Life Without Baby

filling the silence in the motherhood discussion

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. 

How Time Moves Differently When You Don’t Have Children

By Lisa Manterfield

I do hope this isn’t simply a factor of aging, but lately I seem to have lost my ability to keep track of time. I was always so good at remembering things like how many years ago we visited such-and-such a place, or where we spent Christmas four years ago. But the last several years of my life have suddenly blurred into one big event. I can no longer accurately mark time.

Over lunch with a friend recently, we talked about her daughter and both expressed shock that she is already 16. How the years fly! We talked about another friend who has since moved away and how vividly we remember going to see her new baby so many years ago. I realized that I have no idea how old this little boy is now. I guessed he was probably somewhere around 10 or 12, but my friend knew exactly. “He’s two years younger than my daughter. He’ll be 14 in March.” I felt guilty that I didn’t remember that.

Walking home after lunch, it dawned on me that my time amnesia might have a lot to do with not having children. My friend is reminded on a daily basis of how old her children are. She marks the passing of time with birthday parties, school grades, and childhood milestones. She knows how long ago something happened, because she knows how old her kids were, or what grade they were in at the time. She knows how old our friend’s son is because she remembers where she was on her motherhood path when our friend was pregnant. I don’t have that marker and so I have to try to fill in the gaps with other events, or news headlines to mark time in my memory. But unless something significant happened, I don’t have those milestones to grasp onto.

Without children to mark time and propel my life forward, I can see how easy it could be to drift through the years. Children create milestones and new direction and, while I’m not in any danger of falling into a rut yet, I can see how easily my life could lose direction.

Maybe I’ve just hit by a patch of melancholy again, so does anyone else see this? Do any of you feel as if your life is drifting by?

Our Stories: Teresa

As told to Kathleen Guthrie Woods

Oh, how I want to offer you HOPE as we embark on fresh starts in this new year! I want to tell you everything will be okay, that you will be happy again, that everything will work out for the best.

But here at Life Without Baby, we’re about being real, and sometimes reality sucks. Some days we feel numb from our losses and grief, or we feel that our partners would be better off without us (because we’ve “let them down”), or we give up on ever experiencing any kind of miracle.

Teresa articulates these raw truths so well. At 34, married to a “wonderfully loving and strong husband”, she is struggling to come to terms with the end of her dream of motherhood. She’s also got some ideas about how she might start healing and moving forward in life.

Here’s her story.

LWB: Describe your dream of motherhood.

Teresa: At first, my dream of motherhood was to make reparations for the parents I had, I wanted to be a better parent than my own. I wanted to build children that would step into the world as self-assured, confident, wacky, loving individuals. My children were named, spoken of, talked about. We’d send them to this school, or that school. We’d introduce them to this or that; we’d teach them this or that. Our nonexistent children were loved in every way.

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

Teresa: I am childless by circumstance. Even though my husband and I knew I had PCOS [polycystic ovary syndrome], I thoroughly believed that I would get pregnant. I thought the medications and procedures would work for me, and we both thought kids were in our future. A few months ago, we chose to stop fertility treatments. We were not interested in IVF [in vitro fertilization], and the doctors told us that my body was not responding to anything else. There was nothing more they could do for us.

LWB: Where are you on your journey now?

Teresa: I am numb. My little sister will bring the first grandchild into my side of the family early in 2018. My heart and soul jump with joy for her, but at the same time, they battle the sadness that strikes me to my core. I thought the treatments would work, and when I visited her in the spring to see my new nephew, I would be able to share that my own baby is on his or her way. This is no longer the case. I do not understand why this is my path. I have given up on God. There will be no miracle, just this emptiness. I need to find a new purpose; the only thing I ever wanted will not come to pass. I am directionless.

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

Teresa: The knowledge that I am disappointing my husband. Now, this isn’t how it really is, but it is how I feel. He frequently repeats that he loves our life together. He is here for me. What he doesn’t realize is that I watch him when he cares for his sister’s children. I watch him around babies, toddlers, with kids in junior high. He’s amazing. He would be a perfectly imperfect dad. I am unable to give him this.

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

Teresa: A long time ago, I decided to stop skirting the issue. Infertility is often taboo because it has to deal with sex and emotions. No one knows what to say or how to act when they speak with an infertile couple. People feel uncomfortable when I say “My husband and I cannot have kids.” As soon as those words come out, people feel like assholes to have asked a question that is none of their business. In my feeble attempt to raise awareness, I am honest. Hopefully, one day, we’ll all be able to have a real conversation about it and acknowledge that infertility is a tremendous loss.

LWB: What is the best advice you’d offer someone else like you?

Teresa: It’s going to hurt for a long time. You’ll find that as you age, you won’t fit into a group anywhere. You don’t fit in with parents with kids. You don’t fit in with 20-somethings. You’ll find that a lot of your friends are retirees. You’ll hang out with elderly people, especially if you live in small towns. Your family will not know what to say or do.

LWB: What’s is your hope for yourself this coming year?

Teresa: That my husband and I can heal together. He has been my rock, but I find myself pushing him away because I do not want him to be beholden to me. He can have children and should leave me and find a woman who can give him what he wants. My other hope is to stop all this silly thinking and embrace my wonderfully loving and strong husband.

LWB: How are you moving forward?

Teresa: I looked into my partner’s eyes. I wrapped his love around me. I breathed him in and asked him to never let go. I fight with myself daily over whether or not I should just leave him, give him the “out.” But he loves me, and he can handle this. So I let him love me, no matter how difficult.

Someone once told me to collect moments of joy. Everyone gets sad. Remember to count the moments of joy because they do come along. Then, after all the crying and disbelief, for a brief moment, your heart will be full. Hold on to that feeling because it will have to last you through the desert.

 

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.

Kathleen Guthrie Woods is mostly at peace with her childlessness.

The Importance of Asking for Help


“Ancora imparo. [I am still learning.]”

― Michelangelo, at age 87 in 1562

I am still learning. And thank goodness, too. If all I had to go on for the rest of my life was all I know now, I think I’d be in a lot of trouble down the road. That’s the beauty of age, experience, and wisdom, I suppose. It takes life experience to gain knowledge, and life experience only comes with checking off the years.

A couple of years ago, I learned an important lesson that I wish I’d learned much sooner. I learned to ask for help.

A while back, I was working through where I wanted to take this site, while trying to keep my freelance writing jobs going, and thinking about the novel I was supposed to be writing. I was trying to write blog posts, maintain the website, fix tech issues, run a workshop, and keep a marriage ticking along. Finally, I threw up my hands and said what equated to, “I can’t do this all by myself, so I’m not going to do any of it.” I really was ready to throw in the towel.

Fortunately I have a wise group of peers and an amazing mentor who talked me through my angst and convinced me to ask for help. I found an assistant to help with the blog and found a web designer to take care of the site properly. Their help freed me up to do the work I really wanted to do, which is writing posts and developing this community. What’s more, the other work got done quicker and better than if I’d struggled along as usual trying to figure it all out for myself.

The experience gave me pause and caused me to look back at my past and take a close look at myself. Turns out I have never been a person who asks for help. It’s not so much pride that stops me from asking, but more a sense of toughness. “I can do this on my own. I don’t need help.” Now I’m writing it here, it sounds an awful lot like stubbornness, but there you go.

I was also tough (or stubborn) when I was going through the grinder of infertility and later, when I was trying to figure out how to ever make peace with my situation. I never asked for help, even though I needed it. In part I believed it was pointless to ask for help because no one else could really understand what I was going through. I also didn’t want to upset people I knew and cared about, and I didn’t want to put myself in the position of comforting them.

In hindsight, I wish I’d asked for help. I wish I’d taking the chance of confiding in a friend. I wish I’d thought to look for a support group or hired the professional help of a therapist. I would have arrived at my place of peace a lot sooner than I did. But hindsight is 20/20 as they say, and I hadn’t yet learned the value of asking for help.

How about you? Have you asked for help? If so, where have you found it?

It Got Me Thinking…About Being Understood (Post-Holiday Edition)

My family serves the same breakfast every Christmas morning: a sausage and cheese casserole (also fondly referred to as “heart attack on a plate”), grapefruit cut in half with each segment carefully carved out with that cool little bent grapefruit knife, and Gram’s Coffee Cake. It isn’t Christmas without Gram’s Coffee Cake. You can hang lights and stockings, place treasured ornaments on a tree, and crank up the volume to sing along with Bing Crosby and friends, but it isn’t until that sweet and cinnamony batter is in the oven that home smells and feels like Christmas.

On this past Christmas Eve, as photos rolled into my phone from various households showing off their cakes fresh from the oven or wrapped in foil to keep for the morning, I chimed in to the stream of text messages with, “This is the first year in my life I didn’t make one.”

“There’s still time!” one relative chimed in.

“It’s no fun when there’s no one to make it for,” I tried to explain, wondering if I should elaborate on how for years I’ve baked the whole big thing, eaten one slice myself, then given the rest as hostess gifts or to my husband’s office staff.

“So make it for yourself!” another relative suggested.

And oh, how I wanted to respond with, “You’re not childless-not-by-choice! You wouldn’t understand!”

Sound familiar? How many times have we been smacked in the face with “You’re not a parent—you wouldn’t understand.” Once, just once, I wish my family members could try to understand how difficult the holiday season has been and continues to be for me. How spirit-draining it is to even imagine going through the effort to drag out the ladder, hammer the nails, and untangle the string of lights, without some wee darling there to be thrilled by the twinkling beauty. Or the futility of putting out milk ’n’ cookies and a note for Santa without a little believer in the house. Or…I know. I could go on ad nauseam, and this is hardly news to you.

I shared the above exchange with a friend who is also childless-not-by-choice, knowing she would commiserate. “Should I try to explain how I feel?” I asked. “Should I talk to them so they understand how—I know, unintentionally—painful their unhelpful comments are?”

She responded with the very best advice for this scenario: “Let it go.”

“But, but….”

“Just let it go.”

She’s right. They can’t ever fully understand because they are parents, because they do get to share all our wonderful family holiday traditions with new generations, and they will never understand why something as “small” as making Gram’s Coffee Cake is so emotionally charged for me.

However, as I reflected upon this in the days that followed, I reminded myself that I do have people in my life who understand. Right here, at Life Without Baby. If I need sympathy, support, or just a place the vent, I can come to this safe space and feel welcomed on “Whiny Wednesday”, in comments on blog posts, discussions in Forums, or by reading and relating to your stories in the “Our Stories”* column.

As we move into this new year, whenever we feel alone or lost or generally misunderstood, let’s remember to check in with each other here. Because even if we can’t find seem to find it anywhere else, here we are understood.

 

*We make it really easy for you to share your story. Go to this link and answer the questions in your own words. No writing experience needed. I hear again and again what a healing experience this is for the contributor, and I know I, as well as our many readers, will be there to support you.

 

Kathleen Guthrie Woods is mostly at peace with her childless status.

It Got Me Thinking…About the Gift of Kindness

By Kathleen Guthrie Woods

“So…why are you going?”

My sweet friend, let’s call her Ashley, had just told me about how much she was dreading Christmas. She and her husband are traveling halfway across the country to be with extended family, a family of loud, funny, sarcastic, in-your-face, mostly well-intentioned people who she knows will be needling her about why they don’t have kids yet.

“I can hear your clock ticking!”

“Your cousin got pregnant on her honeymoon—and you two have been married how long?”

“I swear I’m going to croak before this one gives me a grandchild!”

What they don’t know is that Ashley had another miscarriage last month. So she is going to suffer through all the questions and smart-ass comments in silence, with a half-smile on her face and a crack that is growing deeper in her heart.

But she is going because family gatherings are fewer and farther between as busy lives take over. And the older generations aren’t getting any younger, so she feels like she’s on borrowed time with them. And her favorite aunt was widowed earlier this year, and Ashley doesn’t want her to feel alone over the holidays. All valid reasons, but oh how my heart aches for her as I anticipate and imagine what she’s facing this coming week.

I asked her to put me on speed dial, so that if things get really rough, she can step outside or lock herself in the bathroom and call me for emotional support. Even though she and her husband are still trying, still hopeful (and I’m hopeful for them too), I sent her some classic LWB posts about dealing with social landmines and getting through the holidays when you’re childless-not-by-choice. I hope I helped her, and I hope I can continue to help her get through this season with some dignity and grace.

After our chat, I started thinking more about how no one in her family knows what she’s been going through. I know better than to encourage anyone to break a silence on something so emotionally devastating as multiple miscarriages, especially in a large and rowdy gathering, but her sharing her confidences made me think about the fact that all of us are dealing with things that aren’t fit for announcing to the general public—or sometimes to our immediate and extended family members.

So, while I’ll be dealing quietly with my own hurts, as I gather with loved ones over the holidays, I’ll be approaching them with a new awareness. I might give slightly longer hugs, I might reach across a room with a smile, I might keep an eye out for someone who is left out of the conversation or looks a little more isolated than usual. Whether or not they choose to give me their confidence, I can give them something: the gift of kindness, the gift of compassion. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get that gift in return.

 

 

Whiny Wednesday: Not Being Treated Like a “Real” Adult


This topic came up on the community forums a while ago and I thought it was a great topic to explore here on Whiny Wednesday.

Not being treated like a “real” adult because you’re not a parent.

I’ve certainly experienced this myself and talked to friends who say they’re still treated like a kid because they don’t have children of their own.

How about you?

It Got Me Thinking…About Our Safe Haven

By Kathleen Guthrie Woods 

A few years back, Lisa and I first released Life Without Baby Holiday Companion, a collection of LWB posts designed to support our readers through this dicey season. Since I was heading into a whirlwind of social events—with family, friends, coworkers, and total strangers—I armed myself for the questions and comments I knew were coming.

Q: What’s your book about? A: Deep breath… “It’s inspiration and encouragement for women who wanted to have children, but didn’t get to, to help them get through the holidays” …please be nice to me.

Q: Are there really women who need this? A: Deep breath, this is a teaching opportunity, don’t be a bitch… “Let me tell you a few stories I’ve heard from women who are childfree-not-by-choice about how challenging the holidays are for them. For example, one woman just had her third miscarriage and is devastated. She’ll be with her in-laws, and she knows they’ll bombard her with questions about why, for Pete’s sake, she’s waiting so long to give them grandchildren.”

Q: You have a book out? How exciting to see your labors rewarded with the birth of your book! I imagine it’s like the anticipation of all those months of pregnancy and you finally get to welcome and celebrate the arrival of your precious child! A: Uh…I got nothing.

As exhausting as some of these exchanges are (and sometimes they are, eventually, funny to me), I feel deeply humbled when someone hears what I write about, then leans in and whispers, “That’s my story.” I have been privileged to be able to truly listen as women, and a few men, share their very personal stories with me about loves and losses, heartbreaks, dreams, and hopes. I have offered sympathy, bits of gentle advice, and most of all, understanding.

You may have been at the receiving end of some insensitive questions and comments this month, and it’s my hope that you have had someone near you to soften the blows. Meanwhile, I encourage you to use this website: share your stories in Comments, join discussions in the Forums, draw strength and courage from other LWBers, and allow yourself this safe haven. For here, we get it. We get you.

 

Life Without Baby Holiday Companion, a collection of classic blog posts that offer inspiration and encouragement for getting through the season when you’re childfree-not-by-choice, is available here on our site and on Amazon.

Our Stories: Brandi

As told to Kathleen Guthrie Woods

I can always use a little bit of outside light as we head into the holidays and what for many of us who are childless-not-by-choice is a cold and dark season of the soul. Brandi gave me that light of hope when she shared her story with me. Forty years old and happily married for 16, Brandi endured over 10 years of the infertility nightmare. When her husband told her he couldn’t do it any more, she made the choice to build a new Plan B life with him, one that was childless.

 After “a long climb out of the pit of despair”, she is able to state (and here’s where she knocks my socks off): “I have accepted that I am a childless woman, but I do not identify as childfree.” Since her decision, she has filled her life with children, other people’s children, and has found what she calls the “bright side of infertility”.

Read her story below, then learn more about Brandi and her journey at her own website and blog, Not So Mommy.

LWB: Describe your dream of motherhood.

Brandi: I always thought I’d be just a good ol’ fashioned mom, with two kids, a husband, a dog, and a cat, living in my traditional house.  Even as a little girl, I toted my Cabbage Patch Kid around in a carrier on my chest. I didn’t dream of my wedding day, but I did dream about having a husband and kids.

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

Brandi: I am childless by chance. (Actually, I usually say I am childless-not-by-choice.) My husband and I suffer from severe infertility. I have endometriosis, and after seven failed IUIs [intrauterine insemination fertility treatments] and 10 years TTC [trying to conceive], my husband decided he didn’t want to keep trying. So, at the end of 2013, I began trying to accept my childless life.

LWB: Where are you on your journey now?

Brandi: I have accepted that I am a childless woman, but I do not identify as “childfree”. I have kids in my life (nieces, nephews, and an exchange daughter who has become family, plus our fur baby).

I started writing a blog, Not So Mommy, because I want to help others who are struggling in their childless journeys. I try very hard to focus on the good, so I write about the positive side of being infertile, childless, a dog mom, an aunt, a host mom, a wife, etc., and redefine what “momhood” means to me. When I was in the pit of despair and at my darkest moments, I never thought that I would come out of my infertility journey able to say that I am okay with being childless. But my life has turned out pretty well! I want others to know that there is hope, there is a light at the end of the struggle. I hope to continue to inspire others to embrace their authentic selves and live their imperfectly perfect lives.

LWB: What was the turning point for you?

Brandi: December 26, 2013. That was the day my husband told me he didn’t want to keep trying to have a baby, and he didn’t want to adopt either. He said he just wanted to enjoy our life like it was. Because I love my husband and could not imagine my life without him, I decided that I had to accept our childless life. So, I went into 2014 with the resolution to do just that. It was not an easy road, and I definitely had struggles (sometimes still do), but it was freeing to let go of one dream (having a baby) so that I could open myself up to other possibilities.

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

Brandi: The freedom to travel, the freedom to have spur-of-the-moment dates with my husband, the freedom to spoil our nieces and nephews because we don’t have to pay for college or braces or everyday expenses.

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

Brandi: I’ve always been honest about my infertility. I never hid it even when we were going through our struggle and treatments, so, when people ask, I tell them that we can’t have children. I go on to explain that we have nieces, nephews, a fur baby, and have hosted an exchange student who has become family. We usually end up talking about dogs or they ask about our hosting experience. I hope it allows people to realize there are different ways to have children besides getting pregnant or adopting.

LWB: What is the best advice you’d offer someone else like you?

Brandi: Allow yourself to be open to a different dream. My husband and I never considered hosting a foreign exchange student until we met a student and her host mom at a cooking class. Deciding to host a student turned out to be the BEST thing that ever happened in our life! God answered our prayers, but His answer looked different than we expected.

 

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.

Kathleen Guthrie Woods is mostly at peace with her childlessness.

It Got Me Thinking…About Surviving Today’s Meltdown

By Kathleen Guthrie Woods

I really thought I was healed, or at least was very close. I had mostly released what I felt I’d been cheated out of and was actively embracing a Plan B. I felt like a trailblazer, a role model, a success story.

Oh, how the mighty fall.

It was late on a gloomy, wintry afternoon when I came across a photo on Facebook of a dear friend, her wonderful husband, and their two beautiful children decorating their Christmas tree together. Something I will never get to do. One look at that image of perfection—my idea of perfection—and I lost it.

We’re talking throwing-family-heirloom-ornaments-in-the-trash kind of lost it. All the anger, bitterness, hurt, shame, heartaches, sadness, unfairness, why-not-me-ness I thought I’d worked out of my system came down upon me like a devastating avalanche. It was epic. It was ugly.

Fortunately, I got talked back out of my hell-hole by an understanding husband and compassionate friend. The tossed ornaments were retrieved, my body was hugged, my spirit was soothed. (But, no, I was not able to bring myself to decorate my home for merriment I could not fake.)

Humbled, and more than a little embarrassed, I took a fresh look at myself and again was reminded that the whole grieving-to-healing journey is not as straightforward as traveling from A to B. It’s crooked, jagged, with obstacles, speed bumps, and small triumphs followed cruel “family” holidays. Recovery is a process.

My friends who have battled alcohol addiction know quite a bit about what it means to be in recovery, and I think we can benefit from their wisdom and experience. When the temptation to slide back down into the deep, dark holes of depression and despair grows strong, when our resolve is weakened, when recovery seems like too much work or unachievable, we can borrow some of their slogans and tell ourselves:

Keep it simple.

Easy does it.

First things first.

Just for today.

How important is it?

Keep an open mind.

Live and let live.

Let go and let God.

One day at a time.

I now keep these reminders on my desktop, within reach for when I need a boost or in case I feel a new meltdown coming on. Perhaps one of them will help you today.

 

During the holiday season, Kathleen Guthrie Woods is a little less at peace with her child-less status.