I first came across the idea of “fertility privilege” in a podcast by the author Elizabeth Day, who has been admirably open about her desperate desire to be a mother after repeat miscarriages and fertility treatment. The podcast made me cry, though Day would be well within her rights to tell me to stuff my tears, because I got my baby. I joined the club. I have what she terms “fertility privilege”, ie I have conceived and carried a child without too much difficulty.
In an article that caused something of a furore, Day wrote: “We rightly talk about privilege in this era of social change – an era marked by Black Lives Matter and #MeToo – but hardly anyone acknowledges fertility privilege. Those of us who have had complicated journeys to parenthood are only too aware of its existence. … I know how it feels to be the infertile one in a world of apparent abundance. I wouldn’t post about my glorious babies on social media in much the same way as I wouldn’t post about my expansive mansion or my fleet of Bentleys (not that I have any of those), because it’s thoughtless to those who don’t have these things.”
