Life Without Baby

filling the silence in the motherhood discussion

How We Heal Our Emotional Scars

Woman walking alone on beach

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.

Emotional Scars

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 it is healing in ways I couldn’t have imagined when it was new and raw. And the things I never got to do or be have left room for so many other opportunities.

How We Heal Our Emotional Scars

Woman walking alone on beach

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.

Emotional Scars

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 it is healing in ways I couldn’t have imagined when it was new and raw. And the things I never got to do or be have left room for so many other opportunities.

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 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. 

Saying Yes to Possibility

By Lisa Manterfield

Lynn Valley BridgeJune 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.

Writing to Heal

“I write to make peace with the things I cannot control.  I write to create red in a world that often appears black and white.  I write to discover. I write to uncover.   I write myself out of my nightmares and into my dreams.  I write to remember.  I write to forget.  I write to quell the pain.  I write because it allows me to confront that which I do not know.  I write as an act of faith.  I write to the music that opens my heart.”

~ Terry Tempest Williams

I love this quote. It sums up everything I feel about the art of writing. Whenever I have one of those days when I wonder why I ever decided to become a writer, or what the point is of my putting the thoughts that are in my head down on paper, I pull out this quote and remember.

When I first started this blog or when I first had the thought that maybe I should write a book, I hadn’t yet found this quote. I just felt an urge to write about what was going on with me. But it turns out that the process touched on every aspect of the quote.

Writing has helped me come to terms with being unable to have children, something that was completely out of my control.

I have definitely discovered and uncovered a lot about myself through writing, and I’ve certainly touched on the areas of being childfree that are far from black and white.

I’ve written myself out of my nightmares and found a way, not to forget, but to move past the nightmare of infertility by committing the stories to paper (or screen.) And I’ve most certainly confronted aspects of myself that I did not know.

If you’re still trying to work through your own thoughts and feelings about not having children, try writing. Even if you don’t want to air your dirty laundry in a blog, get yourself a journal, or ask for one as a gift, and just write. Don’t try to make it good writing, don’t even worry about doing it every day, or finishing a thought. Just write. It will help to clear your mind of all the clutter and sort through some of those feeling that don’t always make sense.

An Exciting Week

I’m feeling very festive today, so much so that I put on lipstick to write this. (To understand how big a deal this is, I’ll say two words regarding my normal writing attire: Pajama Jeans.)

Firstly, Redbook magazine is launching a big infertility awareness campaign today. More about that as soon as it goes live.

The other big news this week is that I am really excited to be introducing some new guest bloggers. As I mentioned before, one of the greatest things to come out of writing this blog is that it’s really helped to speed my own healing process. The downside is that it’s become hard to keep writing about some of the issues and opening up old wounds again. On the other hand, I’ve got to know all of you and I don’t want to walk away from this great community we have here. So the solution I’ve landed on is to bring in some fresh voices.

Kathleen has been doing her regular “It Got Me Thinking…” column for a while now and I’m so grateful to her for her contribution. She’s not going anywhere either (although a name change will be coming soon. More about that later.) but in the coming weeks you’ll be hearing from Dorothy and Iris, and I’d love it if you’d add your voice to the conversation.

No matter where you are in your journey, you have something to say that could help other people on their paths. If you’d like to write a guest post, I’ve put up some guidelines.  Check them out and consider submitting your two cents. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.