I don't want to hear about your pregnancy today. I'll want to tomorrow.

The text came in on a Thursday afternoon while I was standing in line at the pharmacy. It was a photo of an ultrasound, a little gray smudge on a black background, with three exclamation points and a heart. My friend Maya. We've known each other since we were nineteen and shared a dorm bathroom that neither of us ever cleaned.

I looked at the picture for a long time. Long enough that the pharmacist called my name twice. Then I put my phone in my pocket, paid for my prescription, walked to my car, and cried so hard I had to wait twenty minutes before I could drive.

I didn't text her back that day. I want to be honest about that, because I think a lot of essays like this one skip to the part where the writer figures it all out. I didn't figure anything out on Thursday. I just sat in a parking lot and felt like a terrible person.

The thing nobody prepares you for

Before treatment, I had a fertility consultation that lasted about forty minutes. A kind doctor explained my options in a voice that suggested she'd given this talk many times before. There were numbers and percentages and timelines. There was a decision to make quickly, while I was still trying to understand what was happening to my body.

What nobody explained was what it would feel like a year later, scrolling past a gender reveal on a random Tuesday. Or sitting at a baby shower, holding a tiny onesie someone passed around, smiling until my face ached. Nobody told me that the hardest part wouldn't always be the medical stuff. Sometimes it would be the group chat.

Some women reading this know exactly what they want. Some want children and aren't sure their bodies will cooperate. Some were never sure in the first place, and cancer took away the luxury of being undecided on their own schedule. Some have decided they don't want kids and are tired of people assuming otherwise. All of those are real. All of those can still sting when a friend's news arrives.

Grief and love can live in the same body. Mine does it every day.

What I wish I'd known sooner

It took me a long time to accept that I could be genuinely happy for Maya and also genuinely devastated for myself. I kept trying to pick one. If I was happy, then the sadness felt like a betrayal of her. If I was sad, the happiness felt fake. So I did what I always do when I can't sort out a feeling. I avoided it, and her.

That lasted about four days. Then she called, and I let it go to voicemail, and she texted, “Hey, are you okay? I wasn't sure how to tell you.”

That last line undid me. She had been worried about me. She had spent her own happy moment wondering how I'd feel. And I realized that by disappearing, I wasn't protecting either of us. I was just leaving her alone with her guesses.

Saying the true thing

When I finally called her back, I didn't have a script. I said something like, “I'm so happy for you. I'm also having a really hard time with it, and that's not your fault. I need a little space to be sad, and then I want to hear everything.”

She was quiet for a second. Then she said, “Okay. That makes sense. Can I still send you stuff, or would you rather I wait?”

I hadn't expected to be asked. I told her I'd rather she wait a couple of weeks. She said that was fine. And that was it. The world didn't end. Our friendship didn't end. It actually felt sturdier, like we'd both put our weight on it and it held.

I know not every friend will respond that way. Some people get defensive. Some take it personally. Some don't understand why you can't just be happy, and they may never fully understand. But in my experience, more people can handle the truth than we give them credit for. What they struggle with is the silence.

Some things that have helped me

I'm not an expert. I'm just someone who's been through a few rounds of this now. These are a few things that have made it a little easier.

I mute without guilt. Muting a friend's account for a while isn't the same as ending a friendship. It's turning down the volume so I can listen to my own life for a minute. I can unmute later. I usually do.

I tell one person the real thing. It doesn't always have to be the friend who's pregnant. Sometimes it's my sister, or my therapist, or a woman I met in an online group who gets it without me explaining. Saying the hard feeling out loud to someone safe makes it smaller.

I decide in advance what I can handle. Before a shower or a birthday party full of toddlers, I ask myself honestly: can I go? Can I go for an hour? Would I rather send a gift and a card? There's no right answer. There's just what's true for me that week.

I let myself leave. I've walked out of more than one event early and sat in my car for a while. I used to think that was dramatic. Now I think it's sensible. You'd leave a room that was too hot. You can leave one that's too much.

I remember that my friends are allowed to be happy. This one is hard, but it matters. Their joy isn't taking anything from me. It just sometimes shines a light on what I'm missing, or what I'm not sure about. That's not their fault, and it's not mine either.

Tomorrow

Maya's daughter is two now. Her name is June, and she has a habit of handing me things, a crayon, a sock, a half eaten cracker, and waiting for me to say thank you with great seriousness. I love her. I didn't think I would be able to, back in that pharmacy parking lot. I was wrong about that.

I'm still not sure what my own future looks like. Some days I'm at peace with not knowing. Some days I'm not. The grief comes back at strange times, usually when I think I'm past it.

But I've stopped believing I have to choose between protecting myself and showing up for the people I love. I can do both. Not always at the same time. Not always gracefully. Sometimes the answer is “not today.” And sometimes, if I'm lucky and patient with myself, the answer is “tomorrow.”

If you're in the not today part right now, that's okay. You're not a bad friend. You're a person carrying something heavy, and you're allowed to set it down for a minute before you pick up anything else.

This is a personal essay, not medical advice. If something here brings up a lot, be gentle with yourself.