My husband and I have been married for a little over five years, and though we have not yet been blessed with children, the word “yet” has become our lifeline.

It was a way to shield ourselves from the unwarranted pity directed towards us. “No, we don’t have children yet,” we would say, our voices steady, our smiles displayed. Over the years, it became, and still is, our go-to and repeated response to others. And to ourselves.

In our first year of marriage, it was pretty quiet. Shana Rishona blessed us with people minding their own business and leaving us alone. For a while, we were able to be “married,” not yet burdened with the label of the “childless couple” that others would later place on us.

In the second and third years of our marriage, people started to ask their questions and leave their comments, and our peace and quiet started to fade. At first, we didn’t think anything of it and weren’t worried; after all, Hashem runs the world and will bless us when He blesses us.

However, people’s questions and doubts started to plant seeds within us. We began to think, “Maybe we should be worried.” “Is there something wrong with us that we’re not worried about?” With every unsolicited comment and question, another seed was planted within us.

Four Years In

By the fourth year of our marriage, the dread began to creep in, not from within, but from others. The weight of their concern, their curiosity, their unsolicited pity—it never belonged to us. People thought they were whispering, but they were quite loud. Looking at us and trying to find our missing puzzle pieces—children. Our deeply personal journey became a topic of conversation, passed around as idle chatter. And then, as if their speculation wasn’t enough, they dared to ask us and comment directly.

“Nu? Where are the kinderlach?”

“Are you guys trying to have kids? Why the wait?”

“Do you want children?”

“Have you gone to a fertility doctor?”

“Are you sure you’ve seen the right doctors?”

“Have you called Bonei Olam?”

“Maybe you’re just stressing too much. That’s why it’s not happening.”

“Go on a vacation! It will help.”

“I know someone who struggled, but now they have a baby! It can happen.”

“You know, it’ll happen when you least expect it.”

“What’s going on in the baby department?”

“When can we expect to hear good news?”

“You sure you know what you’re doing?”

Many more inappropriate comments were made—too disgusting to repeat here. Nevertheless, each of these sentences—some accompanied by a pitying head tilt, others with a smug, thoughtless grin—stung more than the last. We wanted to crawl out of our skin, vanish into a cave, or even move to Uzbekistan and change our names just to escape these conversations.

Despite our efforts to stay strong, the pain of these insensitive words was unavoidable. No matter how resilient we tried to be, we still had moments of breaking down because words, even when carelessly spoken, have a deep and lasting impact.

Why can’t everyone just mind their words? Why do we need to listen to this? Why do we need to answer them? Why do we need to explain to people something we don’t even understand ourselves? Why are people putting us in these predicaments?

We felt sad, hurt, frustrated, and honestly, annoyed. The worst part of all of this? We knew—and we know—our blessing will come. We have Emunah. If we can believe that it is all hashgacha—that every moment, every challenge, and every delay is part of a divine plan—then why do others feel entitled to push their doubts, their timelines, and their expectations onto us? If everything is truly in His hands, then isn’t the most powerful thing we can do is trust that we are exactly where we are meant to be, and so are others?

Five Years In

By the fifth year of our marriage, the comments, questions, and assumptions began to escalate, gradually taking a deeper toll on our lives. It became a constant that my husband and I were forced to face weekly. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a week that went by that someone didn’t remind us that we were on this journey as if we needed to be reminded of it.

Every time a baby was born, comments and remarks were made. Every time someone announced their pregnancy, the eggshells were set before us to be tiptoed around. We were made out to be something we weren’t: a pity case.

Infertility is one of the millions of incredibly challenging journeys that people go through and should be treated as such. Would you walk up to a grieving widow and ask, “So, any plans for a new husband yet?” Would you lean down to a person in a wheelchair and say, “Tough seeing everyone else walk, huh?” Would you go up to a single person and say, “It must be hard seeing everyone else find love?” You wouldn’t. So why do people feel entitled to comment on someone’s fertility struggle like it’s something as mundane as the weather?

Not having children is painful, but the real wound comes from those who insist on reminding us of it—forcing us to justify, explain, or even perform our suffering for their comfort. Life is layered and nuanced, and you must respect people’s way of experiencing their own lives and not impose your assumptions onto them. True וְאָהַבְתָּ לְרֵעֲךָ כָּמוֹךָ is keeping quiet when you want to comment or ask a person something deeply personal about their life that they may not want to discuss with you.

Your discomfort or lack of understanding doesn’t justify overstepping somebody else’s boundaries. Ignorance doesn’t erase the harm caused. Like a pebble tossed lightly, creating ripples in a lake, careless words about infertility disrupt a couple’s peace, whether you realize it or not. Why add to their burden? Why make their complex situation even more difficult with unnecessary questions and comments?

Spare Us the Pain

People today love to talk. “We must talk about it.” “You must share to heal.” “You have to open up.” “Silence will only make it worse.” This is a manipulative tactic to talk about something that is none of your business. It is gossip and idle talk disguised as care. Everyone today has a podcast; everyone today has a mic. This culture of endless talking needs to end. You don’t need to talk. You can be quiet, and you should be quiet. Discussing others’ struggles isn’t your place—it’s insensitive and against Ahavat Yisroel. It hurts them badly. We know because we are them.

So we decided to write this article to shed some light on even one single reader. Fertility isn’t a topic for casual conversation. It is not something you bring up when there is a bris, the birth of twins, a child’s birthday party, or anything that would involve children. It is not something to be picked apart and figured out by you. It is not a crossword puzzle for you to solve. What is it exactly? It’s simply none of your business.

So next time you wonder why a couple hasn’t had children yet and want to ask them or make an “innocent” comment, we urge you to sit in your discomfort and wave away your wonder and curiosity—and the need to say anything. It is not our job to comfort and explain to you what is happening regarding our fertility journey, and it is selfish and cruel to expect that of us.

Have Ahavas Yisroel and spare us the pain of not only wondering to ourselves every day why we have not been blessed with children yet, but having to answer to you about it. If you know someone who is struggling with infertility, we beg you—please don’t talk to them about it. If someone wants to share their struggle with you, they will. (And if they do, please don’t take that as an invitation to bring it up to them whenever you feel like it.)

Until then, your role is simple: Keep your curiosity to yourself, let empathy speak through your silence, and remember—your words have power. Choose them wisely, and understand that sometimes, the kindest choice is to say nothing at all.

Sincerely,
A couple who does not have any children—yet