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Many, especially those on the political right, are encouraging Americans to have more babies. Proposed policies aim to provoke more robust reproduction, including efforts to make the fertility drugs used in IVF more affordable. But what do we say in our current baby-focused political climate to those for who have tried and failed to do their part to reduce the downward-trending birth rates? How can the conversation around population show compassion for those who have tried to have children, sought treatment, and yet remain decidedly un-pregnant?

Enter a little help from popular culture: “Bridgerton,” the Netflix Regency-era romance from Shonda Rhimes, which features an infertility story line in its fourth and latest season. (It’s clear that I need to acknowledge that there are fans of the original Julian Quinn books upset with the change in this story line, from miscarriage to infertility, in the series. I see you. But I have not read the books, so my example will be drawn only from the Netflix series.)

In any case, I do appreciate and always have appreciated an accurate depiction of infertility from the entertainment industry, and especially the rare one that doesn’t ultimately end in pregnancy, so I was glad to see it. Of course, we don’t know yet how Francesca’s story will end, but (spoiler!) with her husband dead, and an unsuccessful bid at motherhood while he was still living, Francesca may find herself redefining the infertile girl’s happy ending.

After her husband’s death and conclusion that she is not actually pregnant as she believed, her sorrow is at least doubled (though how can anyone measure such a thing?). Francesca feels she has let people down and left a duty unfulfilled. She feels guilty and alone. It is tempting to think the way she feels way about her infertility is simply a product of her era. But I can tell you as a woman who realized, treated (unsuccessfully), and grieved her own infertility throughout the first 25 years of the 21st century that those feelings can befall even a modern woman. She, too, will find herself asking, “What is wrong with me?”

It is a challenge to know how to support an infertile woman. There are so many ways to put your foot in your mouth. I am thinking of the scene after the terrible physical exam Francesca is forced to endure to confirm that she is pregnant with her deceased husband’s heir. Her mother, also made a widow at a younger age, attempts to empathize with her daughter. Francesca becomes angry and perhaps resentful at her mother’s suggestion that they are the same when Lady Bridgerton has eight children and she has none.

That said, providing comfort is a thing worth trying, especially as time goes on. It is an easier thing to cheer a woman on through treatments, especially at first when it’s all new and hope-filled and ripe with the promise of a baby after her arms have been empty. They say a change is as good as a rest. And the change from navigating infertility on your own to being under the care of a doctor can’t be underestimated. With a new regimen there is also new hope, and hope is fuel we burn in our efforts to keep trying again.

The real challenge comes when the months, medications, and money start adding up and there is still no baby. Just as with that first year of “trying” when you know every month that passes means you’re one month closer to needing to see a doctor for help, with every cycle of treatment, you know that statistically you are less and less likely to find success. And while there are advances in fertility medicine all the time, there are only so many courses of treatment that may work for you. And with each unsuccessful month, you are now even older than when you began, and the undeniable reality of age and fertility only compounds the all-encompassing fears that all of this effort was for naught and it’s never going to happen.

Even with the many advances, doctors can still only do so much. Modern medicine often tries to ease or eradicate physical and psychological suffering, but what about the existential? I don’t think there’s a drug out there that can take away the pain of the unfulfilled desire to become a mother.

So, how should we talk about infertility right now? How do we speak about population decline and infertility with compassion? I’m not sure there’s any right way to do it, but we should try. Rally round, stay close, and listen. Agree that it is sad. Know that you can’t fix things for them. And speak with truth and love.

Remember, too, that the scars of infertility remain long after the possibility of a pregnancy disappears. While I am no longer, oh I don’t know, actively infertile, I still appreciate when babies, pregnancy, and fertility are discussed with charity and compassion. Like Francesca and her mother, it may well be that “we are not the same.”

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Leigh Fitzpatrick Snead is a fellow with the Catholic Association and author of “Infertile but Fruitful: Finding Fulfillment When You Can’t Conceive” out now from Sophia Institute Press.

The views expressed in this piece are those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of The Daily Wire.

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‘Bridgerton’ Just Told A Story Many Women Know Too Well