Life Without Baby

filling the silence in the motherhood discussion

Our Stories: Melek

As told to Kathleen Guthrie Woods

“It’s really hard to admit that one is suffering from not having children,” Melek* writes. “It’s like admitting being lonely. There is an amount of shame in this.” She further ponders how things might have been easier in ancient Greece, when you could blame the gods when things didn’t go your way. But in today’s world, “we are supposed to be in charge of our own happiness and fate,” despite limitations, flaws, circumstances beyond our control, and realities defined by our biology.

When she was 40, Melek confronted some of those realities and explored options for becoming a single parent, but the discouragement she encountered sent her into a downward spiral. Now, at 50 and single, she’s wrestling with facing what appears to be a lonely future—although I will say I’m encouraged by her fun answer to “What are you looking forward to now?”

Can you relate to her story? If so, I hope you’ll reach out to her in the Comments.

LWB: Describe your dream of motherhood.

Melek: My dream of motherhood is very much inspired by my own childhood from age 12 years and on, with me, my brother, and our mother living on our own, a small group of survivors in a new country. The strong bond to my mother and the feeling of belonging and being safe is something I would have liked to pass on, and relive, with my own daughter. This is something you can’t share with friends or a partner, or compensate for with activities, however meaningful they may be. I know, because I have been a creative person, expressing myself through both art and writing, my whole life.

LWB: Are you childfree by choice, chance, or circumstance?

Melek: Between the ages 20 to 30, I was struggling with eating disorders and had no energy and motivation for relationships. After 30, I started to desperately look for a partner, but ended up with men who neither wanted children nor loved me enough. I tried to imagine being a single parent, but I didn’t have the courage or the determination. In the end, I didn’t meet a good enough partner and waited too long to make the decision to become a single parent.

LWB: Where are you on your journey now?

Melek: I’m at the point when you really realize what it means, and what it will mean, to not have any children; a stage filled with fear, sadness, and overwhelming regrets.

The older we get, it also gets harder to find friends. There is only one possible “fan club” for older, non-celebrity women, and that is her own family of children and grandchildren. Most of us living in the modern world await loneliness and isolation.

LWB: What was the turning point for you?

Melek: I was 40 and I held a newborn baby for the first time in my life, my niece. I was alone with her in my arms for some minutes, the small body feeling surprisingly heavy, walking back and forth with her in a small room, and suddenly finding myself singing something with no words. I felt a calmness I never had experienced before. Everything disappeared, nothing mattered, it was just us, as if we were one. I left the flat, the baby, and the happy parents, and went straight home, in shock, with only one thing in my head: that I must have a baby of my own. I googled fertility clinics and found one. This was actually my second turning point, when I read the statistics. The success rates for women over 40 becoming pregnant was 1% to 2 %. I went into a depression, turned my back on my family, and spent four years in isolation by my own choice. The next time I saw that baby, she was almost five years old and I was a stranger to her. She never warmed to me and I never warmed to her. Every time I see her I’m reminded of my pain and loss. I’m the stiff aunt that no child would love, instead of the warm woman that I know lives inside me, waiting for something that will bring her to life.

LWB: What’s the hardest part for you about not having children?

Melek: Oh, there is so much that is hard. The feelings mostly, feelings that are buried deep down, but that I know are there. And the realization of the inevitable fate of the lonely woman with no children: dying alone, missed and loved by no one.

LWB: What’s the best advice you’d offer to someone like you?

Melek: I would say have your baby in your twenties. Don’t be afraid of losing your freedom or your identity and all the exciting opportunities you think await you.

And don’t worry that you are not ”ready” for motherhood. Most children survive their childhoods, even if it wasn’t perfect. The image of motherhood as something sacred, demanding total extinction of the female self, is a patriarchal construction. You don’t have to give up yourself or your other dreams. And you can do everything you want in your forties, except (mostly) have a child. This is the one thing, together with certain illnesses, that unfortunately is biologically determined. Be the mother you like to be, but take the step in your twenties.

LWB: How has LWB helped you on your journey?

Melek: Through giving me the opportunity to express myself and put in words things that I normally keep deep inside.

LWB: What do you look forward to now?

Melek: To the tent I’ve just ordered. It’s my first tent and it feels very exciting. I had no idea tents were a whole science. I’m not a gear person, but I could easily become one if I could afford it.

 

*We allow each contributor to choose another name, if she wishes, to protect her privacy.

Won’t you share your story with us? The act of answering the questions itself can be very healing, plus we’d like to support you by telling you “You are not alone.” Please visit the Our Stories page to get more information and the questionnaire.

Did you know Kathleen Guthrie Woods is getting ready to tell her own story? The Mother of All Dilemmas follows her journey of pursuing being a single mother then embracing a life without children, and explores the reasons our society still presumes to calculate a woman’s worth based on whether or not she’s a mother. Keep an eye on LifeWithoutBaby.com for announcements about the book’s release.

 

It Got Me Thinking…About Social Media Holidays

By Kathleen Guthrie Woods

I should know better. After all these years of seeking advice and giving advice, I should be better able to maneuver through triggering holidays with some grace.

I started Easter Sunday out strong. Instead of subjecting myself to a family-focused church service, I observed the holy day by talking a long walk in a glorious park, what my grandmother called “God’s church.” I avoided brunches in places where I was likely to be surrounded by more happy family gatherings. My husband, dog, and I enjoyed a quiet and reflective day.

Until I turned on Facebook. Egg hunts, colorful baskets overflowing with sweet treats, the Easter Bunny at the mall, proud grandparents, church pews filled with generations of family members, little darlings all dressed up in spring finery. I was crushed as I scrolled through the images of things I’ll never enjoy.

The mother of all holidays is upon us in the United States this week. If you haven’t already, I encourage you to take a break from social media in the days leading up to it and the days following. Please, don’t test yourself, don’t torture yourself.

If it’s an especially tough day for you this year, check in here at LWB and reach out to others on one of the Forums under Community (you’ll need to sign in). Read older blog posts for inspiration and encouragement. Most of all, be gentle with yourself.

 

Kathleen Guthrie Woods is a Northern California–based freelance writer. She is mostly at peace with her childfree status.

The Mother’s Day Card I Wish Existed

By Lisa Manterfield
With Mother’s Day looming here in the U.S., the shops are full of cards. I wish the racks also contained cards for those of us who don’t relish the celebrations. Just a word or two from someone who understands how it feels to be childless on Mother’s Day could help to make the day more bearable.

You may have seen this article about a cancer survivor who designed her own line of honest greetings cards, the kind she wishes she’d received while she was going through treatment.

It struck me how many of these sentiments apply to us and what a difference it would make to receive this kind of message during a rough patch, to have the grief and loss acknowledged, and to be offered just a word of support.

The idea sent me on a quest to see if such cards exist, and what sentiments they convey. I was encouraged to find some thoughtful miscarriage and baby loss cards, with texts such as:

“My heart aches for you, and I am here to call on when you feel alone.”

“Please know that prayers and thoughts of love and care are being sent your way.”

“Please know that you’re surrounded by heartfelt sympathy for your loss as you gently lay your dreams to rest.”

You can see these cards here.

But, when I went looking for infertility cards, I found something entirely different. Most of the cards were cheery and encouraging, along the lines of “Don’t give up!” “It will happen when it happens, so get some sleep while you can,” and the ever-encouraging “God has a plan for you, so be patient.” (I’m paraphrasing in all these cases, but not much.) In fact, almost all the cards had texts that would make the list of the very last you want to hear.

So, I’m wondering, would appreciate an appropriate card from an understanding loved one this Mother’s Day? If so, what would you want it to say? (Greetings card companies, take note!)

It Got Me Thinking…About “Thank You” Notes

By Kathleen Guthrie Woods

I’ve been thinking a lot about thank you notes recently, perhaps because I received the following from a young niece:

Dear Aunt Kath and Uncle B,

Thank you so, so, so much for the giftcard. I can’t wait to by [sic] something! Love you guys!

P.S. I can’t wait to get you something! Maybe!

That last line cracked me up, but what tugged at my heart was seeing her sweet lettering, in bright pink ink, on which she clearly took her time. I will be keeping this note in my box of treasures.

I am a big believer in the power of saying thank you. When I get excellent service at a restaurant or shop, I ask to speak to the manager to make certain she or he knows they have a great employee. When someone sends a new client my way, I follow up with a note and a Starbucks gift card to say how much I appreciate the referral. When someone takes the time to select a special gift for me, they get a handwritten note, sent through the mail, with a wax seal or sticker adorning the envelope.

I refuse to accept this is a dying art. Certainly most of the messages I receive come through an email or text (“Thx! :-)”), which are fine, but quickly disposable. I am always struck by the intimate connection I experience when I receive something in a dear person’s distinctive scrawl.

And this got me thinking about other people I might thank in more personal and direct ways. The nurse who comforted me as I faced a difficult diagnosis. The mommy friend who includes me in her kids’ activities because she doesn’t want me to miss out. The faraway friend who let me cry over the phone, without offering unhelpful advice, as I told her about a very painful baby shower.

This week I am going to send one note out to someone on my list, and I encourage—okay, I challenge you—to do the same. Think about the people who have helped you on this journey toward healing—perhaps by listening, being supportive, or being your ally when you most needed one—and send a note. It could be as simple as, “Thank you for being my friend through this difficult time.” I have a feeling she or he will be very touched by this small act of appreciation.

 

Kathleen is telling the story about her journey in The Mother of All Dilemmas. As she shares her quest to become a single mother (and ultimately embraces a life without children), she explores why society still appears to base a woman’s worth on how many children she has. Watch for updates on the book’s release here at LifeWithoutBaby.com.

 

 

Our Stories: Nora

As told to Kathleen Guthrie Woods

Nora endured devastating abuse from her parents and from a former husband. With such dysfunction in her world, becoming a mother wasn’t something she dreamed about. Then she discovered she was pregnant. “I wanted to keep the baby very much,” she says, “but the situation was too dire.” So she made the heartbreaking decision to end the pregnancy.

With the help of therapy and work in creative fields, she has survived her youth and has healed herself “to the point of being able to live in a loving relationship” with a wonderful fiancé. “I can finally do something productive with my life,” she writes, yet at the same time, feelings of doubt and failure pop up as she wrestles with the results of her choices (oh, how I hate that word).

I hope you’ll offer her words of compassion and encouragement in the Comments, especially if you can relate to her story and have escaped an abusive situation yourself.

LWB: Describe your dream of motherhood.

Nora: I honestly never pictured myself as a mother. The whole idea felt too foreign to me, as I came from a religious family that was profoundly dysfunctional and had no internalized positive image of motherhood. I came to terms with the reality of being an orphan after I disowned my abusive parents and cut contact with my younger siblings who were my only other relatives. I started therapy as early as I could, driven also by the fear that if I didn’t arrive at a point of healing soon enough, I might be too old to create a loving family of my own when that day finally arrived. I have found this to be common among victims of child abuse.

LWB: Are you childfree by choice, chance, or circumstance?

Nora: Circumstance. I believe if I had had a semi-functional family background, I would have made better relationship choices in my 20s and I´d feel encouraged to plan for a family with my fiancé now.

I had an abortion at 27 when I unfortunately became the victim of a serial fraudster, a foreigner who married me and then took all my money. This man took advantage of my profound longing for family and for love. I wanted to keep the baby very much, but the situation was too dire. He was threatening me, and I was in danger of developing serious STDs, which could have affected the child, too. It all happened so fast.

LWB: Where are you on your journey now?

Nora: Sometimes I think about that abortion, that somehow I “could have made it”, living in a shelter house, alone in a foreign country. But then I come back to my senses and realize it was the best decision. I would never want to bring a child into the mess I grew up in. The possibility of having a family is fading in front of my eyes when I realize that nothing is going to happen unless I put substantial effort into creating a suitable environment for a child—and I feel too hollow and tired to pursue it. I never really expected to become a mother, so it doesn’t surprise me. It just feels of empty and out of reach for me.

LWB: What was the turning point for you?

Nora: When I moved in with my fiancé, into his one bedroom apartment, it finally dawned to me that it’s never going to happen. He is a bachelor, 10 years older, and looking forward to his military pension. But I think we both find the fantasy somewhat comforting, that we “still can change our minds.”

LWB: What’s the hardest part for you about not having children?

Nora: Feeling like a failure, like I am not “good enough”, normal, natural, whatever. But I guess it’s cruel to measure oneself against other people’s standards. None of them has walked in my boots.

LWB: What’s the best advice you’ve received?

Nora: Somebody related the question of motherhood to a form of immortality, and said it is viable through creating children or something else of lasting value, like art.

LWB: What’s your Plan B?

Nora: I want to become a writer and documentarist. I find art and writing very fulfilling, but also it asks for your full being to be present. Sometimes I feel I have already given up some of that creativity by entering a close relationship, but I don’t regret that. I love my fiancé, and I can picture living a happy life together.

 

What is your Plan B? Or are your wounds so raw that you can’t even imagine a happy future? We can all benefit from hearing about your experiences, plus we’d like to support you. Please visit the Our Stories page to get more information and the questionnaire, and consider sharing your story with women who truly understand what you’re going through.

Did you know Kathleen Guthrie Woods is getting ready to tell her own story? The Mother of All Dilemmas follows her journey of pursuing being a single mother then embracing a life without children, and explores the reasons our society still presumes to calculate a woman’s worth based on whether or not she’s a mother. Keep an eye on LifeWithoutBaby.com for announcements about the book’s release.

Whiny Wednesday: Being Excluded from Conversations


Have you ever been in a conversation with a group of women, only to watch the talk turn to motherhood and feel yourself fading into the background?

That’s the topic of this week’s Whiny Wednesday:

Being excluded from conversations because you don’t have children

Happy Whining!

 

Our Stories: Janey

As told to Kathleen Guthrie Woods

“I think I have not yet healed as much as I would like,” Janey wrote to me in her cover letter. She first filled out our questionnaire for this column in early 2015, just a year after she ended her 17-year-long IVF journey—one that included six unsuccessful IVF cycles, a miracle natural pregnancy and heartbreaking miscarriage, and an ectopic pregnancy with a donor egg that required emergency surgery. I wept as I read “A lifetime of longing and waiting was literally ripped from us in under an hour.”

 This past November she turned 48, the cut-off age for possible treatment with donor eggs and the final “no” to any possible miracles. With her wounds still so very raw, she decided to send in her story. “I would so love not to feel a tightening in my throat when others make announcements or speak of their pregnancy/toddlers,” she wrote. “I hope sharing my story helps others and me in finally letting it all go.”

 That’s my hope, as well.

 LWB: Describe your dream of motherhood.

Janey: I’ve wanted my own baby as long as I can remember. I recall being envious of my older cousin when she was pregnant with her first; I was about eight. I asked my mum constantly to have a younger brother or sister. I dreamed of watching a child grow, nurturing, going to the park, cooking for him/her, and just wanting them to grow up balanced, loved, and feeling important and happy.

LWB: Where are you on your journey now? (for example: still in denial, angry, hoping for a miracle, depressed, crawling toward acceptance, embracing Plan B)

Janey: Crawling toward acceptance. I still feel all the other emotions on a daily basis and cannot quite believe a lifetime of yearning and waiting has ended this way.

LWB: What was the turning point for you?

Janey: After 17 years, being told I needed an operation to check out my remaining tube. I felt sick at the prospect of more treatment that would still only offer a slim chance of success. I think I lost my faith that day, and I could no longer hide behind “any statistic however low was better than no chance”. That pain was rock bottom for me and my husband, for we cannot knowingly go further into that desperately sad place that we have been so many times before. Then, when I told my husband the clinic had called to offer us another donor, I saw hope dance across his face momentarily, instantly followed by a darkness that drained him of all his colour. I saw a physical shadow cast across his features, one of anger, sadness, and terror. This is what I recall whenever I feel weak.

LWB: What’s the hardest part for you about not having children?

Janey: Not having the day-to-day joy/struggle that is part of everyone’s life. No first words, school days, birthday parties. The pride as they grow in life and leave school, get work, meet partners. I can recall the pride I see in my mum when she talks of me or my brother. I broke down recently when she was at the hospital with her hip replacement and was asked, “Who do we call if you have a problem?” Answer, “My daughter, Jane.” I will never have that, not ever.

LWB: What’s one thing you want other people to know about your being childfree?

Janey: That it was not a choice, I am not free. I deal daily with the disease of infertility and the sadness of not ever being able to hold and nurture my own child. I constantly put my feelings aside and congratulate others, and I would love for the fertile world to acknowledge the devastation of infertility and the lasting impact.

LWB: How do you answer “Do you have kids?”

Janey: “No. Life has not gone to plan on that front, and I’m unbelievably sad about it.” By the time I got to being able to respond this way, I realized I was too old for people to ask; they generally assume I have them and they have left home by now. It feels easier to leave it that way. I think I said it once to someone, and they were momentarily understanding. It felt liberating at the time and a step forward towards acceptance.

LWB: How has LWB helped you on your journey?

Janey: Finally seeing that my feelings over all these years are normal. I have experienced so much jealousy and anger at the world, and it was wonderful to have that validated and not to keep forcing myself to face people or situations that leave me drained. LWB has allowed me to feel quite a lot of pride in myself for getting out of bed and going to work and finding the good in myself. This is not all there is to me. I am whole and I am enough.

 

Where are you on your journey? Are your wounds raw? Have you made some progress toward accepting a life without children? We can all benefit from hearing about your experiences, plus we’d like to support you. Please visit the Our Stories page to get more information and the questionnaire, and consider sharing your story with women who truly understand what you’re going through.

Did you know Kathleen Guthrie Woods is getting ready to tell her own story? The Mother of All Dilemmas follows her journey of pursuing being a single mother then embracing a life without children, and explores the reasons our society still presumes to calculate a woman’s worth based on whether or not she’s a mother. Keep an eye on LifeWithoutBaby.com for announcements about the book’s release.

What Mothers Say About Childless Daughters

By Lisa Manterfield

Yesterday was Mother’s Day in the U.K.. I know it will have been a very difficult day for many of you. For me, the small upside to living on the opposite side of the world from my mother is that I can cheerfully celebrate her without needing to protect myself from the celebrations swirling around me. Come May 14, Mother’s Day in the U.S., I can keep a low profile without feeling like I’m neglecting her. I’m grateful for that.

During a visit to the U.K. a couple of years ago, I was my Mum’s date at a senior social night she wanted to attend. Aside from the organizer’s son and grandchildren, I was the only person under 70. It was great.

At the event I ran into the mother of an old school friend I haven’t seen or heard from in 20-plus years. When I asked after him, she regaled me with a running inventory of all his successes—his well-paying job, his lovely wife and her lovely job, their lovely house, and, of course, their two amazing children.

“And do you have children?” she asked.

“No,” I told her. “I don’t.”

And I swear to God that was the end of our conversation. No questions about my husband, my work, where I lived, or what I’d done with the last 20 years. Nothing.

I can imagine the conversation she’ll have when she next sees her son.

“I ran into Lisa the other week. She doesn’t have any children. Poor thing.”

My overriding feeling is this: She is a very nice lady, but I’m glad she’s not my mother.

My mother was sad for me that I couldn’t have children, but she’s never made me feel like a failure as a daughter because of it.

I’m honestly not sure what my mother says when people ask her if I have any children. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t drop her eyes from the shame of having to tell people her only daughter is barren. I hope she sees me for all the things I am, including the fact that I’m not too self-important to go with her to a senior social night and sing songs with the old folks.

I hope I give my mother plenty to be proud of, even if I didn’t give her grandchildren.

Whiny Wednesday: Families Rule


A while ago Kath sent me this article about Dolly Parton and her views on childlessness and other people’s children. She talks about how she’s made room in her life for her nieces and nephews, how their children came to call her “Aunty Granny”, and how she’s now “Gee-Gee” (for great-granny.)

“I often think, it just wasn’t meant for me to have kids,” she says, “so everybody’s kids can be mine.”

I love her for that attitude.

So, why did this lovely article warrant a Whiny Wednesday spot?

Because in the sidebar of People magazine, in a section titled, “You May Like…” where I’d expect to find articles about other cheroes (heroes who happen to be child-free) like Miss Dolly, instead I’m offered stories about the ever-expanding Duggar clan and even more “things you didn’t know” about celebrities and their offspring.*

Even when we do get to hear about someone without children, there’s no escaping the fact that, ultimately, families rule.

It’s Whiny Wednesday. What’s under your skin this week?

*Note: when I checked this week, there were new non-kid articles, so it may be safe to go and read the Dolly piece.

 

How We Heal Our Emotional Scars

Woman walking alone on beach

By Lisa Manterfield

I have a large scar on my left knee. It has black lines of grit in it, and smooth patches of scar tissue that catch the light on an otherwise rough patch of skin.

My scar is 30 years old and I don’t think about it very often anymore. It doesn’t hurt, even when I poke it, and the wound that caused it healed long ago.

But if I think back to the day I got my scar, all the memories and the pain come flooding back. I remember the bike accident. I remember riding through the trees on a gorgeous sunny day, laughing with my friends and flirting with a boy I liked. I remember trying to get his attention and catching my front wheel on his back tire. I don’t recall sailing through the air, but I must have done, because I do remember skidding along the trail, trading bits of knee for bits of trail.

I remember sitting in the bath at home and crying as my mum tried to clean the wound. And I remember my older brother—a bit of an expert on injuries and scars—gently coaxing me to scrub out the grit or be left with a terrible scar.

I also have a vague recollection of a discussion among adults (not my parents) about plastic surgery and what a shame it would be if a “pretty girl” was disfigured by an ugly scar.

It all happened so long ago, but dredging up these memories can bring back all that pain, my embarrassment, the tenderness of my brother, the feeling that my scar would make me “less than” I could have been. I can feel all of it again as if it had happened in more recent memory.

I feel this way about my infertility and childlessness, too. Most days, I don’t think about it anymore. But lately I’ve been writing about grief and loss, and some of those awful feelings of sadness, anger, and deep, deep loss have been coming back to me.

It’s taught me that the healing process for emotional scars is much the same as for physical scars.

You have to suffer some terrible pain to clean the wound. You have to struggle through the initial all-consuming grief. You have to ask for support from people who might not know how to give it. You have to walk again, even if every step is agony. You’ll meet people who will see you as damaged and less than you could have been, because you no longer fit into their ideal of perfect.

But over time the healing begins. You’ll knock your healing wound a few times and break it open again. In one particularly unfortunate incident, you’ll fall on the same wound and end up with a double scar. But you’ll remember how much you loved riding a bike and you’ll take it up again. And you’ll meet new people, who don’t care whether you have one ugly knee, because they’re more interested in some other facet of who you are. And you’ll realize that being a “pretty girl” wasn’t what you were destined to be anyway, and you’re happy being an outdoorsy girl who’s accumulated a multitude of scars since then.

And when you’re shaving your legs (which is trickier because of the scar) you might sometimes recall how you got the scar and the pain you went through. But most days, you won’t even think about.

Having a big scar on my knee means I never got the opportunity to be a leg model, but I got to be so many other things instead, things that have made my life journey quite interesting. My infertility scar is much newer than my knee scar, but I can already see it healing in a way I couldn’t have imagined when it was new and raw. I am starting to wonder about what new destiny it’s leading me to.

For more about hiding and revealing our scars, check out this guest post from Quasi-Momma.