“There’s an intersection past the initial grief that connects to both redemptive suffering and spiritual warfare. There’s this battlefield where our pain meets our faith, and how we navigate it hopefully leads us to trust that God is the author of all that’s good. Coming to terms with that truth is part of the battle.” I wrote these words in my journal seven years into my journey of infertility. I finally recognized that this journey wasn’t just medical or emotional. It is profoundly spiritual.
The weapons of our warfare
Through this journey, I've learned our strongest weapons aren't what I expected. What's fascinating is how Satan strategically targets these weapons because he knows exactly how to drive a wedge between us and our sources of strength during each battle. When we feel most tempted to abandon these spiritual practices, it's often because they're our greatest weapons against him. The very things that become hardest during the battle are precisely the weapons we need most to defeat him.
Scripture reveals how God uses what appears as spiritual attacks for our formation. St. Paul’s thorn in the flesh, though “a messenger of Satan,” became a vehicle for experiencing God’s sufficient grace. Similarly, on the battlefield of infertility, I’ve discovered how the enemy’s tactics become transformative lessons.
Understanding these weapons and why they're targeted helps us recognize the enemy's tactics and stand firm in our faith. Each time we choose to pray despite feeling unheard, trust despite our circumstances, or stay connected despite our pain, we're not just defending ourselves, but we're advancing in this spiritual battle.
The battlefield of hope and trust
Each month of disappointment becomes more than a physical disappointment; it is transformed into a spiritual battleground where both our hope and trust are tested simultaneously. In these raw moments of vulnerability, Satan's whispers become particularly potent: “God has forgotten you”; “your suffering is meaningless”.
Yet this is where we learn that hope isn't the same as optimism, and trust isn't the same as certainty. Optimism says everything will work out as we desire, but hope – true, battle-tested hope – anchors itself in God's goodness, regardless of circumstances. Certainty means having no doubt, while trust is the firm belief in the reliability, truth, ability and strength of God.
Trust becomes our battlefield because Satan knows it is vital for our relationship with God. When he presents false dichotomies – "Either God is good, or He's allowing this pain" – he's trying to erode our most basic weapons: our hope in God's promises and our trust in His goodness.
When the enemy attacks our hope, he tries to separate us from prayer and Scripture that would anchor us in truth. When the enemy threatens our trust, he tries to separate us from surrender and redemptive suffering, the very things that would unite our pain with Christ's.
The battlefield of identity
The enemy weaponizes comparison, using each baby shower invitation, pregnancy, or adoption announcement as ammunition against our worth. What begins as a painful comparison becomes a spiritual battle for identity. This battlefield has taught me to anchor my worth in Christ rather than circumstances. As St. Augustine wrote, “...for Thou hast formed us for Thyself, and our hearts are restless till they find rest in Thee.”
When the enemy attacks our identity, he attempts to distance us from the sacraments that remind us of who we are in Christ.
The battlefield of community
Satan often uses isolation as a tactical strike, knowing we’re more vulnerable alone. The temptation to withdraw during seasons of disappointment becomes a strategic attack on our faith. Isolation feels safer. Every well-meaning but painful comment and every Mass on certain holidays presents another crossroads: will we withdraw to protect ourselves, or will we choose to stay connected, even when it hurts?
When the enemy wages war on our sense of community, he whispers lies that make us withdraw from Mass and fellowship, knowing we're weakest in isolation.
The battlefield of extended waiting
The prolonged nature of this journey has taught me that sometimes the greatest act of warfare is simply refusing to move. When the Israelites faced the Red Sea with Pharaoh's army behind them, Moses told them, "Stand firm and see the salvation of the Lord. The Lord will fight for you, and you have only to be still " Standing firm in the midst of spiritual warfare – continuing to pray, to hope, to show up in community, to believe in God's goodness – becomes its own kind of victory.
I began to understand this during last year’s Mothers’ Day service when the blessing happened at the start of the service. "Would all mothers please stand for a special blessing?" Around me, women rose to their feet, beaming as they received their blessing. I remained seated, tears streaming down my face. Every fiber of my being wanted to flee the sanctuary. The enemy's whispers were deafening: "Run. You don't belong here." The physical act of remaining in that pew, letting my tears fall freely, became simultaneously one of the hardest things I have ever done and one of the most profound acts of spiritual warfare I've ever experienced. I stayed through the entire service, a visible reminder of my own emptiness, yet somehow also of God's presence in that emptiness. The enemy wanted me to run; God invited me to stay present in my pain before Him. In that moment, my weakness, so visible, so raw, became a weapon. Not because I felt strong (I had never felt weaker) but because I chose to remain in that sacred space, allowing my pain to exist in God's presence rather than fleeing to cry in private. I learned something crucial about spiritual warfare: sometimes victory looks like simply staying put when everything in you screams to escape. Sometimes the most powerful act of faith is letting others witness your woundedness while trusting that God is present in both the blessing and the lack.
Where pain becomes purpose
This intersection of redemptive suffering and spiritual warfare isn’t just a place of struggle: it’s holy ground. When we unite our suffering with Christ’s, our pain becomes more than something to endure; it becomes a powerful weapon in this spiritual battle. Each moment of grief and each disappointed hope can be transformed into something redemptive.
The truth is that coming to terms with God’s goodness is part of the battle itself. Each time we choose to trust despite our circumstances, we’re fighting back. Each time we offer our pain as prayer, we’re advancing. Each time we surrender to His timing, we’re winning ground in this spiritual battle.
Let’s pray together for the grace to recognize these battles for what they are and to stand firm in the truth. In this sacred space where pain meets faith, God is working, not despite our infertility, but through it, crafting a story that extends far beyond our understanding.