{"id":47251,"date":"2026-03-21T15:37:46","date_gmt":"2026-03-21T15:37:46","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/naijaglobalnews.org\/?p=47251"},"modified":"2026-03-21T15:37:46","modified_gmt":"2026-03-21T15:37:46","slug":"infertility-at-a-time-when-we-need-the-right-words-some-are-unable-to-find-them-nuala-mcgovern","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/naijaglobalnews.org\/?p=47251","title":{"rendered":"Infertility: at a time when we need the right words, some are unable to find them | Nuala McGovern"},"content":{"rendered":"

\n<\/p>\n

S<\/span>ome things are easy to talk about; infertility is not one of them. I speak from experience \u2013 of miscarriage and unsuccessful rounds of IVF \u2013 and I\u2019ve heard some clangers along the way. I forgive you all. Well, most of you.<\/p>\n

But I also come at it as the presenter of BBC Radio 4\u2019s Woman\u2019s Hour. Three decades into live talk radio, I listen for a living. I\u2019m adept at noticing micro-expressions, the pauses, the shifts in tone, the feelings that sit between the words on and off air. And I keep wondering: why are we so bad at talking about infertility? This is even something that, until now, I haven\u2019t spoken publicly about.<\/p>\n

Perhaps it\u2019s because we still live in a society in which motherhood is, for many, the expected norm. When something is assumed to be inevitable, its absence can make people uncomfortable. That discomfort can spill into language that isn\u2019t appropriate, helpful or even fit for purpose. Or maybe people don\u2019t know how to broach a subject so complex.<\/p>\n

Whatever the reason, according to the NHS, about one in seven couples could experience fertility problems. That\u2019s a lot of people who would benefit from better conversations.<\/p>\n

When I was going through it, I wanted to be open. But rather quickly, I changed tack. The appetite other people had for the specifics I found exhausting and, at times, invasive. How many weeks when you miscarried? How many rounds of IVF? As though there were some hierarchy of effort, some scoreboard of grief.<\/p>\n

Their timing could also be way off. Once, as we stood at a buffet, an acquaintance filling his plate said: \u201cSorry about your miscarriage, I\u2019m sure it\u2019ll happen.\u201d I was caught completely off-guard. To be fair, the sentiment was well-intentioned, but the setting was less than ideal.<\/p>\n

Moreover, at that early stage, I had told so few people. If he knew, it suggested others had also been discussing it. Human nature, perhaps. But miscarriage is a lonely place. Being discussed in absentia made it feel even lonelier.<\/p>\n

He was far from the only person to say \u201cI\u2019m sure it will happen\u201d. I know it comes from a place of hope, but it felt like a minimisation of pain \u2013 not only of what I was experiencing, but also of what, potentially, was in store for me. \u201cI\u2019m sorry\u201d is a complete sentence. That would have been enough.<\/p>\n

Yet I really can understand why it\u2019s difficult to know what to say. I was often torn myself. On the one hand, I craved sentiments based in reality. On the other, I longed for discernment \u2013 for people to choose their words with my tender heart in mind.<\/p>\n

After an embryo transfer, a friend casually reminded me: \u201cYou know those cells don\u2019t mean anything. They may amount to nothing.\u201d As it turned out, she was right. The embryo didn\u2019t stick. But I remember the words landing like a physical blow after months of injections, appointments and emotional endurance. To me, they meant everything.<\/p>\n

I knew she was trying to temper my expectations. According to the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority (HFEA), the average IVF birthrate using fresh embryo transfers is 25%. That means 75% don\u2019t result in a baby. That\u2019s the truth. But that particular night, I wasn\u2019t ready for it.<\/p>\n

As time passed without a successful pregnancy, there came the familiar \u201cmaybe it\u2019s just not meant to be\u201d. Now, I can accept that. Then, it felt like a cold, unwelcome verdict.<\/p>\n

So how could it have gone better? For me: fewer platitudes, less certainty, more listening, greater empathy. I felt all that from one couple who chose a quiet moment, face to face, to tell me they were expecting. They said they understood their happy news might hurt. It wasn\u2019t dramatic. It wasn\u2019t sombre. It was thoughtful. Their act of consideration felt like love.<\/p>\n

And I must give a special mention to the receptionist in the IVF clinic, when we had come to the end of that particular road. She said: \u201cI\u2019ve watched you two together in and out of here over the years. I see how you are with one another \u2026 you are enough without a baby.\u201d Her words made me smile, so soothing on a difficult day.<\/p>\n

Everything I\u2019ve recounted might well have landed completely differently with someone else. That\u2019s another thing that makes it a minefield. We are not mind-readers.<\/p>\n

Infertility is common. Finding the right words, at the right time, is much less so. I\u2019m hoping that by sharing and exploring these complicated feelings and the language around them, I can help get us to a better place. A place where we can show up for one another and find what helps, and what doesn\u2019t, when a baby isn\u2019t a given.<\/p>\n