This post is an oldie, originally posted on April 26, 2012, but I think it’s worth a rerun. You can see what others had to say here.
There are two questions I get asked frequently: How did you come to terms with not having children, and how long did it take?
The answer is something akin to “how long is a piece of string and how many knots can you tie in it?”
Believe me when I tell you that if I could write down ten easy steps to making peace with being childfree-not-by-choice, I’d do it, but the answer isn’t that simple. Yes, there were many things that happened along the way that helped me make some peace, but it took closer to 10,000 steps than ten.
Writing down my story was hugely cathartic, venting about the injustices on this blog helped, too. Realizing I wasn’t alone in this and that people like you were out there wanting to talk through the minefield has helped immeasurably. Drawing a line in the sand and saying, “This is where that chapter of my life ends and this is where I start healing” also helped. And frankly, telling myself a big fat lie that I was better off not being a mother actually helped me to realize that in many ways I was. Setting new goals, appreciating the benefits of not having kids, and allowing myself to feel bitter and badly treated when I needed to. All these things helped.
I don’t think there’s a formula for working your way through this, and it’s definitely a journey of making forward process and dealing with inevitable setbacks.
As for how long the process takes? How long is that piece of string? It’s been three years for me and I consider myself largely at peace with my situation. I have closed the door on the idea that I will have children someday and most days I’m good with it. Everyday it gets a little better and a little easier. Some days there will be reminders of what I’ve lost and sometimes a flicker of a thought of “what if…”
The truth is, in many ways, I expect this piece of string to go on forever. The experience of infertility has changed me. It is one of the most significant and life-changing events of my life, and I don’t think the repercussions of that will ever stop reverberating. It doesn’t mean I won’t find harmony and even happiness in this new life – I already have – but I don’t expect this journey of coming-to-terms to ever fully end.
Like you, I don’t expect the journey of coming-to-terms to ever fully end either. In fact, if it did, I think I would have stopped learning, thinking, growing. And that would be sad.
“It doesn’t mean I won’t find harmony and even happiness in this new life – I already have – but I don’t expect this journey of coming-to-terms to ever fully end.” I so agree with this statement. I also like what you wrote, Mali, about “learning, thinking, growing.” I expect to find happiness and harmony in my life…but I also know that, as a contemplative person, my mind and heart will always be churning, to some degree, with respect to my childlessness. “Grist for the mill,” hopefully.
To think, or know that coming to terms with life without children will never fully end makes feel even more sadness than I do now. My only hope has been to think that maybe someday I could have some relief from my grief.
There are moments now, even days when I can be in a place of happiness of the freedom my life without a baby affords me. But then I see another baby announcement and the pain comes rushing back into my heart. I deal with it now though better than I once did. One bit of recent inspiration has actually come from a mother who wrote about having a child with a disability. It is a short essay about broken dreams. Another mother of a child with a disability shared it with me many years ago, and I recently pulled it out again. It is called Welcome to Holland. Read it here: http://www.our-kids.org/archives/Holland.html