filling the silence in the motherhood discussion
When you’re deep in your grief—and even when you feel like you’re finally in a good place—there’s one place that continues to be a trigger:
The Baby Aisle
Has it caught you unprepared? Did the sight of binkies, diapers, onesies, and teething toys bring on an epic meltdown?
Here’s your chance to vent.
We could easily compile an entire encyclopedia of unhelpful, and even hurtful, things people have said to us. I think this one stings as much as any:
“Everything Happens for a Reason”
Do you agree? Or do you have your own favorite “helpful” slight?
By Lisa Manterfield
I was asked once, by a well-intentioned person, if I thought I’d waited too long to start trying to have children. I have to admit that the thought has flitted across my mind on more than one occasion, but once I stop to think it through, I’m able to answer the question with a resounding “No!”
I remember being completely affronted (and rightly so) by a very conservative college professor who told me that the prime age for women to have children was 18. Of course, looking at a chart of fertility vs. age, I now see that he was correct, even if his suggestion that motherhood might be a more suitable choice than college was extremely misguided.
Looking back at my 18-year-old self, it’s hard to imagine what would have happened if that young woman had become a mother. Yes, I know lots of women do it, and I probably would have too, if I’d had to. But thinking about all the upheavals I’ve put myself through, I just cannot imagine that a child would have benefited from having me as an 18-year-old mother. Maybe (maybe) my supposed topnotch fertility at that age would have enabled me to conceive, but it would have been no guarantee of my suitability as a mother.
The truth is, I have absolutely no idea if I was fertile at 18. I assumed that, like many, many women, I would still be fertile at 34, and look how that turned out. There’s no way of knowing how long ago my body decided it wasn’t up to the task of reproducing, and now I’ll never know.
When I look back at the 18-34 years, they were rocky, but good. I had all kinds of experiences that I couldn’t have had if I’d had children to take care for. I went to college—twice—moved to another continent, traveled to many countries, did volunteer work, had fun but unsuitable relationships, changed careers (more than twice), and got to sample adventures not well-matched to motherhood. I certainly don’t feel as if I wasted those years. I wonder if I’d feel the same if I’d been raising children all those years.
So, no, I don’t feel as if I waited too long. I waited until I was ready, and while I waited, I was busy living my life to the fullest, and I don’t consider that wasted time at all.
By Lisa Manterfield
I heard this beautiful interview with poet Edward Hirsch on the topic of grief, and I wanted to share it with you here.
You may be wondering why an interview with a poet about the death of his son has a place here, but listen carefully to what he says about loss, mourning, and the process of healing. So much of what he has to say is what I’ve also learned about healing from loss.
“There is no right way to grieve, and you have to let people grieve in the way that they can. One of the things that happens to everyone who is grief-stricken, who has lost someone, is there comes a time when everyone else just wants you to get over it, but of course you don’t get over it. You get stronger; you try and live on; you endure; you change; but you don’t get over it. You carry it with you.”
In his 78-page elegy to his son, he writes that mourning is like carrying a bag of cement up a mountain at night. There is no clear path to follow, but when you look around you, you see everyone carrying their own bags of cement.
As a poet, Hirsch used his writing, not as a way to escape grief, but as a way to express what he couldn’t otherwise say. One of the most striking points he makes is on the topic of healing and how our society talks about the need to heal. But, he says, in order to heal, you have to be able to grieve first.
Most of us have faced a lack of understanding about the loss we’ve experienced because we didn’t get to be mothers. We have no place to express that loss, and without facing it and acknowledging it, we don’t get to grieve and we don’t get to heal.
If you’re struggling with loss, have you found a way to express your grief? Even if you’re not a writer, could putting your feelings down in words help you move through your grief? I know it has helped me through mine.
I’ll be teaching a workshop called “You’re Not Crazy; That’s Your Grief Acting Out” at the very first We Are Worthy Summit later this month. The summit will be packed with webinars, training, panel discussions, and live-chats and access is free. Look for more details coming soon.
Today is Good Friday, a holiday in many Christian-based religions that commemorates the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. In my faith tradition, it was a dark day of contemplation and prayer, one that was necessary before we received the promise and glory of Easter Sunday.
I wanted to incorporate something about old or new practices and traditions into my post this morning, but wasn’t sure what would be most relevant for us all here at LWB. So I thought it best to do a little online research, and here’s some of what I discovered:
It’s that last item that intrigued me. What is a “lovefeast”? In the 21st century, we have an understanding that a “feast” involves copious amounts of food and beverages, a large gathering of family and friends, and a celebratory air that might include music, dancing, and revelry. But there’s something about throwing in the “love” part that makes it sound (regrettably) a bit R-rated. That was not the case in the 18th century, when the Lovefeast held on Good Friday might have been as simple as servings of sweet buns and coffee, or even bread and water, with music and singing all designed to “strengthen the bonds and the spirit of harmony, goodwill, and congeniality, as well as to forgive past disputes and instead love one another.” (Read up on at the details here.)
Doesn’t the idea of that just warm your heart? It does mine, and it gets me thinking about how I might put together my own lovefeast. I imagine inviting dear friends to join me around a table for a thoughtfully prepared meal. I imagine seeing their delight as they greet each other with forgiveness and acceptance. I imagine a toast to friendships time-tested and new. I imagine feeling tears well in my eyes as I look around at the sweet souls beside and across from me and feeling so grateful for their presence in my life.
I also imagine you there. For although we are geographically all over the globe, making a sit-down dinner with all our LWB sisters impossible, when I am here with you, on these pages, I am strengthened by our spirit of harmony, goodwill, and congeniality. I release past hurts and look to the future. I feel accepted and loved.
And that feels so very, very good.
Kathleen Guthrie Woods is counting her blessings today.
It’s the sister who every time she sees you asks, “So are you…?” The aunt who asks at every big holiday gathering, “When are you going to…?” Or the mother-in-law who passive-aggressively wonders out loud when “someone” is going to make her a grandmother. You know,
That one relative who just can’t let it go.
Got one? Tell us about him or her, then tell us what you’d like to say back.
As told to Kathleen Guthrie Woods
As soon as I finished reading Wendy’s story, I sent her an email: “I understand.” Oh, how I understand. I’ve felt all the anger and bitterness, I’ve raged at how unfair Life has been, and I’ve experienced that same glimmer of hope when I finally realized I was not alone and found the courage to reach out for help.
I hope you’ll share some words of encouragement and compassion to Wendy in the Comments, and please take a moment to acknowledge that the Comments written by other LWBers are meant for you too.
Sending out extra love to all of you today. ♥Kathleen
LWB: Are you childfree by choice, chance, or circumstance?
Wendy: Circumstance. Married at 24, tried three rounds of AIH [artificial insemination by husband] at 27 (what was recommended before you consider trying IVF), found out I had Hodgkin lymphoma at 30. Decided to try adoption, but was told after a few steps in that, because I was in remission from cancer, I couldn’t adopt for seven years. We sold our house and went travelling around Australia for a couple of years. When we came back home, I was feeling unwell, so I went to doctors who thought I might be pregnant. I got excited, then had a test to discover I had fibroid so big I had to have a hysterectomy at 37. I had the hysterectomy and recovered in the maternity ward. (There were no other beds available, even with a request from me.) It was pretty gut-wrenching seeing mothers with babies! I asked the hospital for my womb so I could bury it myself, and they agreed, but my husband was not happy with my decision. From there my marriage broke up, and we divorced when I was 40.
LWB: Where are you on your journey now?
Wendy: I moved interstate at 40, and I am remarried to a man with four teenage children who I feel I keep at arm’s length. I am at a point now, at 53, where I realise I had no counselling or grief support during the whole process for over 25 years. My personality has changed. I get angry and depressed. I get annoyed when people say “You have four stepchildren, you should be happy.” They just don’t get it. Yes, my stepchildren are loving, but they are not mine. They have a mother, and I will never have a mini me. I have come to a point where I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I need to actually grieve and have someone understand. So, thank you for reading this.
LWB: What have you learned about yourself?
Wendy: I thought I could be strong and cope on my own and keep it inside, but I can’t. I am a strong woman, but I was too stubborn. I should have asked for support a long time ago, which makes me wonder how much better I would have felt earlier/now.
LWB: How do you answer “Do you have kids?”
Wendy: I still haven’t worked that one out. It depends on the person asking. If they seem genuine, then I am more genuine with my answer.
LWB: What is the best advice you’d offer someone else like you? (or What advice would you like to give to your younger self?)
Wendy: Get help and support asap. Talk to someone who understands. Don’t wait 25 to 30 years and become bitter, angry, or depressed.
LWB: Who is your personal chero (a heroine who happens to be childfree)?
Wendy: Xena, Princess Warrior.
LWB: How has LWB helped you on your journey?
Wendy: I have been able to express my feelings to others who have been through similar.
LWB: What is your hope for yourself this coming year?
Wendy: I am finally seeking out help to grieve.
I hear again and again from contributors what a healing experience it is to answer these questions and share their stories with other readers who truly get what they’re going through—and who rise up to offer support and encouragement. Won’t you consider sharing your story? Visit the Our Stories page for more information and to download the questionnaire. I hope to hear from you soon.
Kathleen Guthrie Woods is so grateful to be part of this community of wise, loving, and brave women.
A TIME magazine cover story awhile ago, “The Childfree Life,” came with an image of an attractive (and color-coordinated) couple lounging on a tropical, white sand beach, seemingly without a care in the world, resplendent in their designer sunglasses. That image prompted this week’s Whiny Wednesday topic:
The assumption that if you don’t have kids you have money to burn
Whine away, my friends.
Spring is springing this week, and I am filled with optimism. I’m ready for flowers to bloom, ducklings to hatch, and sunny days to warm my feet. I can’t help myself; this is how I’m wired. I am a hope-full person, one who looks for the best in people and wants the best for people.
I feel this way despite several years of experience to the contrary. We who are part of the LWB community are well aware of the dark side of hope, the promises that kept us pursuing the Plan A lives we wanted for longer, perhaps, than was healthy. We’ve seen the cold, harsh reality as good people were not gifted with good outcomes, and vice versa. We’ve seen the fallout of crushed dreams and expectations.
And yet…
And yet…
In a few weeks, a beautiful young woman from Los Angeles is going to marry a real-live prince. I don’t know Meghan Markle personally, but I’m as excited and hopeful for her as if she were a dear friend. I hope her dress is so perfect it brings me to tears. I’m eager to see her groom beam with pride and joy when he first sees her coming down the aisle to him. I desperately want them to live happily ever after.
I’ve invited a few girlfriends to join me in pajamas and plastic tiaras to watch the festivities in the wee hours of May 19th. As we watch the glamorous and notable guests arrive, maybe we’ll paint our nails pale pink, in keeping with royal tradition. We’re sure to ooh and ahh and giggle over the fashions and fascinators. I am planning to serve scones and champagne, so after the vows are exchanged, we’ll offer a toast to the newlyweds.
I wish for Ms. Markle and Prince Henry that they have a long and happy life together. If they face challenges, may they face them together. If they want children, may they have them without struggles.
Because even if I didn’t quite get my fairy tale ending, I still hope others get theirs. That’s right, I’m still optimistic, even after everything I’ve endured, and I think that’s something to celebrate.
Kathleen Guthrie Woods is mostly at peace with being childless.
A nearby friend recently posted something on Facebook , a personal ad of sorts, which included…
Seeking friends to:
Reading it at my desk, I wanted to raise my hand and shout, “ME! Pick me!” Except for one small problem: She’d labeled her request:
Seeking Mom Friends
I would love to do all of the activities on her list with her, and the great irony of being excluded from her search is that I—unlike her friends who are moms, who she complained were bailing on her because they are too busy with their kids—I have the time and energy to do them with her.
For about a minute I thought about replying anyway and suggesting that maybe a renewed friendship with me was worth nurturing. But then I read further down the list about how she also wants to talk about mom stuff with these friends.
You know what, she’s on her own.
Kathleen Guthrie Woods is mostly at peace with her childless status.
~ "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."
