The Hidden Grief Men Rarely Name: Infertility
In another lifetime, I spent a considerable amount of time immersed in the world of reproductive endocrinology and the emotional landscape that so often surrounds it. I served on the board of Resolve International, was involved with clinical research at Cornell Medical Center on ovum donation, helped create a peer support network for A TIME, and served as Co-Director of a wellness center for couples navigating infertility. Along the way, I also had the privilege of leading support groups for Chassidishe and Orthodox men, many of whom were carrying profound pain behind quiet and dignified exteriors.
Over the past couple of years, a number of men struggling with infertility have sought support, and those conversations stirred memories I had not visited in some time. They also reminded me how much of this experience remains hidden, particularly for men who often feel expected to be steady, private, and unaffected. I felt compelled to revisit and share something I wrote years ago, because the need for compassion, language, and connection has not diminished.
There was a pile of folded papers in the center of the room. Each man had written a question anonymously, taking care to disguise his handwriting before placing it there. No one wanted to be recognized as the one asking about sperm counts, surgeries, failed cycles, or fear itself. No one wanted his private pain attached to his name.
I watched as they stared into the distance while the physician answered each question. Few made eye contact. The questions themselves revealed far more than the men felt able to say aloud.
I had been invited to lead a support group after the medical presentation. It had been a long time since I had done this kind of work with men navigating infertility, and an even longer time since those years of my own life had risen so vividly inside me.
As I sat among them, memories returned of hospital visits, procedures, waiting rooms, hope rising and crashing, and the strange way life continues around you while your private world feels suspended. In that moment, I was no longer only the psychologist in the room. Part of me was also the younger man I once was.
Before groups begin, I often wonder what people need most. Sometimes it is information. Sometimes it is perspective. Sometimes it is reassurance, language for grief, or a framework for faith in the midst of uncertainty.
But as I listened, the answer became clear. They did not need polished wisdom. They needed room.
As the men stood to leave the lecture and rearranged their chairs into a circle, I overheard one of them groan quietly to his friend. Another answered with the kind of humor that hides real discomfort.
He is not going to give us a workshop on communication or relationships. He is going to want us to talk.
His friend reassured him immediately.
There is nothing to talk about. Nothing is on my mind.
I smiled to myself, because I have heard some version of that sentence many times before.
There is often everything on the mind.
What was on their minds was not difficult to imagine. There were numbers on lab reports that now felt tied to masculinity and worth. There was the pain of another procedure, another appointment, another month shaped by waiting. There was the humiliation of being asked, yet again, when they were going to have children. There was the heartbreak of watching a spouse cry quietly and feeling powerless to ease it.
There was the pressure of advice from strangers, friends, relatives, and sudden experts who appeared from every direction. There were invitations that hurt, celebrations they wanted to attend wholeheartedly but could only survive partially, and comparisons they never wanted to make but could not stop making. There were private bargains with God, private disappointments, and the loneliness of believing no one else could possibly understand.
And beneath all of it, there was love.
Love for their wives. Love for the children they had not yet met. Love expressed through appointments, bills, injections, patience, prayer, restraint, hope, and the willingness to try again.
As the evening unfolded, the room began to change. Men who had entered guarded started speaking honestly. Humor surfaced. Frustration surfaced. Tenderness surfaced. They shared absurd comments people had made to them and fears they had carried in silence. They spoke of anger they felt ashamed to admit and sadness they rarely allowed themselves to name.
No dramatic breakthrough was needed. No brilliant intervention was required. What mattered most was recognition, and the relief of discovering that what had felt isolating was, in fact, shared.
This is one of the quiet burdens many men carry. They are taught that strength means silence, and that pain kept private is pain handled well.
Usually, it is not.
Silence often protects shame far more than it protects dignity. Speech, especially in the presence of others who understand, can become its own form of healing.
When the evening ended and the room emptied, I looked back at the circle of chairs with deep respect.
These were good men carrying invisible burdens. Men trying to remain hopeful while disappointed. Men trying to be steady while hurting. Men trying to protect the people they loved while quietly needing care themselves.
They had begun the night insisting there was nothing to talk about.
But there was grief to name, courage to honor, and hope still alive in the room.
I left with a quiet prayer that each of them would one day hold the children for whom they longed. Until then, I hoped they would come to know something just as important.
They were never carrying it alone.