Black History Month 2025: “Infertility is hard enough without the added weight of silence and stigma”

My first realisation that I might not become a mother was when the fertility consultant told me I had unexplained infertility. As much as I wanted to ignore the ache in my chest and convince myself everything would be ok, I knew in my heart that I would never give birth to a child of my own.

I entered the world of fertility investigations full of hope. Doctors, tests, waiting rooms and acronyms became part of my everyday vocabulary. I’d known about my fibroids since my twenties, so hearing them mentioned again didn’t surprise me. What did catch me off guard was being told they’d be removed, only to later hear they were inaccessible but “shouldn’t stop me conceiving.” I never conceived.

I learned that infertility is not just a physical experience – it is emotional and deeply relational. It seeps into how you see yourself and, inevitably, into how society sees you. And it adds to the silence: who wants to explain their sex life to family, friends, or elders?

The extra weight of silence

For me, as a Black woman, the experience carried an extra weight. Culturally, fertility is often taken for granted - we too have internalised the hyper-fertile stereotype. There is an expectation that we will have children, and if we don’t, questions are asked. What I didn’t hear were open conversations about infertility. I didn’t realise not becoming a mum was even a possibility until it happened to me. It was as though it simply didn’t exist.

That silence made me feel like my grief had no place. If I dared to say, “no, I don’t have children,” it was met with: “don’t give up hope,” “God knows best,” or “I will pray for you.” Religion often went a long way in silencing my tears.

Whose issue is infertility?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve noticed how infertility is spoken about as though it belongs somewhere else - as though it’s mainly a “white woman’s issue.” I remember reading the words of other Black women who felt the same frustration: “It’s not broadcast enough. Black women aren’t known to be infertile.” That rang true for me.

It made me think of Dorothy Roberts’ powerful observation: “While too much fertility is seen as a Black woman’s problem that must be curbed, too little fertility is seen as a white woman’s problem to be cured through high-tech interventions.”

Sitting with that truth, alongside the barriers I’ve faced in getting care, I’ve often felt how easily Black women’s experiences of infertility remain unseen.

Stigma and shame

Invisibility often leads to stigma. When the assumption is that Black women don’t struggle with infertility, admitting you don’t have children can feel like confessing to a failure. I felt the shame of not living up to the stereotype of resilience and endless fertility.

In tightly knit families and communities, that shame cuts deeper. Legacy and lineage are treasured, and not being able to contribute can leave you feeling as if you don’t belong. I still remember the tears I shed listening to my dad talk about his grandchildren knowing that he would never have those same memories of my children.

The numbers tell a story

Research shows that Black women face infertility at higher rates than White women. We are more likely to experience conditions such as fibroids and tubal factor infertility. In fact, the HFEA found that 31% of Black patients had tubal factor infertility, compared with an average of 18% across all patients. These inequalities, combined with barriers in access to care, mean that Black women are disproportionately affected by infertility and often see poorer outcomes when treatment is sought. Access itself is also unequal: the proportion of NHS-funded IVF cycles for Black patients dropped from 60% in 2019 to just 41% in 2021.

For many of us, the path to parenthood is further complicated by reproductive health conditions. Reports from NICE and the Caribbean and African Health Network (CAHN) shows that Black women are two to three times more likely to develop fibroids, often at a younger age. Fibroids, endometriosis, and adenomyosis can all cause pain, affect fertility, and - like in my case - become entangled in an already fragile story. Too often, our pain is minimised, our symptoms overlooked, or our treatment delayed.

Changing the conversation

Despite these challenges, I’ve witnessed a shift. More Black women are beginning to speak openly about infertility and reproductive health, especially when they see others that look like them speaking up to. Fibroids, endometriosis, and adenomyosis - once whispered about or dismissed as “just heavy periods” or ‘maybe it’s your age’- are finally being named for what they are. Advocacy groups and community networks are creating spaces where we can share our stories without fear. Fertility and gynaecology specialists are slowly recognising that these conditions disproportionately affect Black women - and that we deserve earlier, better, and more compassionate care.

On my journey of not having children, I found healing in writing and storytelling. Sharing my truth was a risk, but it also opened doors to connection. Each time another woman said, “Me too,” the shame of not becoming a mum loosened its grip.

A call to openness

Infertility is hard enough without the added weight of silence and stigma. If we can begin to talk about it in our communities - in our families, churches, friendship groups - we can change the culture. We can remind each other that struggling to conceive is not a personal failure, but a human reality that deserves compassion and care.

I will never know what life would have looked like if I had become a mother. But I do know this: by speaking out, by sharing our stories, we make the path less lonely for those who come after us. Infertility tested me, and it also gave me a new sense of purpose - to ensure no one else feels they have to carry this pain in silence.

About the author:

Yvonne John is the author of Dreaming of a Life Unlived: Intimate Stories and Portraits of Women Without Children (2016). She is a writer, speaker, and activist who has shared her journey of involuntary childlessness on BBC Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour and the BBC One documentary Myleene: Miscarriage & Me. Yvonne is a trained facilitator of the Gateway Women Reignite Weekends and an ambassador for World Childless Week. She is committed to creating inclusive spaces for Black women and Women of Colour to share their experiences of infertility and childlessness, and continues to amplify these voices through her blog, Finding My Plan B.