Written by: Dahéli Hall
Are by: Justyna Green
“Which one is yours??”
This is an eager mom’s opening line to me. I’m at my nephew’s 6th birthday party. The mom points to the rowdy group of children, assuming one of them is mine. This is her attempt at conversation. Friendship. I tell her that I don’t have any kids. Her face crumples apologetically. She backs away and mutters — “Oh. Sorry.”
Even though my answer is a repellent, I am thankful this mom backed away. Some are more aggressive. They want me to be part of their revered group. Those moms want to be assured that I am at least “trying” to have a baby. They love to tell me how motherhood is, “So worth it!”
The truth is, I have been trying.
And not “trying” in the sexy, fun way depicted on screen where a couple ‘makes love,’ confident that all their lusty thrusts will lead to a perfect nuclear family. No, that’s not my situation. My husband and I time our copulation, use specialized lube with a plastic applicator, and the whole point is for just him to climax…ugh, it takes me back to my younger days.
I was in such a deep depression over my unsuccessful attempts at motherhood that I turned to my first loves to help me out of it: performance and writing.
“Trying” is true to the word’s definition: difficult, annoying, and hard to endure (by the way, so is a comedy career).
In a stroke of either genius or masochism, I wrote a one-woman comedy show framed as a baby shower about my journey trying to get knocked up. I was in such a deep depression over my unsuccessful attempts at motherhood that I turned to my first loves to help me out of it: performance and writing.
I began performing and sharing my story while undergoing several rounds of IVF. My friend, Elizabeth Yng-Wong, became my producer. She carefully shepherded the development process to ensure it was a source of healing; she has been an especially thoughtful creative partner. During the experience, I grew a larger sense of gratitude for my Filipino husband as we doggedly tried for our Ja-Haitia-Pino-American baby (I’m half Jamaican and Haitian).
I was supposed to realize that we were part of a shared community. Except — not all infertility is the same. Unlike me, they were moms.
During our journey, I reflected on the baby industrial complex — the commercialization and commodification of fertility treatments and the pressures for motherhood. Society loves prescriptive milestones for women: first comes love, then comes marriage, and then comes the baby in the baby carriage… or maybe not.
An actress friend of mine went public about her fertility issues ONLY AFTER becoming pregnant. Usually, when someone addresses infertility, there is a baby at the end of the struggle; a happy ending. But my story is different. My story is about not getting that proverbial ‘happy ending’ and navigating defeats without being defeated. Honoring that loss is part of life.
Right now, I’m losing ‘mom-friends.’
Honestly, it must be such a drag to have my infertility constantly casting a shadow. So I’ve now accepted that I can’t kick it with my mom-friends like I used to.
It hits me that I’ve only asked female comedians without kids to perform with me. Oop. I’ve unwittingly made my lineup mom-free. I recently did an Instagram Live with one of them, Nancy J. Lee. We are both first-generation Americans (her family is Korean); we prioritized our careers, found partners later in life, and couldn’t get pregnant. She felt like a sister in arms. After logging off with Nancy, I saw a text from one of my girlfriends–
“Call me, we have some news to share.” I stiffened. Why would she use “we” unless…
“Is it a baby???” I text.
My friend confirmed that she was pregnant. In an instant, I was in the “sunken place.” I was awash with envy, sadness, and then guilt at not being immediately elated. There are days that I’m content that I’m not a mom (woo-hoo, freedom), and there are days, like this one, that punctuate my loss… and I’m nearly in tears. I collected myself and replied with party horns and a sincere “YAY!”
Honestly, it must be such a drag to have my infertility constantly casting a shadow. So I’ve now accepted that I can’t kick it with my mom-friends like I used to… at least for a while. I have had friends who have dropped out of circulation after a big loss. I used to take it personally, but now I understand. It’s okay.
But am I okay? I’m doing a show on infertility all while still processing it.
There is a teaching in my Buddhist practice about changing poison into medicine where we face challenges with the confidence that we have within us the full power to overcome them. The universe was like– “if you want a comedy career, here’s some infertility… write some jokes about that!!” So, that’s what I did. After all, lots of great art is conceived from pain. I recently got a call from a friend because they wanted me to know that my story helped them understand grief better. Wow. It was the boost I needed to keep pushing and delivering my story. Yes, those were birthing puns.
About the Author:
Dahéli Hall (pronounced da-hay-lee) is a versatile performer, writer, and director based in Los Angeles. Known for her work on Netflix’s Dear White People and Fox’s MADtv, she’s currently touring with her award-winning comedy show SPADURA, an autobiographical love story that explores Dahéli’s journey through fertility challenges with humor and vulnerability. With credits spanning television, film, and video games, Dahéli is a graduate of NYU Tisch and USC’s Stark Producing Program. She is dedicated to promoting diversity and professional development in the entertainment industry and is a member of SAG-AFTRA and the WGA unions.
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