I arrived at Mary Ward House on Friday to the greeted by the hum of excited conversations. Though I missed the morning sessions, I stepped into a space already alive with shared purpose. This year’s British Infertility Counselling Association (BICA) conference was more than a gathering it was a chorus of voices daring to speak what is often left unspeakable.
The afternoon unfolded with power and compassion. Dr. Susie Bower-Brown invited us to consider what inclusive, affirming fertility care could look like for trans and non-binary people. David Pexton reminded us that surrogacy is not just a process but a web of connection, community, and care. Rachel Gregoire walked us through the emotional terrain of ethical decision-making in fertility clinics where science meets soul.
Then it was my turn.
The Echoes of Motherhood: A Woman of Colour’s Story of Grief, Growth, and her Diseased Womb was more than a title it was a remembering, a release. I stood at the front of the room with my ancestors at my back, and shared my story of unexplained infertility, of fibroids, of adenomyosis, of being dismissed, unheard, unseen. Of blood. Of pain. Of anger. Of racial history laced with medical harm and historical silencing.
I spoke of the doctors who questioned my pain but never sat long enough to listen to it. I asked the questions; What happened to enslaved women who could not conceive? What happens to Black women today when our suffering is pathologised, or worse ignored?
I shared the letter I wrote to say goodbye to my womb, the one they called “diseased”, a farewell not just to a body part, but to the dreams she held, and the pain she carried. A letting go, wrapped in grief and in love. To speak those words aloud, in a room of professionals who hold space for stories like mine every day, felt deeply important, a moment of truth shared among those who understand its weight. And the room held me with silence and tear-filled recognition.
After me, Shaun Greenaway’s ‘Knackered Knackers’ brought both honesty and humour to male infertility breaking taboos and building bridges for men navigating their own silent grief.
The day closed with a blessing: new connections, reflections, and those sacred after-talk moments where people leaned in to give their heartfelt thanks for sharing my story.
To the BICA organisers, thank you for the space.
To those who sat with me in my story, thank you for your listening.
And to my womb, who I finally let go of so I could reclaim my life you may have echoed with sorrow, but you also echoed with strength.
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