Why Women Desperately Needed to Hear Michelle Obama’s Story about Miscarriage and Infertility

Michelle Obama recently spoke with Robin Roberts about her experience with miscarriage, infertility, and IVF when she and former President Barack Obama were trying to have children. Her memoir “Becoming” just hit stores, and this was one of the first nuggets of information we heard about it.

Her disclosure of this private struggle was revolutionary for so many reasons. Figures as public as the First Lady, former or not, don’t usually discuss their reproductive systems with the whole world.

Another reason is the disparity in health outcomes that black women face in the health care system. Black women struggle more with infertility, but are less likely to access treatments like in vitro fertilization (IVF).

Finally, Obama’s revelation is revolutionary because it exposes the fallacy of motherhood perfection, and refocuses women on the need for community.

The mirage of perfection

When we think of Michelle Obama, what words come to mind? We think: smart, capable, Ivy League graduate, high-powered attorney, amazing biceps, gorgeous dresses, gorgeous kids, super-mom, idyllic marriage, education and nutrition advocate, professional, even-keeled, high integrity, when-they-go-low-we-go-high strong woman.

Am I missing anything?

She seems pretty close to perfect.

We tend to forget, especially when things are hard, that many women have come before us and shared these same struggles. And many will come after us, too.

The difficulties of motherhood and this elusive “balance” we continually search for like buried treasure are compounded when we feel lonely and isolated. Perhaps I’m the only one struggling with these issues, and everyone else has it figured out, we think.

“I felt lost and alone, and I felt like I failed,” Obama said.

When we feel alone, we are deprived of the incredible healing powers of sisterhood and community.

The pitfalls of secrecy with pregnancy and infertility

My husband and I lost a pregnancy, and many friends supported us in the grieving process. A few even shared their story for the first time with me that, they too, had had miscarriages. Why didn’t I know? I thought. Why didn’t you tell me? I could have been there for you. I would have sent you a card and lent you a shoulder to cry on.

But no. I wasn’t able to support them because our hopes to bring new life into the world are shrouded in secrecy.

We live in a society where women’s reproductive systems are debated by strangers holding signs on the street and legislated by white men in Congress who’ve never touched a tampon, never mind tracked their basal body temperature, monitored their cervical mucus or urinated on sticks, hoping desperately that this will be the one. They’ve never had to shoot up their bodies with hormones every day and make up reasons at work to mask their mood swings.

They’ve never been congratulated by a doctor who, in his very next breath, recommends secrecy for the first trimester “just in case something happens.” They’ve never been sent home by that same doctor 9 weeks later and notified nonchalantly that this happens to 1 in 4 pregnancies, with the implication that it’s no big deal.

How do women move beyond the ideal of perfection?

Minus the Ivy League schools and the killer biceps, as a woman in my 20s, I thought I’d share many of those descriptors with Michelle Obama: confident and successful lawyer, strong marriage, and two perfect children. I thought maybe I could be that woman, and that, by the time I reached 35, I probably would be.

When even one of those elements disintegrates beyond our control, the dream comes crashing down, and  we take refuge in solitude, feeling helpless and powerless, certain that everyone else has it figured out.

Certainly, procreation can be a private topic and shouldn’t be forced into public forums. But when we mindlessly continue the long-time tradition of concealing new pregnancies, lost pregnancies, or procedures like IUI and IVF, we rob ourselves of the community support we so desperately need by stigmatizing events shared by so many women. And we rob younger women of the opportunity to consider parenthood as messy and imperfect, with no straight lines or right answers.

“The worst thing that we do to each other as women is not share the truth about our bodies, and how they work, and how they don’t work,” Obama said.

The payoff of embracing imperfection

Well-meaning friends and family remind grieving couples that we are blessed and encourage us to keep trying for another child. What they don’t realize is that the subsequent birth of a child does not erase that first loss. Like any grief, it lingers close to the surface, a wound ready to be reopened at a moment’s notice.

But there’s immense power in sharing that pain. Today, when friends suffer from pregnancy loss or infertility, they know exactly where they can find a shoulder to cry on. They know my story isn’t perfect either. It’s messy and raw.

While I continue to respect and revere Michelle Obama, I no longer see her as the perfect woman; she’s a real woman. I no longer yearn to check off each metaphoric box of “successful womanhood” I thought I’d conquer.

Instead, let’s bask in the sludge of imperfection by sharing our loss and our pain. After all, the payoff is even more spectacular – the understanding and support of messy, real women. True community.

Thank you, Michelle.