Navigating Shame When Using NFP

I had to do a double take when I read the blog post I had been sent. I couldn’t even read it in detail, I was so angry. All I recall was that it was a woman’s opinion about how her negative emotions during her pregnancy negatively affected her child. That it was sent with good intentions, I had no doubt. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

I had been drowning since I saw the positive pregnancy test, confirming my second child, on his way a mere 7 months after his sister was born. The birth of my first child, via scheduled C section due to breech, forced me to grapple with pain I didn’t expect, not just the physical pain of recovering from major surgery, but the mental, emotional and spiritual pain of feeling like I hadn’t done anything to bring my daughter into the world. 

We had been advised to wait 9 months after her birth before conceiving again, and we planned on doing so in full accord with Church teaching – read, abstinence and NFP, no contraception. And our faithfulness and reason was rewarded with deep pain. Not only was I staring down another C section when I hadn’t fully processed the first, I found myself feeling totally abandoned by God, a place I can only describe as a dark night. 

I remember telling God, If this is the reward for faithfulness, why on earth should I be faithful?

Looking back, I should have sought therapy for likely depression and anxiety, but I didn’t even have the emotional energy at the time to find help. I was convinced that everyone would judge me, that they would try to fix me, that would tell me how I needed to change because the place I was in was bad. So I turned inward, into the darkness. I cried a lot. I was angry at my family a lot. I was even angrier at God. And then I got tired of being angry. So I went silent. 

Some people who saw me saw a happily married woman, mother of one, and they assumed all was well. Others were narrow-minded strangers who saw me as crazy for having children so close together, so they thought snide comments might set me right. I vividly recall going for the anatomy scan, where the sonographer, who I can only assume by her tone was having the worst day of her life, took one look at our daughter and snarked, “I’m assuming this one wasn’t planned right?” It took every ounce of my strength not to crumple in a heap of tears as she moved the wand over my belly. 

I felt so much shame during that time. Shame that I couldn’t learn my body and plan my family. Shame that I couldn’t handle the pain. Shame that I wasn’t happy about having another baby right then, especially as two friends told me they miscarried. Shame that I couldn’t just flip a switch and be myself again. Shame that I couldn’t talk about it to anyone. It felt like time after time, I was getting kicked while I was down. I’d have given anything to climb out back to the light, but I couldn’t. There wasn’t a prayer that soothed, a book that illuminated, or a word from someone that helped. 

The darkness finally ended, as though God turned a switch, right as I was being wheeled into the recovery room after my son was born. But it took me another year and a half to sort through the meaning of all that darkness. 

What I slowly learned was what an incredible gift that darkness was. It was a tiny taste of Christ’s sufferings on the cross. It gave me a deeper understanding of the kind of love he has for us, a love that is both compassionate and honest. It gave me a passion for sharing the truth about how NFP is lived, both the good and downright awful. It made me fearless. 

NFP doesn’t guarantee anything – not a good marriage, a good sex life, or the family we plan. In order for those things to happen, it takes a lot of work. It demands that two people face their selfish natures daily and deal with them, and that sometimes gruelling process is what brings about a sanctifying and beautiful marriage and life. 

When I started sharing my story and all I had learned through my blog, it was like starting the NFP #metoo movement. Suddenly, I was meeting and talking with people who made me realize I wasn’t alone back when I had felt abandoned, and it was profoundly healing. It taught me the greatest lesson of all, that when we meet people who are suffering, no matter what that suffering is, oftentimes the greatest help we can offer them is not a book or blog post or medical solution. It is simply to meet them where they are on their walk to Calvary, to listen and let them know they aren’t alone.