Michelle Obama Reveals What ‘No One Tells You’ About Fertility Struggles

Posted on 01/05/2025 by Boris Clair

Michelle Obama continues to open up about her fertility journey and the hardships she faced along the way – despite thinking she had it all figured out.

“You imagine your life as you’re checking boxes,” the former first lady said during an appearance on The Diary of A CEO podcast released Wednesday.

“I’m waiting, I delayed having kids, I’ve found the love of my life, and now I’m gonna get pregnant,” Obama shared. “And no one tells you that there really is a biological clock – like, that’s not false.”

Obama spoke about listening to someone talk about women’s fertility recently, and her first thought was, “Why didn’t anybody tell me this? Why weren’t people talking about this?”

Obama said that by the time she and her husband, Barack, started really trying – “which worked perfectly for our careers and maturing and having everything set” – they began to run into roadblocks.

“While we’re waiting for our lives to be perfect, that biological clock is ticking,” she said of their experience.

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In this candid conversation, she joins Steven with her brother Craig Robinson, a former college basketball coach turned executive, to open up about everything from Trump’s inauguration to marriage challenges, grief, and rediscovering her purpose.\n\nTogether, they discuss:\n* How their parents instilled empathy, discipline, and resilience growing up amid racial tension.\n* Michelle’s journey through elite schools and corporate law, driven by a need to tick society’s boxes.\n* The evolution of Michelle and Barack’s relationship, from colleagues to lifelong partners.\n* Fertility struggles, parenting tips, and what it really takes to sustain a long-term marriage.\n* Navigating life in the White House, grief, personal boundaries, and rediscovering her true calling.\n\n00:00 Intro \n02:01 Michelle and Craig’s Childhood \n04:38 Values Learned from Their Parents \n08:35 Michelle Skipping Second Grade \n12:06 The Role of Race in Their Childhood \n15:09 What \"White Flight\" Means \n16:50 Coping with Racism \n20:45 Overcoming Being Underestimated \n26:23 Michelle’s Search for Identity \n30:10 Meeting Barack \n31:49 Introducing Barack to the Family \n33:38 Why Michelle Initially Rejected Barack \n37:18 Michelle’s Career Change: Pursuing Joy \n40:41 Relationship with Barack \n44:46 Couples Counseling with Barack \n49:23 Pregnancy Struggles \n56:16 Hardest Moments in Their Marriage \n57:20 Barack Obama Runs for Public Office \n01:03:18 What I Should Have Said to Barack \n01:07:00 Being the First Black First Lady and Facing Scrutiny \n01:15:06 Remembering Your Mother \n01:16:42 The Death of Your Mother \n01:18:25 Processing the Grief \n01:20:31 Not Attending Trump’s Inauguration \n\n100 CEOs: Ready to think like a CEO? 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“So you start trying and it’s not working, that’s when you go to the doctor,” she said. “And they tell you, ’Oh! You’re running out of eggs – this is normal. You’re gonna have trouble getting pregnant. And so try a little bit, and now it’s time for IVF, if you can afford it.”

Obama described the news as “just a shock to the system,” especially as someone who likes learning and knowledge.

She also disliked that the knowledge or information felt like “such a secret,” which is why Obama said she speaks openly about her fertility journey, including experiencing pregnancy loss, and doing in vitro fertilisation (IVF).

Obama first opened up about undergoing IVF and having a miscarriage in her powerful 2018 memoir, Becoming.

“I felt like I failed because I didn’t know how common miscarriages were because we don’t talk about them,” the author said in an interview on Good Morning America in 2018. “We sit in our own pain, thinking that somehow we’re broken.”

She also wrote about feeling alone during IVF, as her “sweet, attentive husband” was away at the state legislature.

She said his absence left her “largely on my own to manipulate my reproductive system into peak efficiency”.

Help and support:

Sands works to support anyone affected by the death of a baby.
Tommy’s fund research into miscarriage, stillbirth and premature birth, and provide pregnancy health information to parents.
Saying Goodbye offers support for anyone who has suffered the loss of a baby during pregnancy, at birth or in infancy.

Stop Telling Women Not To Share About Their Early Pregnancy

Posted on 27/12/2023 by Boris Clair

I stared at the pregnancy test with relief, sadness, fear, longing and regret. “Pregnant,” it said.

I tried to breathe. I guess I couldn’t have that glass of wine I had been planning after all. In fact, the reason I bought the test was that I wanted to drink. I hadn’t for the past several days because I started to become alarmed that my period was so late. Holy buckets. Pregnant! How did this happen?

Oh yeah, that one time I had unprotected sex. I didn’t bother taking the morning after pill because I figured I was too ancient for something to happen.

I honestly didn’t think I could get pregnant. I spent my 20s doing everything in my power to prevent such an occurrence, including taking the morning after pill numerous times.

Then in my 30s, I came around to the idea that I actually did want to have a kid and tried to conceive with my partner at the time. I went off birth control for years with no result. I looked into going to a fertility clinic, but the cost was prohibitive.

In my late 30s, my inability to get pregnant caused acute pain and an ongoing feeling of loss. When I turned 40, I was finally able to come to peace with what I assumed was my own infertility. When I turned 42, I figured that window had closed.

Then I found myself about to turn 43 and pregnant by someone I’d met on Hinge and with whom I had four dates.

I paced and paced, my mind spinning. This thing I wanted for so long finally came to fruition. A baby! I never considered getting an abortion, despite the less-than-ideal situation of being without a partner. Yes, I was scared of all the risks of having a kid as an older mom, but there was no way I’d let this chance pass me by.

I started to think of baby names right away, and before I even told anyone, plotted scenarios of how on earth I would make it work. I’d need to get a two-bedroom apartment, I thought. Maybe my parents could help with child care. Or I could ask my nieces and nephews to help babysit. I plotted and schemed how I’d make it work.

I didn’t tell anyone until the next day. The first person I called was my sister. “I think I’m going to keep it,” I found myself saying.

I told a few other close friends. Everyone was supportive, though some encouraged me not to make my decision right away about keeping it or not. I said I would think about it to appease them, but I had already made up my mind.

“I began to see how people in early pregnancy should instead lean into their community. If the worst happens, then the village is there to offer support. Why keep things secret and battle that loss alone?”

I found it very difficult not to tell people my happy news. I wanted to share it with the world, but I didn’t even tell my parents, nor did I tell the Hinge guy, who I hadn’t spoken to in two months. I knew I would tell them, but I felt I needed to wait.

I had heard you weren’t supposed to announce your pregnancy until you were 12 weeks along. I had people I was close to encourage me to wait until that long to share widely, but I didn’t understand why.

Abortion stigma and miscarriage stigma are two sides of the same coin. In both cases, instead of seeing reproductive health as simply that — a part of a person’s overall health care, it’s instead loaded with politics and morality. One sequence of events means you are a terrible person, another sequence of events means you somehow are lacking as a real woman.

One-quarter of pregnancies end in miscarriage. We are told to keep early pregnancies private in order to be spared the pain of sharing our loss. I began to see how people in early pregnancy should instead lean into their community. If the worst happens, then the village is there to offer support. Why keep things secret and battle that loss alone?

A week and a half after I found out I was pregnant, I was reading on the couch, and I felt a sudden gush of liquid. I went to the bathroom and realised I was spotting. I happened to have my first ultrasound appointment the next day, and I was prepared for the worst.

At first, when the technician began the ultrasound, I didn’t realise that my insides were being projected on the screen in front of me. I opened my legs apart so I could see the image. I gasped. I saw the most miraculous thing. It was my very own little nugget right there!

Finally, the technician took the wand out and told me she was very sorry but couldn’t detect a heartbeat. It was like she jabbed me with a knife. I started crying then, and she took me to a private room so I didn’t have to go to the waiting room.

I immediately regretted not telling my parents. I needed my mom more than ever. Why hadn’t I shared with her the truth from the beginning?

“Our culture has a long way to go to support people who get pregnant, and that starts with getting rid of the shame of miscarriage, the politicization of abortion, and the judgment of not having children at all.”

I felt shame too, about the people I had told. Now I would have to tell them about the miscarriage. But then I started to question myself. Wasn’t it a good thing to seek support when something terrible happens? Why should I feel ashamed?

It took three more weeks for the miscarriage to actually happen. I decided to wait for it to happen naturally, and I ended up needing to go to the emergency room. It was traumatic, and yet I still felt hesitant to share with people outside of my closest circle.

I didn’t truly feel comfortable saying it was a loss, but it was. That doesn’t negate other people’s experiences of becoming pregnant and deciding to abort. Those two truths can exist for different people. For me, I lost someone I wanted to meet and love. I had to say goodbye before they were even born.

Our culture has a long way to go to support people who get pregnant, and that starts with getting rid of the shame of miscarriage, the politicization of abortion, and the judgment of not having children at all.

That’s why you should share whenever you feel compelled to share. For me, keeping the news bottled inside me ended up preventing me from getting all the support I needed. Maybe other pregnant folks want to wait a bit longer.

The important thing is that as a society, we need to stop telling people they have to wait until some arbitrary predetermined date. Get rid of the stigma around miscarriage and start caring for people at all stages of their pregnancy journey, even pregnancies that don’t come to term.

Help and support:

Sands works to support anyone affected by the death of a baby.
Tommy’s fund research into miscarriage, stillbirth and premature birth, and provide pregnancy health information to parents.
Saying Goodbye offers support for anyone who has suffered the loss of a baby during pregnancy, at birth or in infancy.

I Thought My Mum Had A 20-Week Miscarriage. I Just Discovered It Was A Secret Abortion.

Posted on 02/12/2023 by Boris Clair

When I was 8 years old, my mom, who was about 20 weeks pregnant, flew to Boston with my then-stepdad. She returned without a bump or a baby.

When she got home, she was devastated. So was I, because I’d always wanted a little sister. I’d been thrilled when my mother’s belly started to grow, and people began congratulating her everywhere we went.

She’d remarried less than a year before that, and the transition of having a new man in the house had been tough for my younger brother and me. A new baby was something we could all rally around, so it was especially difficult for all of us when my mom started experiencing complications.

At the beginning of her second trimester, right after she’d started telling people she was pregnant, she began bleeding and cramping. I spent a lot of afternoons at my cousin’s house while my mom attended doctor appointments. She’d return to pick me up, and I’d find her whispering in the driveway with my aunt. One night after dinner, we had a family meeting where she told us that the baby had a heart problem and would need surgery right after it was born.

The bleeding continued, and there were more doctor appointments and late-afternoon pickups and whispered conversations. A few weeks later, my mom went to Boston. When she returned, a new word was added to my second-grade vocabulary: miscarriage. At the time, I was old enough to know the baby was gone, but too young to understand or remember any specifics.

Still, my mom’s “miscarriage” shaped my perception of pregnancy. I understood its fragility.

The author and her mom at Christmastime when the author was in elementary school.

In the fall of 2017, just as the Memphis air was turning from humid to crisp, my mom and I went for one of our regular morning walks. She was between chemo treatments for the stage 4 cholangiocarcinoma she was battling, and I had just taken my first positive pregnancy test. I hadn’t told her yet. My mom didn’t even know my husband and I were trying. I was only about four weeks pregnant, and I was afraid of getting her hopes up at a time when she really needed things to believe in, so I decided to wait to share my news until my doctor detected a heartbeat at the six-week appointment and I had an ultrasound picture to show her.

As we walked under the canopy of brown and burnt orange leaves, I asked her questions about when she was pregnant with me: “How did you feel? What was it like? Did it hurt?” This was something I’d started doing about many different topics ― I sought out information I wanted to know from her and asked questions while she was still around to answer them.

But that morning, my mom didn’t have many answers about when she was pregnant with me. “I don’t remember,” she told me. “You forget the hard parts, so you can do it again.”

We walked around a big curve in the road, and I thought about the poppy seed-sized embryo inside of me. My mom turned to look at me. I expected her to offer some insight about morning sickness or food cravings, but she changed the subject.

”You know it had genetic abnormalities, too?” she said out of nowhere. Actually, I didn’t know this, because she never talked about the baby she lost. ”My body kept trying to abort it, but it couldn’t. That’s why I kept haemorrhaging.” Her voice was faraway as she mentally traveled back to that time.

Now, almost four years after my mom’s death and five years after that conversation, I still remember it vividly — the crunch of leaves under our feet, the exact bend of that road, the mild weather of the day. The moment was a glimpse into the experiences of my mom’s that I could never access ― a reminder that she’d die with so many untold stories.

One day last summer, as I watched my two kids playing under the bright pink blooms of the crepe myrtles in our backyard, I began bleeding. It was a very early miscarriage, nothing like what my mom had been through. But it still made me think of her and that conversation. I couldn’t know the extent of her much-worse tragedy, but I, too, was experiencing a third pregnancy that would never be. My miscarriage — this third baby that would not be — made me feel connected to her.

It wasn’t until last month, when Tennessee’s total abortion ban went into effect, that I finally understood my mom didn’t have a miscarriage. Technically, legally, she had an abortion.

The author and her mom in November 2016. "This was right after I got engaged, two days after doctors found a mass in her liver," she writes. — The author and her mom in November 2016. “This was right after I got engaged, two days after doctors found a mass in her liver,” she writes.

Tennessee’s ban is one of the strictest in the country. It does not include an exception for incest or rape, or for the life of the mother. Instead, the law offers the possibility of an “affirmative defence,” which allows the doctor, if charged with a Class C felony, to argue that an abortion was necessary “to prevent the death of the pregnant woman or to prevent serious risk of substantial and irreversible impairment to a major bodily function of the pregnant woman.”

As I read the law’s language and understood that women in Tennessee were no longer guaranteed equitable, potentially lifesaving health care, I thought back to my mom’s words: That’s why I kept haemorrhaging.

I had to know what happened in Boston. I was almost certain the pregnancy had put my mom’s life at risk and that she’d had to get an abortion, but I needed corroboration. I called my great-aunt who lives in Boston, and she immediately answered the questions I’d never known to ask.

“Yes, it was an abortion,” my great-aunt told me. “It wasn’t a viable pregnancy. It was endangering your mom’s life. It was an extremely difficult situation, and she’d had to travel to Boston for the procedure because it wasn’t legal in Tennessee.”

My great-aunt didn’t remember the specifics about why the pregnancy wasn’t viable. I knew there was only one person who’d been to those appointments with my mom and might know everything: my former stepdad.

It took me weeks to text him. We hadn’t spoken since their acrimonious divorce, the year after I graduated from college. I wasn’t even sure he’d be receptive to these questions. The experience was so long ago, and it had been so painful.

But he was immediately responsive, and willing to share the details he remembered. He told me the foetus had a chromosomal abnormality, misshapen kidneys, a hole in the heart, and structures at the oesophagus and rectum that prevented the processing of amniotic fluids. My mom’s health was also at risk because she kept bleeding. The neonatologist said they needed to make a decision.

The specialist referred them to an abortion clinic in Tulsa, Oklahoma. When my mom called the clinic for more information, the receptionist warned her that patients were usually harassed when entering the facility. So my mom called her aunt in Boston, and she connected her to a doctor at a hospital there.

The author's mother holds the author's daughter a few minutes after she was born in August 2018. "It is one of the few pictures I have of them together," the author writes. "My mom's health declined quickly, and she died four months later." — The author’s mother holds the author’s daughter a few minutes after she was born in August 2018. “It is one of the few pictures I have of them together,” the author writes. “My mom’s health declined quickly, and she died four months later.”

Even though the baby had chromosomal abnormalities and too many physiologic issues to correct, and even though my mom’s body kept trying to abort the baby naturally, it was still an unthinkable decision, my former stepdad said. They sought counsel from their Episcopal priest and diocesan bishop. They consulted another doctor in Memphis. Ultimately, the doctor in Boston reaffirmed that the foetus was not viable and wouldn’t live if carried to term. Because of this, and because of the risk to my mom’s health, they decided to proceed with the abortion.

I’ll never know what my mom experienced during that procedure. Though it was an abortion ― and a choice she made ― she still considered it a “miscarriage,” and went on to describe it that way to the few close friends with whom she discussed it. I know it was traumatic, and that is why my family never talked about it. Most importantly, I know it was a procedure my mom needed for her safety, and one that other women will need for their own.

Chrissy Teigen recently revealed that, like my mom, what she had claimed was a miscarriage was actually an abortion. “I told the world we had a miscarriage, the world agreed we had a miscarriage, all the headlines said it was a miscarriage,” the model said. “And I became really frustrated that I didn’t, in the first place, say what it was, and I felt silly that it had taken me over a year to actually understand that we had had an abortion.”

There are so many reasons why someone may not admit that they’ve had an abortion ― from fear and grief to the nightmarish political climate and simply wanting to keep their medical decisions private ― and all of them are valid. The bottom line is abortion needs to be safe, legal and accessible for anyone who wants or needs one.

Despite the deep trauma of her abortion, I know that my mom was profoundly grateful she could get one. It ensured she’d live and allowed her to keep being my mom. While I did not know my mom’s story until recently, I know that if she were here today, she would be outraged by what has happened in this country ― and what’s still happening. I know she’d want lawyers to challenge the abortion bans that various states have enacted. I know she’d want Lindsey Graham to understand the devastating effect that a federal 15-week abortion ban would have on the health of women and people with uteruses. I know she’d want voters to support candidates who champion abortion rights. And I believe she’d be proud of me for speaking up now and telling her story in the hope that it might matter ― that it might mean something and maybe even help do something.

Ultimately, she’d want women to have access to the procedure that protected her life. And she’d want them to have it regardless of where they are in their pregnancy, or which state they live in.

Sarah Hunter Simanson received her MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her writing has appeared in Salon, Romper and The Daily Memphian. She is currently working on her first novel.

‘Immoral’ Three Miscarriage Rule Set To Be Scrapped Following MP’s Campaign

Posted on 21/10/2021 by Boris Clair

Office of Olivia Blake MP

Sheffield Hallam MP Olivia Blake is campaigning for more support for women who experience miscarriages.

An obscure rule that means women have to endure three miscarriages in a row before they receive support is poised to be scrapped in a victory for campaigners.

New draft guidelines issued by the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists (RCOG), which are open for consultation, should mean that women can get support after their first miscarriage instead of their third.

The changes —which if implemented would represent the biggest reform to miscarriage care for 50 years — would mean all NHS trusts would adopt a system of graded care.

After the first miscarriage a woman would receive information, the second miscarriage would be followed by an appointment at a specialist clinic to identify the cause, and following the third the woman would be eligible for a major investigation and care, such as blood tests.

The guidelines also redefine “recurrent miscarriage” to include non-consecutive occurrences.

The win follows sustained campaigning from Sheffield Hallam Labour MP Olivia Blake, who spoke movingly about her experience of miscarriage during the coronavirus lockdown last autumn.

Blake revealed she had to undergo private counselling through her place of work to receive support after she learned she had miscarried her baby while her partner waited in the A&E car park. Coronavirus restrictions at the time meant her partner was unable to attend the appointment with her.

She said the change in guidelines was a “huge step and an incredible win for campaigners and individuals who have been speaking up about this injustice for years”.

“If implemented, these new guidelines will mark the end to the outdated and immoral three miscarriage rule, which has prevented millions of people from accessing vital support and care when they most need it,” she said.

Blake went on to secure an adjournment debate this summer, in which she called for an end to the three miscarriage rule.

During the debate, the health minister at the time, Nadine Dorries, committed to including reforming the women’s health strategy by including a record of national miscarriage data as well as 24/7 care and support for those who have experienced miscarriage.

The UK currently does not routinely collect and publish miscarriage data in the way it does for other losses such as stillbirth and neonatal death, but the most recent research from the Lancet suggests that 23million miscarriages occur every year globally – equivalent to 15% of all pregnancies annually.

The guidelines are due to be finalised by the end of the year following a consultation.

Last week Blake starred in the TV documentary “Myleene Klass: Miscarriage and Me” during baby loss awareness week.

Klass said she was “over the moon” at the new guidelines.

“I hope this is the beginning of the change we need and that miscarriage is never again swept under the rug or dismissed as an inevitability.”

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Posted on 24/12/2019 by Boris Clair

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