Another day, another pregnancy announcement on Facebook, another “are you expecting?” postcard from my insurance provider in the mail. When you’re not pregnant, and you want to be, it feels like pregnancy and pregnant people are everywhere. And the worst part for me has been that, as a Queer person, I’m rarely even invited to the conversation. No one assumes we want to be parents. Maybe we’re not missing out on much by being exempted from that particular “Who's Next?” brand of straight-culture pressure that comes out the strongest at weddings and baby showers. Most of our loved ones are likely trying to avoid saying the wrong thing, because there is no "script" for Queer conception. However, it can start to feel like the idea of us becoming parents is so mind-boggling that they don’t even want to ask. So much of Queerness is constantly announcing yourself - asserting yourself and insisting that you are valid until the message sticks - and sometimes it gets tiring.





That need to assert yourself doesn't stop with family and friends. When I’m in a situation where it’s beyond clear I’m seeking parenthood (ie - on a date with Wanda at the fertility clinic), it’s often assumed that I must be straight. As if these two parts of my identity couldn’t possibly be reconciled, so there must be an invisible husband around here somewhere. My current clinic providers took the note pretty quickly - in part because we're in a relatively liberal area, and in part because we approached them knowing we were pursuing embryo donation. We were mercifully spared the reminder that we can always “keep trying at home in the meantime” while waiting for fertility treatment - a gaffe which just serves as a reminder that for us, there will be no “miracle” babies. No unexpected gifts. I've been known to quip from the stirrups when asked about birth control that "my spouse and I have been having unprotected sex for years and I'm still not pregnant." This is another weak attempt at humor and self-comfort. If I’m uncomfortable, you might as well be too - especially since I said "wife" about four times at the beginning of this appointment.





In fact, to understand the discomfort for many Queers pursuing pregnancy, we have to take it back before the first visit with a specialist. Much like a straight couple dealing with infertility, the process to conception begins long before it “begins.” There were months and months of work that had to happen before we could move forward in earnest. It felt like that was the only thing I could talk about, or think about, or do in my spare time. There was the matching process, the legal agreements and paperwork, and of course a group evaluation with a therapist. As Allegra Hirschman points out in Mutha Magazine, “the fact that, in many states, same-sex couples seeking reproductive services have to undergo psychological evaluations in order to even start trying is offensive and invasive before an increasingly invasive process begins.”





We are far from the only people who have had this experience, but I think what makes it feel so isolating is that we don’t have many other Queer parents in our lives. We’re surrounded by straight couples, many of whom don’t suck - they just don’t get it. So I go searching for kinship online - Facebook groups, friend-making apps, forums, and so on - and the people who need those spaces are people who are in pain. I’m in pain, too. I get it. They are often people who are struggling with infertility, who feel silenced, and need a place to just vent all the shit. But the problem with that is that making a baby starts to look like it can only be pain. Only be suffering and unrewarded struggle. It can feel like a hopeless, overwhelming vortex sometimes, even though it’s validating to hear other people who share your experience.





Here’s the thing - I sound bitter. I am bitter. I don’t want to be, but I am. I want to wholeheartedly celebrate every pregnancy announcement. I don’t want to think about how much easier they had it, because at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. As long as there will be joy and love and support, a wanted pregnancy - a new life - is a wonderful thing. Over and over, I’ll realize that it sounds like I’m complaining, and I’ll want to course correct with “of course it will all be worth it in the end.” Of course. Of course it will be worth it. We wouldn't be doing this if there wasn’t a sufficiently motivating end goal. But much like the users in those infertility forums, I just want to acknowledge for a minute that it sucks. After that, I can go back to being excited - because I am excited, too! Bitter, excited, nervous, all of it. This is not a one-note experience, and it doesn't help anyone to pretend that it is.

Are you a Queer Parent or Parent-to-Be? What was your conception experience like?







