There is nothing as humbling as being just like everybody else. I’ve been very lucky in my life. I’ve struggled with anxiety since I was a kid (which hasn’t done my ovaries any favors), but I can’t complain that my life has been hard. Even so, my infertility has reduced me to feeling like I’m in seventh grade again. I’m passed over for lead in the play, and the guy I have a crush on doesn’t know I exist. Fertility should not be a competition, but sometimes, it feels an awful lot like one. It feels an awful lot like a reminder that whatever good fortune I have had and how hard I have worked, at the end of the day I’m reduced, simply, to a statistic.
But isn’t that what feminism taught me — that I am like every other woman? The one with the Hanna Andersson cuties — maybe her husband is a jerk or she has breast cancer. And Alicia. Maybe she won’t get pregnant, but will adopt the most beautiful baby you can imagine. I wonder if it’s possible, amidst my feelings of guilt and resentment and rivalry, to remember that none of us has it easy. That we’re all in this together. Even infertile, jealous me.