When Hope Hurts: Imposter Syndrome in Infertility

If you and I were sitting across from each other today—coffee mugs warming our hands, tears quietly gathering in our eyes—there’s something I would want to tell you from the very bottom of my heart:
You are not alone. You are not forgotten. And you are not failing.

Infertility has a way of making you feel like all three.
It’s sneaky like that.
It tells you that you’re broken. That you shouldn’t hurt this badly. That you should be stronger, or more grateful, or less needy.
It whispers lies into the parts of you already tender with grief.

I know, because I’ve lived it.

My Story: A Journey Through the Valleys

My journey didn’t fit the classic narrative you often hear.
I wasn’t someone who struggled for years to conceive my first child.
I was blessed early on—two beautiful daughters, then two sons.
Girl, girl, boy, boy.

But after my first healthy daughter, I had a miscarriage.
Then another healthy daughter.
Then six losses in a row.
Then my son.
Seven more losses.
Another son.
And finally, two more losses.

Fifteen miscarriages total.

Even now, writing that number down takes my breath away.
There’s something about repeated loss that fractures you differently.
You don’t just grieve what was.
You grieve what could have been.
You grieve a future you built in your mind in just a few short weeks—nurseries painted, names whispered, dreams cradled.

And for me, there was another layer I didn’t expect: imposter syndrome.

When Grief Doesn’t Fit the Box

There were days when I wondered if I was even "allowed" to grieve.
After all, I had children.
People told me to be thankful, to move on, to stop hoping for more.
I heard things like, "You already have a family. Why can’t you just be happy?"
And while I loved my children with every fiber of my being, the longing for the babies I lost—and the ones I hoped for—never dulled.

Infertility doesn't always look like an empty crib.
Sometimes it looks like a full house and an aching heart.

And here’s the thing:
Whether you're facing primary infertility (waiting for your first baby) or secondary infertility (longing for another after already becoming a mother), the grief is real.
The struggle is real.
And the pain is valid.

Imposter Syndrome in Infertility: What No One Talks About

In the world of infertility, it’s easy to feel like you don't belong anywhere.
Here are a few ways imposter syndrome can sneak into your story:

- If you’ve never had a child, you might feel like you're "failing at womanhood," questioning your worth and place among mothers.
- If you have children already, you might feel guilty for wanting more and minimize your losses because "at least you have kids."
- You might doubt your right to grieve because someone else's story seems harder, longer, or more painful.
- You might hesitate to seek support, wondering if your pain "counts" enough to join that infertility group or ask for prayer.
- You might wrestle with feeling selfish, grieving privately because the world tells you you should just "be grateful."
- You might feel invisible, watching pregnancy announcements, baby showers, and gender reveals pass you by while wondering if anyone even sees your broken heart.

If you’ve felt any of these things, hear me now:
You are not less because you grieve.
You are not selfish because you hope.
You are not alone because you hurt.

Holding Onto Faith When It Hurts

I didn’t survive all those losses because I’m strong.
I survived because I learned to lean on something stronger than myself.

For me, it was faith.

I clung to the promises of Scripture even when my heart didn’t understand.
I latched onto verses like:

- "Children are a heritage from the Lord, offspring a reward from him." (Psalm 127:3)
- "God blessed them and said to them, 'Be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it.'" (Genesis 1:28)
- "Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights." (James 1:17)

I noticed something else, too.
In the Bible, whenever a woman cried out to God for a child—Sarah, Hannah, Elizabeth—He never turned her away.
Not once.

It didn’t always happen quickly.
It didn’t always happen easily.
But God’s heart was always tender toward the barren woman, the grieving mother, the longing soul.

That became my anchor.
When hope felt fragile, when grief felt crushing, I remembered:
My pain did not mean God had abandoned me.
It just meant I was walking through a valley, and He was walking with me.

Practical Ways to Lean into Faith Through Infertility

If you’re in the thick of it right now—waiting, hoping, grieving—I want to offer a few things that helped me breathe through the hardest seasons:

1. Give yourself permission to grieve.
2. Root yourself in God’s Word.
3. Let God see the real you.
4. Find safe people.
5. Keep hope alive—no matter how small it feels.
6. Trust that your story isn’t over yet.

A Final Cup of Comfort

If we were still sitting across from each other, coffee now cooling, heartbeats a little steadier, I would lean across the table and tell you this:

You are not alone.
You are not forgotten.
You are not overlooked.

God sees you.
He treasures you.
He mourns with you, and He dreams with you.

Your longing is safe in His hands.
Your tears are not wasted.
Your story—even this hard, aching part—is held by a God who promises to redeem every single piece.

So take heart, sweet sister.
You are braver than you know.
You are loved beyond measure.
And you are never, ever walking this road alone.

About the Author:

Cate Purvis is a mom of four, a birth and miscarriage doula, an infertility advocate, and a Christian women’s speaker. Through her personal journey of loss and hope, she helps women find comfort, faith, and healing in the hardest seasons. You can find more of her encouragement at www.christianmiscarriage.com.