Selena Gomez walks the red carpet before Emilia Perez at the Toronto International Film Festival in Toronto, on Sept. 9.Mark Blinch/Reuters
When it comes to a woman’s body, somehow, there are still quite a few things that are considered taboo to openly discuss: menstruation, masturbation and, while folks love to talk about all the ins and outs of pregnancy, when it comes to infertility? Not so much.
In a cover story for Vanity Fair this month, singer and actor Selena Gomez opened up about this exact taboo. She revealed for the first time that she is unable to carry her own children owing to medical issues.
“That was something I had to grieve for a while,” she said. On becoming a parent one day, she added, “It’s not necessarily the way I envisioned it. I thought it would happen the way it happens for everyone.”
So rare and candid a statement was this that, within a week, countless tweets, blog posts and articles popped up with women sharing their own experiences. It also served as reminder of a similar discovery I made three years ago.
When I was diagnosed with polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS), which I have struggled with for nearly a decade, one of the many doctors I visited prescribed medication. She also informed me that if, one day, I decided I wanted children, it would be very difficult. I’d have to go off the medication keeping my pain at bay. Together, we’d work on it, she said, and maybe we could get there. And she asked me bluntly why I wouldn’t want a child. After all, all women do.
PCOS carries infertility and other health risks. Here’s how to manage it with diet and exercise
It’s been hard to forget those words. In just a few minutes, I discovered that – like Gomez – for me, pregnancy would not happen “the way it happens for everyone.” It may not happen at all. I’d have to sacrifice feeling peace in my body for it. And her final comment felt like salt in a growing wound: Evidently, I had only one acceptable option, because as a woman, I am supposed to have children.
I remember stepping outside and into the car, where my mom waited with bated breath, and telling her the news. For the next two hours, she cried. She spoke to my dad, and the two argued about it. Again: more salt.
The added element of shame that infertility carries can often make people hesitant to talk about it. In fact, I am hesitant writing this piece for the world – and so many people in my life – to discover this about me.
“Many people with infertility feel like they’re less valuable as a person because they can’t do what seems like a very basic human thing, which is to procreate,” says Jennifer Gordon, an associate professor of psychology at the University of Regina and director of the Reproductive Mental Health Research Unit. “People with infertility are also often bombarded by unhelpful advice or judgmental comments from others when they share.”
When I finally had time to myself to process what I’d learned, and how I – the only person who mattered in this situation – felt about it, there was a plot twist. I felt relief! Since I was young, I had loved the idea of having children one day, but pregnancy itself was not something that excited me or was on my mood board. Adoption had always felt like a more suitable option. And, in that moment, it felt like the world was telling me I didn’t have to stress about the weight of the choice, largely owing to societal and familial expectation, any more, because I no longer had one.
While I did feel freedom – to focus on my career, travelling, spending it with my friends and family (and being the “cool auntie” to their children) – I also felt grief and shame. My thoughts turned to finding a partner who would accept this, and having to repeatedly share my personal circumstances when the inevitable discussion around having children would repeatedly arise as I got deeper into my 30s.
“Grief is extremely common when someone is diagnosed with infertility,” Gordon says. “From a young age, we all dream of what our lives will look like; for many, having children is a key piece of that perfect life we imagine for ourselves. If that’s the case, it’s going to be devastating to learn that your life may never look the way you imagined it would.”
About one-third of women with infertility experiences clinically significant levels of depression or anxiety, she says. It can affect a couple’s relationship, and have financial consequences if they decide to try fertility treatments, adoption or surrogacy. There can be a price to pay in the workplace as well.
“The moment women say they are trying, their managers might think, ‘Okay, within nine months, this person is going to be on maternity leave,’” says Serena Sohrab, an organizational behaviour researcher at Infertility and Work Lab and professor at Ontario Tech University. Owing to bias from co-workers and managers, who assume a woman’s entire focus will inevitably become more family, less work, there are potential career consequences. This is called “the motherhood penalty,” Sohrab says. What many don’t understand is that for women with infertility, it can take years or they may never be successful.
In my case, I’m happy to report that after a few hours of sheer panic, my mom came to me, sat us both down, gave me a hug and laughed through her tears. She said she’d thought about it – surprisingly quickly – and decided my news was actually not a big deal. I’ve got siblings who are keen to give her endless grandchildren, after all, and besides, she added with a laugh, “Having kids can be a big pain!”
As I’ve opened up about my experience, more friends have shared similar issues or even feelings of not wanting children. Now, we talk and make plans for all the things we’ll do and places we’ll go as – gasp! – childless women.
As for Gomez, she’s feeling heartened, too. She went on to tell Vanity Fair that she considers surrogacy or adoption a possibility. “I’m excited for what that journey will look like, but it’ll look a little different. At the end of the day, I don’t care. It’ll be mine. It’ll be my baby.”