Every infertile woman carries with her a list of questions, comments, and suggestions she steels herself against: When are you finally having kids? Oh, you can’t? Maybe you should gain weight, lose weight, go on vacation, take vitamins, take your mind off things for a while, adopt. These questions and suggestions come from well-meaning people, she reminds herself, and she carries them with her not to dwell on a sense of isolation but because they are always waiting, at the next picnic, church service, family reunion, wedding, book club, potluck, grocery aisle.

The worst experience like this, during my five years of infertility, happened during an annual performance review at the rural high school where I taught English and creative writing. I had been fitting doctor’s appointments around my teaching schedule, taking ovulation tests in the gross school bathroom before scheduling intrauterine inseminations at my fertility clinic, a half-hour’s drive away. I thought I would begin IVF soon, and wanted to make sure my principal understood that I would need more time for medical appointments (protected under the Family and Medical Leave Act, I was ready to mention). I was close to this woman, and remained close, even after she said what she said. Which was: "Drink whole milk, and if it doesn’t work, it probably wasn’t meant to be." She also made some suggestion about why it wasn’t working. Maybe there was some problem in my marriage? I can’t remember exactly, because I left my head for a time and couldn’t speak, I was so angry. I told my friends about it later, and promised I’d quit, but I didn’t quit, because I needed the money and insurance for medical treatments. I wrote about it in an essay and deleted that part, guilty and embarrassed that it even happened.

I forgave her. And completed my IVF treatment, and told her about the pregnancy, and accepted her effusive, awkward congratulations in front of the whole school. Of course I forgave her, a flawed human just like all of us. It wasn’t even the worst story I’d heard, in my two years at an infertility support group. Not even close.

But listening to the misconceptions of people who have never been through infertility has changed me. It has changed my relationship to social media — never a close one, I’ll admit — because before I post anything about my child, I think about the friends I have who are still waiting, testing, hoping, in treatment. It has changed the questions I ask when I meet someone. I try to wait for the person I’ve met — older or younger, man or woman, single or partnered, queer or straight — to bring up children.