filling the silence in the motherhood discussion
Some time ago, Maybe Lady Liz wrote a brilliant guest post on this site about friends posting pregnancy announcements on Facebook, only to add that they were “accidents.” I thought it would be a great topic for this week:
“Accidental” pregnancies
You can read Liz’s original post here. Just be advised if you decide to click through from the post to her blog that it is no longer about not having children, as Liz is now a mom.
By Lisa Manterfield
June 3rd and I’m traveling to Vancouver, Canada, to meet five women for what we’ve informally named “The Global Sisterhood Summit.” I’m meeting most of them for the first time, and I realize how unusual this is when the immigration agent questions me on arrival.
“What’s your business in Canada?”
“I’m meeting a group of friends.”
“How do you know them?”
“We’re bloggers.”
“You’re what?”
“Bloggers. We met online through our blogs.”
At this point her head snaps up. “Have you met them in person before?”
I know how it sounds to say I’m meeting strangers in a foreign country because they sounded nice online, but I’ve been up since 4 a.m. and I’m getting cranky. I want to get to my hotel and go for a quiet run by the water so I can prepare for a weekend in which I have no idea what to expect.
“I’ve met two of them,” I tell her. “It’s fine.”
She purses her lips and hands my passport back to me. “Welcome to Canada,” she says.
I’ll admit I’d had misgivings about the trip myself. The cost of airfare, the fact that I’d be taking yet another trip without Mr. Fab, and something else: All we have in common is our childlessness and I wonder if that will be enough.
I’ve talked a lot on this site about not wanting to be defined by infertility and childlessness. It will always be a part of who I am, like all my life experiences, but I have many facets and I’m aware of the danger of getting stuck in a place of loss, of never moving beyond the thing that didn’t happen. I know how even well-tended grief can lurk in dark places, waiting for an opportunity to pounce again. Do I really want to fly to Canada only to undo all the work I’ve done?
But in the end, one of my other facets wins out. The curious cat inside me wants to be part of the action! So I packed a bag, cashed in my frequent flyer miles, and headed north.
Once I am checked in at the hotel, I abandon my quiet run in favor of lunch with Sarah. Sarah writes the aptly named blog Infertility Honesty and “speaks her truth” with the kind of blunt dry humor that jolts and then immediately endears. (See her post about the weekend and her brilliant “infertility t-shirts.”) Over one of the best Caesar salads I’ve ever had (Fried capers! Who knew?) we share our stories and laugh at some of the insanity we’ve endured. And then we talk about our mutual love of food. We order tropical tuna tacos and vow to sit together at every meal so we can sample one another’s selections. Almost every conversation we have that weekend will find its way, eventually, to food.
Before long, we are joined by Pamela and Kathleen, the two members of the group I already know well. Pamela is a lightning rod in our community, the person reporters and researchers track down for information. She is also a conduit to the various subgroups that have emerged—the bloggers, the healers, the advocates, and the leaders. You can read Pamela’s take on the weekend here.
Kathleen, who you already know well from this site, brings a broader perspective to our conversation. Infertility is only one version of the many paths that bring us together, and Kathleen reminds us of the common ground all of us who are childless-not-by-choice share. I know she’s working on a post about her experience over the weekend, so look out for that soon.
That evening I meet Cathy. She and her husband write Slow Swimmers and Fried Eggs, a blog about living childfree after infertility. In her wonderful post about the weekend, she talks about surviving loss together and the power of community. I spend my time with her talking about going on adventures, learning to sail, and how pole dancing helped her to reconnect and fall back in love with her body after infertility treatments. She is about to begin training as a transformation coach and, as someone I consider to be the queen of reinvention, she’ll be great at it.
On Saturday morning Andrea guides us on a stunning hike in Lynn Valley. (The photo is of the terrifying suspension bridge we crossed. Talk about facing your fears!) Andrea is not a blogger, but a self-described “lurker”. What that really means is that she is an ardent supporter of our work and contributes consistently in the comments of our posts. Andrea is an observer, incredibly perceptive and intuitive, a peaceful nucleus to which I find myself gravitating.
By Sunday, our group is tightly bonded. Wine has flowed, stories have been shared, and a deep understanding and admiration of one another has developed. We are joined by “S” a local woman who has heard about the summit and has come to meet us. The seven of us talk together about our experiences, and this is when my history creeps out from under its rock and makes its attack. As I share a story about coming to the end of my fertility treatments, the once-familiar anger and passion spills out and I think, “There it goes. There’s that old wound bursting open, just as I feared it would.”
But in this hotel conference room, I am safe. I am among friends who understand me, who hear me, and who acknowledge that, although “infertile” is not a badge I wear brazenly, it is one I will always carry with me. It will always be one of the many clubs of which I am a member. I am grateful to be among women who understand how, after so many years, I am still not “over it.” And the anger passes, a little more grief purged, and the scar over my old wound remains intact, maybe even stronger than it was before.
To be complete, this story needs a take-away, and for me it is this:
Being heard and understood matters. Telling your story matters. Finding one person who can listen and say “Me too” matters.
And facing the fear of talking openly about things that hurt perhaps matters most of all.
So, no matter how you came to be reading this post today, you are not alone. This website, this community is your safe place to be heard and acknowledged and understood. I encourage you to reach out to one another, to share your stories, and to make real connections. Say yes to the possibility.
There are several regional groups in the Community pages. Consider finding some people in your area and planning an in-person get-together. Because this weekend showed me that there is no substitute for personal interaction, for breaking bread and talking, sharing stories and discovering connections with someone who understands you completely.
I worried that the weekend might cause me to move backwards in my healing, but meeting these women and experiencing the power of connection has set me free from the fear that I might never fully heal. I will. I have. And I will continue to keep moving forward.
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.
By Lisa Manterfield
I’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.
By Lisa Manterfield
Here’s how I know I was supposed to have kids:
I am totally unable to cook for only two people.
Even though I was one person for a long time and my family has been two for over a decade, I still cook for a family of five. There are always leftovers in my fridge and I often turn the remnants of one meal into something different.
Maybe it’s because I grew up in a family of five and learned to cook for five that I can’t seem to downsize my portions. Or maybe there’s just a part of me that’s pure old-fashioned mother and wants to feed everyone. “Eat, eat! How are you going to grow big if you don’t eat?”
Well, Mr. Fab and I are growing big on my cooking, and now that my mother is visiting, I’ll be fattening her up to.
Do you have a maternal instinct that you can’t seem to shake off?
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
***
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.
***
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. 🙂
As told to Lisa Manterfield
When Lisa Stigliano’s identical twin sister became pregnant within a few months of trying, Lisa was genuinely happy for her, but it also made her realize her own struggles to conceive were more complex than “being a little older.” Read on to learn how Lisa found her way into a new chapter of her life and a new career.
LWB: Briefly describe your dream of motherhood:
Lisa Stigliano: I was always a goal-oriented, ambitious, hardworking person. Being raised by a single mother with little money made me want to create a better life for myself and my family.
LWB: Are you childfree by choice, chance, or circumstance? Please explain briefly.
Lisa S: About 10 years ago, like many other newlywed couples, my husband and I purchased our first home and were excited to start our family. I was 36 years old and time was of the essence.
After about a year of trying with no positive pregnancy tests, I consulted my OB/GYN, who suggested we keep trying, as it takes longer the older we get. After another year, we saw a fertility specialist who found polyps on my uterus that could be interfering with implantation. We waited a few months after the surgery for everything to heal and begin trying again. About six months later, we opted for Intrauterine insemination, which was also unsuccessful.
And then it happened. A positive pregnancy test. Oh no, not mine. My twin sister got pregnant naturally after trying for a few months. It opened my eyes to how serious our infertility struggle really was.
At this point we decided to try IVF. I was approaching my 40th birthday, my FSH [follicle-stimulating hormone] level was high, so the fertility clinic recommended donor eggs. This is when it truly hit, and I sank into a deep depression. So you are telling me that my eggs are too old to produce a baby but my twin sister’s are not? We are identical twins with similar lifestyles—no alcohol, nonsmoker, loved to exercise, etc.
This is when I came across a Naturopath doctor on my local news segment who specialized in women’s issues, and I knew I needed to do something fast. She introduced me to holistic ways to improve my fertility. And with her help and my new holistic lifestyle, I was able to lower my FSH level to an acceptable level for IVF. I was beyond thrilled. Like I won the jackpot or something.
Little did I know how grueling the next year would be. While my sister was preparing for her bundle of joy, I was in and out of fertility clinics.
LWB: What was the turning point for you?
Lisa S: After four unsuccessful IVFs through two different fertility doctors, I was emotionally and physically done. I decided I couldn’t take the treatments anymore. I had become so far from the woman I used to be, always crabby, depressed, and not fun to be around.
My husband was super supportive about stopping and even suggested looking into adoption. Then my father was diagnosed with pulmonary hypertension and put on oxygen therapy. About six months later, he passed at the age of 61.
I was done with everything—the baby that may or may not come, the crying, the depression—and decided to focus on what I could control.
I allowed myself to grieve the loss and come to the acceptance that it may never happen. This was not easy, but I knew it was necessary in order to move on and become the best version of myself.
LWB: Where are you on your journey now?
Lisa S: When I was ready, I started to make new goals. I enrolled in the Institute of Integrative Nutrition to pursue my interest in holistic nutrition. I loved the ways I could support my body naturally without the need for prescription drugs. I went on to start my own company, Keeping Fit After 40, where we support women in midlife with holistic lifestyles. I recently published my first book, Let’s Celebrate Midlife, and I am active with rescuing stray and abandoned cats.
LWB: What do you look forward to now?
Lisa S: Everyday I try to be the best aunt to my six-year-old nephew, who I love more than anything. And yes, I spoil him and he loves it.
LWB: What have you learned about yourself?
Lisa S: I could never have made it through this transformation in my life had I not gone through the stages [including letting go, grieving, making peace, and moving on] that Lisa talks about in her book, Life Without Baby: Surviving and Thriving When Motherhood Doesn’t Happen. It has been a long journey, but one that was so worth it. I learned a lot about myself along the way, and I want to encourage other women that there is hope for living an amazing life without children. We don’t know what will happen in our lives, but I truly believe that there is still a life for us out there, baby or not.
Lisa Stigliano is a Certified International Health Coach. Her company is Keeping Fit after 40, which helps women over 40 transition naturally to midlife. She lives in New York with her husband.
By Lisa Manterfield
Let’s just say it: Mother’s Day is the nuclear bomb of holidays when you don’t have children. It’s a day of brunches, church services, and flowers, when shops, offices, restaurants, and even our social media feeds are filled with celebrations of moms and all things motherhood. To top it all, this holiday has somehow escaped the political correctness cleanup that other holidays have undergone, so while many people are hesitant these days to wish someone a Merry Christmas, lest they offend, no one seems to have any qualms about wishing everyone a Happy Mother’s Day.
It took me a long time to be able to face Mother’s Day, but the last couple of years I’ve done something fun for myself on that weekend. A couple of years ago I planned a trapeze class and this year I’m running a half marathon at Disneyland. Each year, I’m able to note that the day bothers me less and less, and I use it to mark my own progress. I know that many of you aren’t there yet, and from past experience I know that it pays to face the day prepared.
If you plan to venture out over Mother’s Day weekend, be ready for almost everyone to wish you a happy Mother’s Day. This includes friends, neighbors, sales assistants, parking attendants, and even complete strangers. Prepare your arsenal of stock replies and be ready to respond, so you don’t find yourself caught unawares and having to explain why you’re standing in the middle of the street in tears, yelling “It’s not a happy day at all!” to an unsuspecting stranger. My standard response is to say “Thank you. You too” and move on as quickly as possible.
Once you’re aware of the inevitable challenges the day can bring, it’s good to make a plan to keep yourself protected. If you know you’re not going to be able to make it through the day with your emotions intact, stay at home or make plans to go somewhere away from the biggest challenge spots. If you’re expected to attend a big family gathering, consider if you could take a pass, just this year. Even if the next Mother’s Day is months from now, take a few minutes to jot down the challenges you might face and come up with a plan. How will you spend the day? How will you honor your own mother? And how will you deal with the challenges you can’t avoid?
By Lisa Manterfield
I never knew how lonely dealing with infertility would be. Even though I was recently married to a man I loved, worked with a group of people I considered friends, and had an active social life, I felt as as if I was dealing with infertility completely alone.
I found it hard to talk about what I was going through, even with my closest friends. I was angry and confused. I struggled to find the right questions to ask my doctors, let alone try to explain what was happening to me to someone who’d never experienced it. I felt so vulnerable and not at all in control of any aspect of my life, especially my emotions. I was afraid if I ever did open up to a friend, I might unleash a maelstrom of anger and grief. So, I put on a brave face and did my best to act as if everything was okay. The more I needed the comfort and support of an understanding friend, the more I pulled into myself and away from any risk of intimacy.
Eventually, of course, my grief found a small crack and pushed its way out. And once it had found a weak spot in my armor, it tore it open in the form of a humiliating public meltdown. Fortunately, a friend witnessed this and, as I no longer had anything to hide, it opened up a conversation between us. At last, I was able to talk frankly about the details of my experience and the fears, frustrations, and sadness that came along with it. Once I’d broken open, I wished I’d done it sooner.
This week is National Infertility Awareness Week (#NIAW) and this year’s theme is #StartAsking. So I want to encourage you to start asking for help, to find someone to confide in, and to stop trying to battle through this alone.
I know that most of us would rather walk over hot coals than ask for help. Better to have scorched and blistered feet than to permit vulnerability and open ourselves up to pity, or ignorance, or worst of all…unsolicited advice! But having just one understanding person you can trust can make an enormous difference.
Before you go seeking an empathetic ear, it’s important to understand yourself and what kind of help you really want. Do you need someone who’ll sit and listen while you talk and talk and talk? Do you need someone with whom you can share intimate details of procedures and tests? Do you need to confide one single detail that you’ve never told anyone else? Do you need someone who’ll hug you while you cry your eyes out, or someone who’ll join you for a quiet walk to talk about absolutely any other topic but infertility?
The Life Without Baby book has an entire chapter dedicated to finding support, and one exercise that people find helpful is to write a letter to an imaginary ideal friend, telling her exactly what you’d like from her. Tell her the kind of scenario you envision where you feel comfortable opening up, and then detail the response you’d like from her. Include as many specifics as you can. If you absolutely don’t want to hear a miracle baby story or advice like “Have you considered donor eggs/adoption/squirrel toenail tea?” write that down. If you need her to simply listen and say “I’m so sorry you’re going through this”, tell her. Once you know what you need in terms of support, then you can start to find the person to ask for it.
If you’re like me, you probably have people in your life who each bring a different strength to your relationship. In my case, Friend A gives sisterly advice; B asks difficult, but thought-provoking questions and doesn’t flinch at honest responses; C will listen quietly and give a thoughtful response, and D will burst into tears, hug me, and lament how terrible things must be for me (which can sometimes be exactly what I need.) Who among your friends, family, and even acquaintances could offer the kind of support you need? Keep in mind that our dearest friends and family members are oftentimes too invested in our happiness to be able to offer the support we need. You might find that a trusted colleague, a more distant relative, or even a less intimate contact, such as hairdresser or religious counsellor, might be the perfect person to talk to. And if you truly can’t find anyone, please consider seeking professional help.
As hard as it is to open yourself up to talking about this, it’s even harder to struggle along alone, so please, please, please, start asking for help.
#NIAW #StartAsking
Most people in my life were supportive when I told them about my decision to end my quest for motherhood. But a couple didn’t want me to quit. They kept offering unsolicited advice and stories of other people’s miracles, when what I really needed from them was a kind and understanding word.
So this week’s whine topic is:
People who won’t let you quit
Happy whining!
~ "a raw, transparent account of the gut-wrenching journey of infertility."
~ "a welcome sanity check for women left to wonder how society became so fixated on motherhood."
