It was a Wednesday morning when I sat around a table with a group of mamas I had just recently met. My youngest daughter slept her morning nap in a carrier across my chest. Those of us in the group who held floppy babies swayed back and forth. The others had children in childcare or enrolled in preschool down the road. We were there to chat, learn, grow, and laugh. We were all mamas. But we were not all the same.

I didn’t know one of the mom’s names, but I knew I wanted to get to know her because she had a little boy who was almost two years old like my older daughter. We had just introduced ourselves, but she was reserved and didn’t talk much. Her dark hair was pulled back into a low ponytail and her eyes were a deep, beautiful brown.

But just as the conversation turned to birth stories, hospital visits, and pregnancy due dates, I noticed her eyes dropping. She didn’t participate. She didn’t comment. She didn’t even smile. All the ladies were exchanging epidural experiences and NICU stays with laughter here and there over mishaps and coincidences that come when babies decide when to come into the world. When she quickly excused herself from the table, I knew what was wrong.

I myself spent years trying to get pregnant and never could. My eyes cried so many hot tears in a hot shower full of anguish and confusion at the curse of infertility. I remembered the days of awkward baby showers and heartbreak at the announcement of someone else’s pregnancy. When the mamas around the table shared their stories of bringing their children into the world, I felt left out because my two daughters came to me through the miracle of adoption.

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When the woman across from me quietly slipped away at the exact same time I was hoping they would change the subject, I felt her pain deeply. In all my years of infertility, I didn’t want to feel jealous when others talked about getting pregnant or giving birth. It would have been so much easier to only feel joy at their joy. But it wasn’t a reality for me. My heart hurt too badly.

I knew the women were not trying to hurt anyone’s feelings. It wasn’t their fault, and I was not upset at them for simply talking about their experiences. I honestly would have joined in enthusiastically if I could have.  So I knew what I had to do.

My hands braced the chair and my sleeping daughter as I rose after the runaway mom. She was so fast I almost couldn’t find her, but then I saw the bathroom door fall to a close. I snuck in, and she was there, by the sink, a paper towel in her hands while she dabbed her eyes. The tears were so fresh, so full of disappointment.

I gingerly walked up to her and said, “Was it the birth stories?”

Even though I knew this woman had a sweet little boy, the tears don’t lie. She was in anguish.

“We are trying again for a baby, and I just can’t get pregnant. It’s been a year.”

I listened to her story. My heart sank at the thought of her dream being denied. She just wanted a sibling for her little boy. She didn’t understand the doctors’ explanations. Her whole world used to make sense, and now it doesn’t.

“I’m so sorry. It sucks. It sucks so bad to not know why your body isn’t cooperating.”

She teared up and continued dabbing at her eyes.

“I shouldn’t feel this way. I don’t want to complain, I have a son.” I watched her waffle back and forth between her pain and her desire to move past the hurt and choose gratitude instead.

The problem was that I didn’t ever get to the point in my infertility journey where I overcame the pain and chose gratitude. I simply didn’t stop working toward growing our family, and thank God, our children came to us. There are other families I know that still have no children or are working hard toward growing their families but are facing insurmountable obstacles. In this life, there are no guarantees that things are going to truly turn out the way you want.

One of my best friends aches for a sibling for her daughter, and still, the Lord has not answered her prayer. God is patient and kind and good to us even when some dreams are left naked and neglected in the cold. This is how we know this life is not our home. This world is broken, and our hearts feel pain deeply. Especially when what we want is a good and precious thing.

My place in that bathroom was not to tell her how to feel. It wasn’t even to help her be grateful for her son. My place was to walk away from the table of beautiful women sharing beautiful stories and listen to her story. That morning, it was my job to stand beside her so she didn’t have to be alone.

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Often our suffering is the first rung on the ladder toward empathy. Never did I think my infertility journey would be worth all the pain when I climbed out on the other side and could then support women who were still in the trenches.

But to my great shock and joy, God has used my very worst days to bring grace and love to women who desperately need it. God has taken the stories I wish I didn’t live through and used them to bring peace to the weary spirit of a woman with an empty womb.

That woman in the bathroom had a name. Her husband and her son had names too. And years later, so did her baby girl.

God answered my prayers and brought us two biological sisters, but more importantly, God never left me alone in my pain. He didn’t waste my tears. He didn’t waste my childless years. And He put me at that table with that special group of women on that particular morning so I could look a new friend in the eyes and tell her He sees her too.