‘Social Infertility’ – I didn’t choose to be gay
What if you’ve always known that building a family would look different for you?
That’s something Millie from @jessi_and_millie – powerful voices in the LGBTQ+ space – has spoken about with honesty and heart. She’s opened up about coming out, the reality of social infertility, and how those experiences have shaped her path to creating a family.
There’s a real lack of acceptance, support, and representation – and it hasn’t been easy. But conversations like these matter. A lot. Especially for anyone quietly carrying similar questions or struggles.
Let’s talk about social infertility.
If you’ve never come across that phrase before, you’re not alone. I hadn’t either – not until my wife and I started casually looking into IVF costs.
We called a clinic to enquire. On the phone, someone asked:
“How long have you been trying?”
Now, as a queer woman, those kinds of questions can hit awkwardly. So I made a joke to ease the vibe:
“Well, my wife and I have been trying for five years now, but no luck.”
S t o n e… c o l d… s i l e n c e.
Then came the reply:
“Sorry, we don’t treat the socially infertile.”
That phrase – socially infertile – stuck with me. I later found out it’s defined as:
“An individual or couple who, during a 12-month period, possesses the intent to conceive, but cannot due to social or physiological limitations.”
Even before I knew the technical term, the concept hit home. Social infertility has quietly shaped so much of my life.
There was a time I genuinely believed that coming out meant giving up the idea of having kids. It sounds naïve now, but growing up, I just didn’t see lesbian mums in the media. When they did exist, they’d usually had a baby with a man. Let’s be real – we all remember Carol from Friends.
Personal turmoil
Coming out brings with it a lot of personal turmoil – and for me, part of that was facing the reality that the path to motherhood wouldn’t be simple. Not being able to conceive “naturally,” no matter the reason, comes with a very real sense of loss and grief. But too often, LGBTQ+ people are left out of that conversation. Our struggles to build a family are sidelined or erased.
I didn’t choose to be gay. No one chooses their sexuality. And I didn’t choose to need fertility treatment and donor sperm to have a baby. I’m no different from any other person who turns to IVF or IUI to conceive. The helplessness, the sadness – it all applies to me too. So do the out-of-pocket costs.
The long waits, the invasive procedures, the hoping, the heartbreaks, the failures – they’re part of my story as much as anyone else’s. I’m not sharing this to dismiss anyone else’s infertility journey.
I know there’s a deep grief that comes with trying for one year, two years, more… only to be told that IVF is the only way forward. In some ways, at least I knew what I was up against – even if it took years to fully accept it.
Absolutely — here’s a refined and more emotionally attuned rewrite, shaped for a Millennial/Gen Z audience, while preserving every factual detail from the original:
Opening up the narrative
What I really want is to expand the conversation – to talk honestly about the silent weight of social infertility and make sure LGBTQ+ couples are fully seen in this space. Our stories matter, too.
As for our own baby journey, it’s been slow and uncertain. When you start trying to conceive at 31, everything feels like uncharted territory. Over the past year, we’ve faced some unexpected detours – including the discovery and removal of an 8cm ovarian tumour (thankfully benign), and a diagnosis of endometriosis, followed by surgery to treat it.
We don’t know exactly what the road ahead looks like, but we’re hopeful. We still believe in the future we’ve imagined – and in our ability to become the kind of positive lesbian role models we so badly needed when we were growing up.
