For me, without a doubt, the biggest reason I didn’t talk about my fertility struggles when I was going through them was because I felt utterly alone. I believed I was the only man facing these challenges, and I was convinced no one could possibly understand. How wrong I was. At the time, I lacked the confidence to open up or ask for support. I was a proud man, too ashamed to admit I had fertility issues.
The weight of that silence was devastating. Over time, it manifested as depression, anxiety, and an overwhelming sense of loneliness—emotions that didn’t appear overnight but slowly took hold over the years.
Before I heard the words, “Ciaran, there’s nothing we can do for you, have you ever taken steroids?” (Yes, I was actually told that), I had been a very social lad. I loved spending time with friends at the rugby club or watching football down at the pub. So, what happened? How did I become so isolated?
The simple answer is I had no one to talk to about my battle with infertility. Of course, I could talk to my wife, but even then, I held back. My thought process was that I couldn’t add more pressure on her. She was already going through far more than I was. After all, I wasn’t the one injecting my body with hormones or putting myself through early menopause to give us a chance at having a child. The thought of putting any additional burden on her shoulders made me feel selfish and guilty.
I did try, in a half-hearted way, to open up to a couple of my friends, but I could never bring myself to fully share what I was going through. On the rare occasions I did manage to reveal a little, the conversation would inevitably veer into humour. My mates didn’t know what to say, and truthfully, neither did I.
At my lowest, I once described my emotions to a therapist as feeling like I had been knocked off my feet and was lying face-down in the mud, paralysed and unable to get up. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t move. I was gripped by fear and an overwhelming sense of shame. I was certain that if I so much as lifted my head, I would be ridiculed. Looking back, I realise now that no man or woman should ever feel that way. At the time, though, I didn’t understand the power of talking or the strength that comes from facing fears. I didn’t realise how much my wife, friends, and family wanted to support me—they loved me and wanted to help.
Initially, when I was told I couldn’t have children without medical assistance, I buried my head in the sand. I convinced myself the doctors were wrong. I wasn’t infertile. But as my wife and I chalked off one unsuccessful treatment cycle after another, I was forced to face the reality: they were right, and I was wrong.
It’s strange to think now that I ever doubted them—how could so many specialists and test results be mistaken? But at the time, I wasn’t ready to process what I’d been told. That denial eventually gave way to an emotional implosion when the truth finally sank in.
When I say implosion, I mean it. I became a shadow of the man I once was. My drive and motivation for life slowly dissolved. I had hit rock bottom, and it hurt. The really ironic thing is that, outwardly, I seemed fine. To acquaintances, I looked as though I had it all together. Even those closest to me had no idea how much I was suffering—not until it was too late and I couldn’t keep bottling everything up.
There’s one specific moment that marked the breaking point for me. I might share it one day if it feels relevant, but for now, I’ll simply say this: it was entirely avoidable.
The turning point came when I finally admitted that I couldn’t go on like this. I realised I had two choices: either remain in a constant state of depression and anxiety for the rest of my life, or find a way to process my emotions and seek support. At the time, I had developed unhealthy coping mechanisms, including excessive alcohol consumption, as a way to escape the nightmare I was living. Deep down, I knew this wasn’t helping, especially since alcohol only worsened my fertility. But again, I wasn’t ready to face the truth. My head was still buried in the sand.
Looking back, I know some people might think my descriptions are exaggerated. But I promise you, they’re not. For those who have lived through similar experiences, this will resonate.
After an 11-year battle with infertility, my wife and I welcomed our son into the world in 2016 and our daughter in 2020, both through ICSI (intracytoplasmic sperm injection). While the joy of becoming a father was unparalleled, the trauma of my fertility journey didn’t simply disappear overnight. Healing takes time. The emotional scars from such a life-changing ordeal don’t vanish—they take work to process and overcome.
That said, I’m in a much better place now than I was five years ago, and that’s largely because I began to talk. I started with professionals, then gradually opened up to my friends and family. Once I allowed myself to be vulnerable, I discovered that the negative reactions I had feared rarely materialized. In fact, most people were understanding and supportive.
The world still has a long way to go in addressing male infertility. It’s estimated that men account for up to 50% of the 48 million people globally who struggle with fertility issues, yet society continues to shy away from discussing it. Why? This stigma only deepens the isolation for those affected.
This blog isn’t just about sharing my experiences. It’s about raising awareness of male infertility and normalising the conversation. It’s about saying, “It’s okay to not be okay.” I’ve learned that infertility is often a trigger for other challenges, and it wasn’t until I addressed each issue individually that I was able to confront the root cause: my infertility.
If you’re reading this and relating to what I’ve written, ask yourself: “Who can I talk to?”
Remember, “You’re not alone.”