Navigating Infertility and Loss as a Black Woman by Vanessa Haye

Fertility challenges transcend cultural and ethnic groups, but despite that, how diverse people from different places experience infertility is seldom represented in the media.

In 2021, The Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority (HFEA) reported that Black people in the UK are over 25 times less likely to access fertility treatment than their white counterparts.

In December 2023, an extension of this report demonstrated that between 2020 and 2021, Black patients aged 18-37 who accessed treatment had the lowest birth rates at 23%, compared to White patients whose birth rates were 32%.

Unfortunately, these concerning statistics don’t stop at the point of fertility treatment. Black women also have a 43% increased risk of miscarriage compared to White women.

That’s why it is necessary to talk about reproductive and maternal health experiences from an intersectional lens, and in my case as a Black woman.

I’m a Ghanaian-British millennial, raised by first generation immigrants. They came to the UK in the 80’s with nothing but a heart full of hope and aspirations for a better life. Despite not knowing what that would look like, me and my three sisters understood how important we as their “pride and joy” had to live up to those expectations.

A good upbringing to become a successful, respectable woman was synonymous with a linear, conventional way of life, in the following order: getting through school, and university, holding down a well-paid traditional job, and finally getting married and having children.

As a high-achiever and people-pleaser I accomplished all the above by the age of 27, except the latter. Nine months after marrying my long-term, boyfriend in 2014 I received a diagnosis of “unexplained infertility”.

In my eyes I failed my husband and family, because to be infertile, meant that I was broken, and not a “real” woman.

This made the experience feel even more isolating after my GP confirmed that I would need fertility treatment to help us conceive. I was too embarrassed to share this with anyone, and would be breaking protocol if I did, (as fertility issues are taboo and shouldn’t be discussed outside of close family).

In February 2016, I registered with our local hospital’s fertility clinic, and by August later that year the heartbreak continued after having 6 failed cycles of ovulation

induction, a chemical pregnancy from an IUI treatment, and early miscarriage from my first IVF cycle.

By this time, the pressure from family members became more intense, and in March 2017 at my dad’s 60th birthday party, I felt hurt when an aunt questioned,

“Have you been to see a doctor yet?”.

Ironically, I used that opportunity to be honest, and to my surprise it was well received, and unlocked a safe space for me to learn about my aunt’s own relatable experiences.

That conversation opened my eyes to the powerful of being vulnerable, though I acknowledge it’s no easy feat.

The conversation encouraged me to keep going, and after a successful frozen embryo transfer in June 2017, I gave birth to our son in February 2018.

Feeling blessed to finally become a mother I started blogging and writing articles about my experience to help other Black women regularly echo the sentiment that they feel “seen, heard and less alone’ after reading my story.

Even while continuing with my advocacy work, I suffered a near fatal ectopic pregnancy from a spontaneous pregnancy in September 2019.

It was one of the most painful experiences I’ll never forget, however I’m thankful for the community of women who reciprocated the support to get me through those tough times.

As a Christian I had faith that I will find healing again, and after months of therapy and respite, in November 2021 my husband and I welcomed our second miracle baby boy.

This hasn’t stopped me from advocating for intersectional and equitable reproductive and maternal healthcare. I feel so blessed to be where I am and want to ensure that these small conversations on a wider scale can lead to meaningful and effective change for Black women in their maternal care.

Vanessa Haye

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