Life Without Baby

filling the silence in the motherhood discussion

Our Stories: Rosie

As told to Kathleen Guthrie Woods

Our StoriesRosie suffered a miscarriage early in her current relationship, which prompted her partner to reveal he didn’t want any more children other than the daughter he already has. However, he also said he “might” be willing to have a child with her, if that’s what she really wanted. For Rosie, it’s a difficult moral and ethical dilemma, and she would “hate to have to choose between him and motherhood.”

Meanwhile, at 32, she’s noticing “time ticking on,” and it’s becoming more and more painful to her to acknowledge she may never have children on her own.

Should she stay with the partner she loves, or choose a chance at motherhood over him? Here’s her story, one that reveals a different reason why some people end up childfree.

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

Rosie: I’m childfree by circumstance. After I was devastated by the end of my first long-term relationship, some lousy dates, and a couple of disastrous, short-term relationships, I finally met my current partner. He’s older than I am and has a child from a previous relationship. A contraceptive failure meant that I accidentally fell pregnant within the first year of our relationship. It was a rollercoaster of emotions, but my boyfriend was supportive. Then I miscarried at 11 weeks. It was really tough, emotionally and physically. My partner and I had some heart-to-heart discussions, and it came to light that he would prefer not to have any more children. I’m just not sure I could push for us to have kids when it’s not something he really wants. It could lead to resentment or a breakdown in the relationship—and I love my partner.

LWB: Where are you on your journey now?

Rosie: I honestly don’t know. Most of the time I feel like I’m perfectly content with my partner and the life we have. My relationship with my young stepdaughter is great, and I value the bond we have. But I’m not her mother, and I’m reminded of this at various junctures during the time we spend together. For example, when she falls and grazes her knee, it’s her daddy she seeks for comfort. Sometimes, when I have a meeting at work with someone who’s heavily pregnant, or I hear a colleague talk about her child starting school, I feel sad about the child we lost and I feel like I can’t cope with being childless for another second. I’m still considering what to do and how to move forward. Should I stay in a relationship with the man I love, who may or may not want children (and risk never being a parent), or should I move on…but to what?

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

Rosie: The feeling that there is so much love in my heart ready for a child, but that this may never be realized. The sense that there’s a whole other world of love, joy, and wonder that I cannot be a part of. That my life hasn’t fully “started” properly yet, because I don’t have children. Dealing with insensitive (and sometimes ridiculous) comments from friends, family members, and colleagues about my childless status (such as “It’ll be your turn next!” “If you want a baby, just stop using birth control and don’t tell your partner.”).

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

Rosie: That there are numerous reasons why some people don’t have children, that it’s not just a case of “didn’t want/couldn’t have.” The reasons why people are childfree are unique to each individual and should be treated with compassion and sensitivity. Sometimes I might wish to finish work early, or not always be the one to work the holiday shifts, even though I don’t have children. I may not understand what it is to be a mother, but I do understand what it is to experience love, pain, tiredness, illness. I know what it is to be a part of a family, struggle with work/life balance, and make ends meet. I may not have children, but I still would like to be regarded as a human being of worth and be valued equally as those with children.

LWB: How has LWB helped you on your journey?

Rosie: Before I found LWB, I felt so alone with my feelings. These aren’t the sort of thoughts and feelings I can share with friends, colleagues, or family (most of whom have children), as they just don’t really seem to “get” where I’m coming from. Finding LWB has been a really enlightening and positive experience.

Rosie mentioned in her cover letter what a healing experience it was to write and share her story. I hope you’ll share your story with us. Go to the Our Stories page to get more information and the questionnaire.

If you’re not quite ready for this step, I encourage you to check out the Community Forums and other Our Stories, where you will find support from LWB readers who have traveled paths similar to yours.

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

 

It Got Me Thinking…About Why I Can’t Grieve

By Kathleen Guthrie Woods

It’s impossible to put on mascara when you can’t stop crying.

I learned this little truism the day after we put our sweet 14-year-old dog to sleep. I’d spent the day intermittently sobbing and whimpering—set off by her empty bowl, her favorite spot in my office, now vacant, and tiny reminders of my everyday companion. I had pushed off most work-related tasks, but still had to pull myself together for an evening event I needed to attend. With a lot of deep breathing, as well as promises to myself that I could continue crying my eyes out later, I managed to make myself presentable.

I’m not new to devastating losses. Almost daily, I still think of the best friend who died tragically when she was just 20, my beloved grandmother and “hot date” for movies who passed in 1993, and my father-in-law who left us before he could be an honored guest at our wedding. But the outpouring of emotions I experienced after losing Scout was a new breed of grief. Guilt, gratitude, longing, regret, relief, loneliness, heartache. At times it consumed me, as, I think, it should. And that got me thinking….

As a woman who is childfree by circumstances, I have never fully grieved the loss of my dream of motherhood. For 25 years or so, I’ve been in this crazy dance between longing and hoping, praying and wishing, denial, regret, jealousy, despair, having faith and losing faith. I used to beg God for a neon sign—seriously—a message so clear that said either “You will have children, so stick it out!” or “You aren’t going to have children. Get on with your life!” And the years went by. And the years went by. And here I am. I am childfree by circumstance (don’t you dare accuse me of making a “choice”), and I describe myself as “mostly at peace” with my status. But there are days when I still think “What if….”

I won’t trivialize the pain of our sisters who are childfree by infertility. I’ve held too many friends and sobbed with them over miscarriages, failed IVF treatments, and the loss of their dreams, and I know too well that their paths are filled with heartbreak. But because LWB is a place where we can safely share our deepest hurts, please allow me to say that there are times when I’ve envied their ability to grieve. My friends had defining moments when they could let it all out, when they could ask for support, when support was offered even when it was not asked for. Think of my journey like the quiet drip-drip of a faucet; it’s imperceptible, so no one calls in the plumber, but over time it causes the same amount of catastrophic damage as a flood. I have never had a moment of finality, never experienced that intense period of grief, and on some very deep and possibly damaged level, I wish I could.

Selfish? Perhaps. But hear me out. I know that grieving is necessary. The sobbing period winds down, you put your experiences into perspective, and then you move on. For I so would like to be able to move on. I want to embrace this path I’ve been given and find new purpose in my life. I’d like to feel that the wanderings of my childbearing years were not just wasted time. And I fear that, if I skip past the crucial grieving phase, I’ll never get to the phase of accepting and, ultimately, to that day when I can feel content with my circumstances.

Do You Ever Get Over Being Childless-Not-By-Choice?

By Lisa Manterfield

bigstockphoto_Sand_Through_Hands_2823I’ve run this post several times over the years, but it remains one of the hottest topics and the question I’m most often often asked. If you’ve been a reader for while, think of this as a chance to look back and see how far you’ve come.

The question is: is it possible to ever get over being unable to have children?

I can’t see far enough ahead to know for sure if infertility and being childless is something I will ever “get over,” but based on another life-changing experience, here’s what I think:

When I was 15, my dad passed away suddenly and everything changed for me. I remember feeling immediately alienated from the other kids in school because I was no longer like them. I felt as if everyone was staring at me to see how I behaved, to see what someone with a dead dad looked like. People didn’t know what to say me, so many just said nothing. Several adults said variations of “This will make you grow up quickly” so I took them at their word and forged a new grown-up path.

For many years, my dad’s death defined me and I saw everything in my life through that filter. I felt angry and rebelled against people who had living parents, especially if they didn’t appreciate them. Unexpected things would trigger my grief and those old emotions would come at me from nowhere.

Over time, this eased. I went about my life and slowly, the fact that I didn’t have a dad no longer factored in. The trigger situations became less frequent and I thought about his death less and less.

It’s now been 30 years since he passed away. His death no longer directly colors my life. It is something I experienced a long time ago and found my way through. I think about him sometimes, but mostly with fondness and only occasionally do I think about the traumatic time around his death.

I have never forgotten my dad, nor will I ever forget him. His memory and my loss are woven into the fabric of my being, but don’t identify me as someone who has lost. I can say that I am “over” the loss of my dad, but I will never forget that he’s no longer here.

So, now if I go back over this story and replace the loss of my father with the loss of the children I never had, I imagine the story will unfold in much the same way. I’m already on the road to healing. Situations that cause my grief to flare up are very rare these days and the traumatic period of my life is blending into my library of memories. I am well on the way to being “over” infertility and the loss I experienced because of it, but it will always be a part of who I am and I don’t expect I will ever forget.

Memorials and Milestones

By Lisa Manterfield

It’s Memorial Day here in the U.S., another excuse to barbecue, but traditionally a time to remember members of the armed forces who gave their lives.

Last year, Mr. Fab asked that we go to the cemeteries where his relatives are buried. One of those cemeteries is also the place I had my big epiphany when I realized I was never going to have children. I hadn’t been back there since that day, now several years ago, and I knew it would be a loaded place for me, but it was time.

I went and I remembered. I gave myself permission to feel whatever I felt. I felt quiet and I felt sad. I took some time to just sit and look at the spot where I finally acknowledged I would never be a mother. I didn’t cry and I didn’t feel as if going there pushed me back into my sadness. I realized I was doing okay.

It’s important to remember where we’ve been, to acknowledge what’s been lost. It makes us who we are today, for better and for worse.Going back there marked another milestone on my road to recovery and each one gets a little easier

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On the topic of milestones, this site passed its own milestone recently. We now have over 2,500 members in the private community. If you’re not yet a member, I encourage you to join. That part of the site is password-protected, so you can chat freely and safely on the forums. There are always great conversations happening and it’s a good place to find support when you need it.  It doesn’t cost anything to become a member and you can sign up here.

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You may have noticed a new Books page in the navigation bar. On this page you’ll now find all the Life Without Baby books, as well as all the books recommended by other readers.

If you happen to have read my books, and if you found them helpful, I’d be most grateful if you would take a minute to leave a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or wherever you happened to pick up a copy. It really helps me in a couple of ways: 1) It makes me feel good, 2) It helps other people to find the books when they search this topic, and 3) It enables me to keep this site funded (because there is some cost involved in keeping it free of baby product ads, spam, and internet trolls) and it moves Mr. Fab one tiny step closer to retirement, for which he will be most grateful. 🙂

Claiming Your Right to Grieve

Self-compassionDealing with grief is a topic I find myself talking about again and again. It’s one of the most overlooked and misunderstood aspects of coming to terms with a life without children. It’s such a critical part of healing that I devoted four entire chapters to it in my new book.
Today, I’m paying a virtual visit to Mali at No Kidding in NZ to talk about this topic of giving ourselves permission to grieve in our own way. Mali has been a long time supporter of Life Without Baby and you’ve no doubt already met her in the comments section.

During our e-mail exchanges, we talked about the grieving process and how our experiences have made us more compassionate to other people who have suffered losses. I suppose it’s one of the silver linings to this story.

You can find my post on Mali’s blog today (which is really tomorrow in New Zealand). Please drop in and say hi to her. I know she’d love to hear from you on her turf, so to speak.

 

Knowing When It’s Time to Let Go of the Dream of Motherhood

Lesley PyneToday I’m continuing my blog tour with a visit to Lesley Pyne in the UK. Lesley has been a wonderful supporter of Life Without Baby and has created a really valuable source of support on her own site.

I wrote a post for her about knowing when it’s time to let go of the dream of motherhood, perhaps one of the most difficult decisions any of us have ever had to make.

Lesley has a free ebook on her site about taking the first steps after this decision, so please drop in on her, read what I have to say on the topic, and grab yourself a copy of Lesley’s ebook.

 

 

Our Stories: Holly

As told to Kathleen Guthrie Woods

Our Stories“I need to start doing something with my life,” Holly, age 36, wrote, “otherwise it’s all just a waste of time.”

Holly is in that horrible ugly weird limbo in which she’s grieving her loss of the dream of motherhood, kinda still “hoping for a miracle a little bit”, while also trying to work through her anger and figure out a Plan B. Sound familiar? I thought so.

Read on to see how she’s doing, and consider sharing some of your journey with her in the Comments.

LWB: Please briefly describe your dream of motherhood.

Holly: I have never been a particularly child-orientated person, meaning I didn’t obsess over other people’s children or coo at strangers’ babies. But there did come a point in my life when I just felt ready to have my own. It felt natural and not at all scary.

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

Holly: Circumstance: I ran out of time. I have been with my partner for 17 years. He is 22 years older and has four grown-up children. At first, he said he didn’t want any more children and it didn’t matter to me because I was young and didn’t know that I wanted them myself. At the start I was so in love, I couldn’t contemplate life without him and I thought it would work out somehow. I realise now that I should have thought ahead.

More recently, though I still love him, I have considered leaving him. But I know it would take me a long time to get to a point where I can start a family with somebody else. I might even have to go through a few somebodies before I find “the one”, then I would need to wait until we’re at the right stage of our relationship before starting a family, and then how old would I be? Although there’s still some sliver of possibility, I made the decision to stop believing, stop wishing, and start accepting a life without children.

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

Holly: A lot of my friends are getting married and having children. When they break the news to me, I have to look all excited and interested. I’m not doing either of those things. A friend of mine who had been trying to convince her husband to get a cat told me she had some news. “Ooh, are you getting a cat?” I asked. “No,” she replied, “I’m having a baby!” I just replied, “But you can still have a cat, can’t you?” It’s knee-jerk reaction for me to find something jokey to say when I get that kind of news because I’m concerned that if I just say “Congratulations”, they’re going to hear the insincerity in my voice.

What I hate most is the ease with which they do it; most of them fall pregnant a few short months after getting married. It’s like they say, “What shall we do now? Have a baby? Yeah, okay. Let’s do that.” Like they’re just deciding to walk through a fucking door, and they don’t seem to appreciate that some people are bricked in.

LWB: What’s the best part about not having children?

Holly: I always dreaded the baggage that came with having children. I am very glad to have escaped having to be friends with parents who have no personal identity and talk constantly about their children; having to go to (or host!) children’s parties; and being forced to talk to strangers and give them updates on my son/daughter.

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

Holly: Never take anything for granted. Younger woman should not take it for granted that they are going to have children and start thinking about a Plan B. Mums and dads should not take it for granted that everybody can have what they’ve got. (And try to exercise a little tact rather than parading their children around like they’re the second coming, or saying “you’ll understand when you have children”.)

Also, this pain isn’t that of wanting something that I cannot have; it’s more a loss, a grief. Years ago I imagined that my baby already existed somewhere and I was just waiting to meet him. I bought a little jumper and an elephant toy for him, things that I had seen when out buying things for my sisters’ babies and thought I would save for the future. So there were already traces of him in my life. When it became clear my boyfriend did not want children with me, I sat and held these items and talked out loud to my baby. I told him that I loved him and that it wasn’t his fault. I’ve never said any of this to anybody and I know why: it sounds ridiculous. What I mean by this is that I’m not coming to terms with not being able to have a baby, rather I feel I am having to lay my baby to rest. I would never want to compare myself to a grieving parent, as that must be the worst imaginable nightmare, but I do feel this is loss I am feeling.

LWB: What’s your Plan B?

Holly: I don’t have a Plan B. I’m still trying to work that one out. Right now I am not living my life like somebody who is free of children. I don’t travel, I don’t follow my hobbies or my passions. I need to start doing something with my life, otherwise it’s all just a waste, but I don’t know what that’s going to be yet.

Where are you on your journey? Are you angry? Grieving? Outlining a Plan B? All of the above? We’d love to hear from you so we can better understand our own journeys and so we can 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.

You can find more of Our Stories here.

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

Surviving and Thriving When Motherhood Doesn’t Happen

By Lisa Manterfield

Lisa _Book1I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I first acknowledged that motherhood would not be part of my future. The idea started as a knot in the pit of my stomach, a fleeting thought of “What if this doesn’t happen for me?” It put out little tendrils of doubt that manifested in sadness and frustration that I couldn’t get this thing I wanted so much. But even as doctors shook their heads and test results showed over and over again that I could not conceive, the idea that I would never be a mother was unimaginable, and the possibility that it might not happen was drowned out by hope and my blind determination that, if I just kept trying, it would all work out in the end.

But it wasn’t naïve denial that kept me pursuing my dream of motherhood. It was the completely blank canvas of the unknown that lay beyond if I made the decision to give up. I had no idea what the future would hold for me, and it was easier to stay in that awful place of painful possibility than to cut my losses and step into an uncertain future. Despite being surrounded by loving friends and family, I felt completely lost and alone, carrying around with me a deep grief that had no outlet. I’d never met anyone like me before, and I didn’t know where to turn for help or even what kind of help I might need. I didn’t even realize I needed help. I just pushed along on my own, taking it one day at a time, and trying to figure out how I was ever going to make peace with the enormous loss I felt. I honestly wasn’t sure I ever would.

Book_CoverIt was a long process that didn’t come with a roadmap. There were no books to guide me through the process and no one to help me understand the sadness and confusion of losing something that I’d never had in the first place. I wrote about what I was going through, first in a journal, then as exercises in a writer’s workshop, which became chapters of a memoir. When I’m Taking My Eggs and Going Home: How One Woman Dared to Say No to Motherhood was published in 2010, I felt as if I was laying out all my shortcomings for the world to see—assuming anyone would actually read it. But a funny thing happened: As I began to write publicly, in the book and on this blog, I found you, a community of women—each with her own unique story—all struggling with the same issues and trying to find acceptance in the life you’d been dealt. For the first time, I felt as if I wasn’t stumbling through this alone.

Some you are like me and have dealt with infertility and never been pregnant, while others have suffered miscarriages or delivered stillborn babies. Some of you have dealt with health issues that forced you into a decision not to pursue motherhood, and others are dusting yourselves off after the blow of a failed adoption. Some of you have watched your dreams of motherhood dashed as the search for the right mate kept turning up the wrong man. Others have found yourselves facing divorce or the death of a spouse, or a partner who had a change of heart about parenthood. Each of you has your own story about how you came to find yourself watching the window of opportunity for motherhood slowly close—and yet we all share so many common issues. What I’ve discovered through you is that, when I wrote openly about the tangled emotions and “crazy” thoughts I’ve had, you keep responding with “Me too.”

I realize how important it is to walk this path with others who’ve been there and how sharing my story helps me to feel normal again. I’ve learned a lot from my own experience and from your comments on this site. I’ve come to understand the importance of grieving something that never existed, even if my immediate family and closest friends couldn’t fully understand my loss. I’ve learned the value of a compassionate community and the power of knowing I am not alone. I’ve also learned to look forward toward a future I hadn’t planned and to find joy and passion in my life again. I’ve learned not just how to survive, but how to thrive in a life without children.

Over the past couple of years, I’ve been collecting all that I’ve learned into a book. I’ve released sections in the Life Without Baby Workbook series and now (drumroll, please!) the complete book is finally finished!

It’s called Life Without Baby: Surviving and Thriving When Motherhood Doesn’t Happen, and it’s available March 7 in both print and digital formats. (You can pre-order the ebook version here if you want to be among the first to get a copy.)

So before I get too wrapped up in all that’s involved with publishing and promoting a book, I wanted to say a big thank you to all of you—for your ongoing support, for teaching so much about myself, and for taking such good care of one another. I am truly honored to be part of this community.

Looking for Potential

By Lisa Manterfield

Failed TestLily sent me a wonderful blog post that I wanted to share with you as we go into the New Year. It begins with this quote:

“We spend January 1 walking through our lives, room by room, drawing up a list of work to be done, cracks to be patched. Maybe this year, to balance the list, we ought to walk through the rooms of our lives… not looking for flaws, but for potential.”

~Ellen Goodman

I really relate to this quote because, in the past, this is exactly how I’ve approached the New Year. I’ve gone room-to-room looking for all the things wrong with me and resolving to fix them in the New Year. Come year-end, I’d look at my goals for the previous January and inevitably find that I’d fallen short, let myself down yet again. So, I’d resolve to do better the next year, to make it the year I improved myself.

I’m not sure whether it’s facing the reality of infertility that’s made me realize there are things about me that just cannot be fixed, or if I’ve just reached an age where I’ve decided to be kinder to myself. Whichever it is, I’ve adopted a new philosophy about New Year’s resolutions.

I no longer resolve to fix my flaws. I’m not going to aim to lose weight or organize my house or try to be more stylish. Nor am I going to compare myself to others—especially women with children—and find myself falling short. I am who I am and, even though I’m far from perfect, I don’t need to be fixed.

Instead I’m looking for ways to tap my potential and be the best version of me I can be. Instead of resolving to be who I’m not, I will try to nurture the best of who I am. I will set goals that point me in the direction I’d like my life to go and not worry about whether the “me” that arrives there is perfect.

As you head into the New Year, will you be making resolutions or setting goals? If so, are you being kind to yourself or are you treating yourself like something that’s broken and needs to be fixed?

Holiday Blues and a Celebration

By Lisa Manterfield

That’s me, learning to sail.

Every year it seems I get caught out with a bout of the Holiday Blues.

After a really fun and non-traditional Thanksgiving with wonderful friends, I headed into December ready to celebrate the holidays my way. Then Bam! I came down with the Holiday Blues.

There will always be things I wish were part of my festive season, like hand-delivering gifts to my family, shopping for small children, and creating the kind of Christmas I had as a child. But it wasn’t theses losses and what-ifs that gave me the blues this year.

Maybe it was the rainy weather that kept me indoors for much of the week. Maybe it was the end of year racing towards me highlighting the things that didn’t get accomplished this year. Or maybe it’s that Christmas doesn’t really feel like something to celebrate anymore.

Finally, I took my own advice, and that of a couple of friends, and dusted myself off. I bought a tree, made plans for Christmas Eve dinner at a favorite restaurant, and wrote and sent my cards. And then I made myself a cup of tea and sliced off a chunk of proper English fruitcake, and I curled up in a chair and wrote in my journal.

I made a list of everything good that happened this year—all the fun things I did (see photo, for one), the challenges I overcame, the goals I reached this year, the friends I spent time with, the family I visited.

And guess what I discovered? It’s been another great year this year. I have lived my life, perhaps not always to the fullest, but to the best that I was able. And I had a good time doing it.

That, I think, is plenty of reason to celebrate.