We Stopped Telling People We Were Trying

In the beginning, we told everyone. Our parents, our siblings, our close friends. It felt natural. We were excited, and announcing that we were "trying" seemed like a happy, grown-up thing to share. We had no idea we were handing everyone a ticket to ask us about it forever.

Within a few months, the questions started arriving from every direction. "Any good news?" became the standard greeting at family events, sometimes before I had even taken off my shoes. Every well-meaning question became a tiny audit of our private life, and we were tired of filing reports.

My husband felt it too, though men in our families are rarely asked directly. The pressure landed mostly on me, in the form of advice, home remedies, and the particular way an aunt's eyes would drop to my stomach when she greeted me. I started dreading functions I used to love.

So one evening, over chai, we made a quiet decision. We would stop telling people. Not out of shame, but out of self-protection. The trying was ours. The waiting was ours. We no longer owed anyone a status update on something so tender.

It was harder than it sounds. When people asked, I learned to smile and say, "When there's news, you'll be the first to know," and change the subject. Some were offended. Some kept digging. But the wall we built gave us back a strange and beautiful privacy.

Without an audience, the trying felt less like a performance and more like a part of our marriage again. We could have a disappointing month without managing everyone else's disappointment on top of our own. That alone was a relief I hadn't known I needed.

If the questions are wearing you down, you are allowed to close the door. You don't owe the world a running commentary on your own body. Some things are allowed to stay just between the two of you.