wasn’t pregnant and that Teddy was conceived through IVF. We hoped to have another child, but the uncertainty hung heavy. Her response was to double down on her question, proving the normalization of these intrusive inquiries, even for mothers. No one has the right to comment on or touch another person’s body, especially when you don’t know the story behind it.
This wasn’t the first time we faced such insensitivity. Right after our wedding in 2020, we were bombarded with questions about when we’d be having children. We ignored it at first, but the relentless pressure started to wear us down. Then came a glimmer of hope, a pregnancy that tragically ended in a chemical pregnancy, also known as an early miscarriage. The following years were filled with tests, uncertainty, and eventually, the diagnosis of Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS). PCOS affects 1 in 10 women in the UK, impacting ovulation and increasing the risk of miscarriage. We turned to fertility experts and embarked on the arduous journey of IVF.
Our first round of IVF resulted in three fertilized eggs, but neither transfer led to a baby. The second transfer was particularly heartbreaking, as we had seen the twins alive on the screen before the transfer. These losses were often dismissed, as if they didn’t count. We were told not to worry, that it would happen, or that they weren’t ‘real’ babies. We learned to tune out these insensitive comments, focusing on our IVF journey and our own wellbeing.
After allowing my body to recover, we prepared for another round of IVF, self-administering daily injections. This time, one of the three fertilized eggs was particularly strong, shaped like a heart. We saw this embryo before the transfer, and it was our hope, our dream. That heart, nine months later, became Teddy. He bounded into the world, full of wonder, our miracle baby.
However, the pressure didn’t stop. Immediately after Teddy’s birth, we were met with questions about when the next baby was coming. The incident at the sensory class was just the latest example of this relentless questioning and the societal pressure on women to conform to certain timelines. I want to set a good example for Teddy, to teach him to stand up for himself and his values.
While I hope the woman at the class feels remorse for her actions, I want to emphasize that these questions are never harmless. They disregard the individual’s experiences, struggles, and choices. We need to be more compassionate, more mindful, and more respectful of others’ journeys. Women’s bodies are not for public scrutiny or comment, and their experiences with fertility and family planning are deeply personal and sensitive.
Let’s choose kindness and understanding over mindless gossip. Let’s stop asking these loaded questions and instead offer support and compassion. We all have stories, and we all deserve to be treated with respect and sensitivity.
