The sign next to the pizza fridge in the supermarket caught my eye. It read, “Perfect for families.” My initial reaction was frustration, as if the sign was mocking my own circumstances. In that moment, I walked past the fridge, holding back tears, and headed towards the frozen fish aisle. It was during this period, what I now refer to as my “fertility freakout,” that I was experiencing the strongest longing to become a mother. I was 41 years old and still held onto the hope that I could make that dream a reality.
About a month prior to my emotional encounter in the supermarket, I had chosen to undergo a fertility test. As a single woman, I wanted to understand if I could have a baby via donor sperm. While I didn’t expect my ovarian reserves to mirror those of a 25-year-old, the test results printed in stark black and white at the clinic hit me hard. The reality was that I only had about a one in 10 chance of producing a viable egg for implantation. The consultant explained that if I truly wanted to pursue motherhood, now was the time, as my fertility would decline rapidly from that point forward.
A few weeks after receiving the test results, I attended my first meeting at the Nurture Network, a monthly group for women. Whether they were mothers or not, we gathered together to support one another. Sitting in a circle with ten strangers, I found myself sharing my fertility test results, an emotionally charged moment. However, there was a sense of relief in finally verbalizing what I had feared to admit for years – the possibility that I may never give birth to a child.
An important question that I had never truly asked myself was why I wanted children in the first place. Like many others, I had simply assumed it was a given. Throughout my 30s, I felt ashamed and embarrassed that I hadn’t found someone with whom I could build a family. I carried the weight of this shame with me, feeling the pang of envy each time a friend announced their pregnancy. I pictured myself buried in a coffin, darkness enveloping me with each passing birth announcement. Yet, amid those feelings, there was still a glimmer of hope in the corner of my heart.
When the UK went into lockdown in March 2020, that hope began to dwindle. I sought guidance from David Edmonds, a life coach, who encouraged me to explore different questions than the ones I had been fixated on. One of those questions was deceptively simple yet profound: “How can I create a fulfilling life beyond motherhood?” At first, I resisted asking myself this question because it required me to accept the possibility that motherhood may not happen. But eventually, I allowed myself to delve deeper into the query – who would I become if I didn’t become a mother, and how could I find fulfillment?
As I embarked on a search for answers, I sought the guidance of Dr. Gertrude Lyons, a relationship coach. I shared my desire to understand why people express a longing for children and if those yearnings could be fulfilled in other ways. Dr. Lyons revealed that many individuals articulate their desire for children as a means of making an impact and feeling as though they are making a difference in the world.
Reflecting on my own journey, I realized that I had never truly questioned the underlying reasons for wanting children. I had blindly assumed it was a societal expectation or an instinctual desire. I also recognized that during the time when my friends were becoming parents, I felt a strong sense of missing out. The desire to nurture and experience the joy of raising another human being was intertwined with these feelings of envy. When the fertility consultant had asked me why I wanted children, I blurted out, “So I don’t die alone.” However, I knew deep down that having children was not a guarantee of companionship in old age.
To gain different perspectives, I reached out to a WhatsApp group consisting of nine of my university friends. I asked them to share why they had chosen to have children. Alongside the biological urge to procreate, many expressed a desire to experience love, teach and learn from their children. Some acknowledged the influence of societal expectations and convention. One friend pointed out that she found fulfillment in nurturing and providing love to those beyond her immediate family. Another astutely noted that my newfound positivity came from recognizing the challenges and complexities of parenthood, including its impact on identity. Listening to their stories, I began to sense that I could meet some of my own emotional needs without having children.
Dr. Lyons advises her clients to envision their larger purpose or vision in life, something beyond what they had initially envisioned or desired. She suggests writing down these thoughts without overthinking or even creating a collage. Some clients have even written poems or songs to express their dreams. Surprisingly, what Dr. Lyons discovers is that these visions are often similar for individuals whether or not they desire children. People still aspire to learn, grow, utilize their talents, and explore their full potential.
During a Nurture Network meeting, our homework was to create a life board where we could dare to dream of our futures. Alongside images depicting my career aspirations and home environment, I included a magazine photo of a man holding a child in a grassy field. Initially skeptical of the idea of a vision board, I realized that my hesitation stemmed from fear of the “what if.” What if I create a board envisioning a life with a child and it never becomes a reality?
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