For most of my life, motherhood wasn’t something I longed for.
It wasn’t a dream I carried around or a future I built my life toward. I didn’t imagine babies in my arms or picture myself in a house filled with toys and noise. I didn’t feel that pull people talk about, that certainty that one day they would become a mother. I didn’t plan for it. I didn’t prepare for it.
I didn’t freeze my eggs.
I didn’t think about time running out.
I didn’t think I would ever need to.
I was living my life on my own terms, and for a long time, that felt enough.
But something shifted when I turned forty.
It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It didn’t arrive with clarity or certainty. It was quieter than that, more unsettling. A feeling that grew slowly, like something waking up inside me that had been sleeping for years. A question I had never really asked myself before suddenly became impossible to ignore.
What if I do want this?
I didn’t have a partner, and I didn’t want to force one into my life just to create a child. That didn’t feel right to me. So instead, I chose a different path. One that felt both hopeful and terrifying.
I turned to IVF.
I knew going into it that it wasn’t guaranteed. I knew the odds weren’t in my favour. But knowing something intellectually and living it are two very different things.
For two years, I put myself through it.
The appointments.
The waiting.
The hope that builds itself quietly, even when you try to keep it contained.
And then the disappointment.
Over and over again.
I took a break at one point, because I had to. Not just physically, but emotionally. I needed space to process what I was putting myself through. I needed to sit with the grief that was already forming, even then.
Then I tried again.
Because hope is stubborn like that.
But it still didn’t happen.
And now, at 46, I’ve reached the point where I know it’s time to stop.
Not because I don’t want it anymore.
But because I have to be honest about what my body can handle.
About the risks.
About the reality.
And that decision… it breaks something open inside me.
I don’t think I realised how much I wanted it until I had to let it go.
There is a kind of grief in this that feels hard to explain. It’s not just the loss of a child. It’s the loss of a version of my life that will never exist. A future that I only allowed myself to imagine later, but once I did, it became real enough to mourn.
It’s devastating in a way that sits deep in my bones.
And it’s lonely.
I don’t talk about it as much as I probably should. But it’s there, under the surface of everything. A quiet ache that catches me off guard.
When I see my friends having babies so easily.
When I watch their children grow.
When I see my brother with his kids.
When I see strong, beautiful women moving through the world with their children beside them.
There’s a part of me that feels happy for them.
And another part that hurts so sharply it almost takes my breath away.
Because I wanted that too.
I wanted someone to pass things on to. Not just possessions, but stories, lessons, pieces of myself. I’ve spent so much time building something, shaping a life, creating meaning… and now I find myself wondering who it was all for.
I have my niece and nephew, and I love them deeply.
But it’s not the same.
There’s no way to soften that truth.
Since making the decision to stop trying, the grief has become louder. More real. There’s no ‘maybe’ left to hide behind. No next attempt. No quiet thread of hope waiting in the background.
Just the truth.
And I feel it fully now.
The sadness.
The anger.
The emptiness.
Part of me is angry at the universe. Angry that something I never even thought I wanted for so long became the one thing I couldn’t have. Angry at the timing of it all. Angry at my body. Angry at the unfairness of it.
And underneath that anger is something softer.
A deep sense of loss.
I know there are other paths.
I know there are other ways to love, to nurture, to build a life that is full and meaningful. I know that motherhood is not the only way to leave a legacy.
But right now, I am not there yet.
Right now, I am grieving.
I am trying to come to terms with the loss of my own child… the one that will never exist… before I can even begin to open myself to the idea of another path.
Because this isn’t something I can just move past.
It’s something I have to move through.
Slowly. Honestly. Painfully.
And maybe, one day, I will find peace in a different kind of future.
But today… I am simply learning how to sit with this one.