Dear Husband,
I see you. I see the weight you carry, the quiet ways you try to hold yourself together, and the even greater effort you put into holding me together. I see you sitting in waiting rooms, staring at your feet, trying to muster a smile through the tension. I see you cracking jokes just to lift my spirits, even when your own heart feels heavy. I see you staying strong for both of us, swallowing your fears and keeping composed as doctors tell you things you never imagined—telling you that having a biological child might never be possible. I see you.
This was never the plan. Making a baby was supposed to be joyful, exciting, something we would celebrate. It wasn’t supposed to be clinical, filled with heartbreak, tests, and appointments that end in disappointment. Male factor infertility—a term we hadn’t even known a year ago—suddenly became our reality. I see you, sitting late at night, Googling every piece of information, searching desperately for solutions, only to realize there isn’t always an answer. I see the fear in your eyes. I see the uncertainty, the quiet despair. I see you.
I see the sacrifices you make for me and for our dream of a family. I see your willingness to embrace alternative methods, to follow my lead, and trust me with the choices about my body. I see your openness to adjust our path, to do whatever it takes to create the life we’ve imagined. I see you.
I see the way you focus intently on the road while driving me to endless appointments, your patience as I struggle to walk from car to clinic. I see you running to pay for parking, racing to get me home, bringing chocolate just because it will make me smile. I see the little ways you try to make each day lighter, and I see the love behind every effort. I see you.
I see you quietly answering my calls when you know I’ll be crying, offering gentle reassurance even as your own heart breaks. I see the patience in your voice when you say, “It’s okay, maybe next month,” while silently carrying your own disappointment. I see how you fight back your sadness to protect me, how you blame yourself for the pain I feel. I see you.
I see the nights you pretend to sleep before appointments while I lie awake, the way you search for ways—any way—to make this journey a little easier. I see you watching the clock, reminding me to take my medication, bringing my pills each night, willing to give injections with tenderness and care. I see your desire to be present in every step, to share the weight of this journey with me. I see you.
This hasn’t been easy. So often, your emotions are hidden or set aside to keep me strong. I see the pain in your eyes when strangers ask how we’re doing, oblivious to the struggles you quietly endure. I see your heart ache when my arms are bruised, yet you stand strong, answering questions so I don’t have to. I see the love, courage, and resilience behind every quiet act. I see you, and I am endlessly grateful.
