Author’s note: I wrote my first letter to infertility in 2012. It was one of the firsts posts on my blog. This is a continuation of that letter series: Dear Infertility (Part 7)

Dear Infertility,

That girl in the picture? You knew her well. Maybe even better than others around her. She did a good job of putting on that smile, didn’t she? You knew that smile was a mask; one that covered up the anguish. That mask told everyone she had it all together; that somehow, the pain of you didn’t even make her flinch.

You knew that girl well, didn’t you? You taunted that 20-year-old. You watched as she looked at the scar on her belly; an agonizing reminder of you. You followed her as she avoided baby departments or winced when a baby shower invitation came in the mail. You laid next to her in bed when she cried herself to sleep. You invaded her dreams and claimed her hopes. You nearly convinced her she wasn’t female enough or (even worse), not worthy of love.

Dear Infertility,

That girl in the picture? Yeah, you knew her well. You were her hidden monster…that snarling wolf chasing her down. She did an amazing job of keeping the moat around you – no one could enter, nothing could get out. As long as she kept you locked in, she would be okay. It would all be okay. At least, she told herself that.

The truth is you knew her well because you knew her thoughts. You helped to create them. You told her she would never be loved. She repeated that thought. You whispered that she was a broken girl. She believed you. You reminded her, time and again, that her body was barren, so her life would be as well.

That 20-year-old girl ended up proving you wrong. She stopped covering her pain with the big smile. Instead, she allowed others in – to poke and prod at you, to get you out of that moat. She met a guy who fell madly in love with her, despite of you. She became a mother. Did you read that? Good. Read it again.

She turned back to the Weaver of true hope; the One that never leaves a single child behind. You tried to write the ending to her story but you forgot who the Author is. You didn’t get the final say. And, that 20-year-old girl? She was reminded that although her body is barren, her life will never be.

Dear Infertility,

You knew her well, didn’t you? Not anymore.

Not anymore.