While much of the conversation around fertility struggles centers on women’s experiences, male factor infertility affects millions of couples worldwide, and the emotional toll on men remains largely unspoken. In recognition of Men’s Health Month and World Infertility Awareness Month, Todd shares with us his raw, honest account of helplessness, hope, and what it means to stand by the person you love when you can’t fix their pain.
Getting a male factor infertility diagnosis — and hearing that IVF was our only option for conceiving a child — hit harder than I ever expected. Everything I thought would come naturally suddenly had medical terms, schedules, and odds attached to it. I had always pictured building a family with the woman of my dreams, but no one prepares you for what it feels like to hear that your body might not be able to keep that promise.
The hardest part wasn’t the needles or the appointments. It was watching Beth, the love of my life, carry the weight of the question: “Will I ever be a mother?” I saw it in her eyes in the quiet moments, in the way she’d look at other families, and in the way she’d hold back tears when another test came back negative. Every time we got bad news, I felt like I had failed her.
As a man, you grow up believing you’re supposed to protect, provide, and fix things. But infertility leaves you powerless. Beth had to carry the physical burden — the injections, procedures, medications, heartbreak, and uncertainty — for something my body couldn’t give us naturally. While she carried the physical weight of infertility, I carried the overwhelming guilt and helplessness of not being able to fix it for her. I couldn’t take the shots for her. I couldn’t carry the heartbreak for her. All I could do was stand beside the person I love most while she endured it all.
I had promised Beth, and I had promised her parents, that we would have children. It wasn’t just a casual hope — it was part of the future we built together, part of the trust they placed in me. As the realities of our situation sank in, there was a deep fear I hardly dared to say out loud: what if I lose my wife because I can’t give her the one thing she’s always dreamed of? There were moments I worried she’d resent me — or worse, that she’d eventually be better off with someone else… someone who could give her a baby without all the pain. The guilt was suffocating. It felt like my body had let her down, and that shame sat heavy on my chest.
But Beth is stronger and more determined than I could ever put into words. She faced every injection, every blood draw, every early morning appointment with courage. I learned how to give her the shots, and each one felt like a quiet promise: I’m here. I’m not giving up. We are in this together. Those moments in the kitchen, with syringes and alcohol wipes, were some of the most vulnerable of our lives. It was love in its rawest form — shaky hands, red eyes, and stubborn hope.
There were absolutely days we wanted to quit. Days when another negative result felt like a punch to the gut. Days when we were angry at the world, at our situation, and at the unfairness of it all. But somehow, through all that pain, we kept moving forward. Not because it was easy, but because deep down, we still believed there was a child out there who was meant to be ours.
And then came the moment that made all the heartache worth it: seeing Beth hold our firstborn, Mary. Watching her cradle that tiny, perfect life in her arms was the best feeling I have ever known. In that instant, the weight of years of fear and doubt lifted. All I could see was my wife finally becoming the mother she was always meant to be.
I now have three children with Beth, thanks to IVF. If you saw us today, you might think we just “got lucky” or that this is what we always had. But behind every smile and every chaotic family moment, there is a history of heartbreak, determination, and grace. Infertility didn’t just test us; it shaped us. It taught me how fiercely my wife can fight for what she loves, and how much we can survive together.
Infertility affects men too, just differently. Many of us suffer quietly and privately, carrying shame we rarely talk about while trying to stay strong through it all, but feeling completely helpless inside.
I still carry the memory of that guilt, that fear of losing her, that feeling of not being enough. But when I see Beth with our kids — when I hear Mary laugh, when I watch our children run into her arms — I’m reminded that our path to parenthood was not broken, just different.
This is our story: of infertility, helplessness, uncertainty, and hope. This Men’s Health Month and World Infertility Awareness Month, I just want other men walking this path to know: if you’ve felt this way too, you’re not the only one.
