Jody Day
World Childless Week Ambassador
Probably one of the questions uppermost in the minds of childless women in the process of coming to terms with their situation might be something like this: ‘How do I find my Plan B?’ And perhaps a quieter, more doubtful voice that asks, ‘And what if I never find it?’
Over the years that I’ve been crafting my own Plan B, and supporting other women to do similar, I’ve come to realise that at first, the whole idea of a ‘Plan B’ sounds very appealing; our ego likes the idea of having a plan. It feels like something we can grab hold of, put on a to-do list, and get busy tackling. And a hell of a lot more appealing than the swampy territory of grief, where time is elastic, direction elusive, and planning anything more ambitious than getting out of the house is unlikely.
Creating a life of meaning
But the thing is, in reality, ‘Plan B’, is shorthand for saying ‘creating a life of meaning’ - it just sounds a bit more doable than ‘a life of meaning’, frankly, doesn’t it? In fact, you may have noticed that on the third edition of my book ‘Living the Life Unexpected’ (2020), I dropped ‘Plan B’ from the subtitle, because it no longer felt like a big enough concept to hold the enormity of what childless women are dealing with. ‘Plan B’ seemed to trivialise it somewhat. It’s still a useful concept, but it’s by no means the whole story.
I remember thinking when I began my journey towards reinventing myself as a midlife childless woman that, of all the times in my life I’d experienced a major transition, this one had to the be the one I was least equipped for: I was middle-aged, unpartnered, broken emotionally, financially, spiritually and bodily, cut off from my friends, family, peers and the culture, at a complete career cul-de-sac and entirely bereft of imagination or hope. It felt a bit like the old Dave Allen joke about a tourist asking for directions in Ireland: ‘I wouldn’t start from here if I were you.’
Even if before you were a reasonably well-functioning adult, capable of both holding down a job and keeping up with your dental appointments, grief can strip you naked of competency. I neither opened my post nor went to the dentist for at least a couple of years, whilst dragging myself through days so painful and empty that remembering just how bad it was brings tears to my eyes. By the time I could face adulting again, I’d created a mess that took several years to sort out. And that’s just speaking from an admin point of view...
The fact is, mid-life crises are not unique to childless women, but the level of trauma, bewilderment, abandonment and social censure that we each have to deal with in addition can be quite exceptional. For me, I felt like an exile in my land, in my own life. It was going to take a hell of a lot more than a glorified to-do list to get me out of this one.
What am I ‘for’ if not motherhood?
Childless women come to my work hungry for meaning, starving for purpose. They want to know ‘what they’re for’ if it’s not motherhood, and they’re really hoping that someone else might have a clue, because they’re pretty sure they don’t.
I’ll never forget how, at the end of a retreat I once ran, that a participant confessed that she’d been harbouring a fantasy all weekend that at some point I’d be handing out postcards in sealed envelopes with each woman’s ‘Plan B’ inside. Everyone laughed but also nodded; the idea that someone else might have the concrete, actionable wisdom that they could scaffold their life around felt very appealing.
But the fact is, even if I were to be so egotistical as to attempt such a thing, it wouldn’t work; in fact, it’d be as likely to work out as if I set you up on a blind date. Because only you know the shape and texture of your heart and soul’s desires. They probably don’t fit onto a postcard either.
Having lost the longed-for identity of motherhood, few of us have a backup plan.
One of the things that shocked me about my own experience of coming to terms with childlessness was the realision that in my fifteen years (aged 29-44) of hoping, trying, planning and dreaming to become a mother, I’d fallen victim to a pernicious form of magical thinking that I know I’m not alone with; I’d somehow come to believe that if I even dared to think of an alternative to motherhood, somehow that would nix my chances.
I bought that whole manifestation lark hook, line and sinker and meditated and visualised and dream-boarded the shit out of my goal of motherhood. I realise now that the fantasy that I had some form of control over my fertility, my then-husband’s drinking problems, my later partner’s narcissistic abuse, and every other nightmare situation I faced, helped me stay reasonably sane. But I paid a high price for it later when, aged 44, I had to accept that motherhood wasn’t to be.
Because, having focused neurotically on getting pregnant for so long, I had absolutely no idea who I was any more, or what might fill the gaping void left in my life by my fantasy family.
Letting go of who we are to find who we are becoming
The search for a Plan B, the search for meaning, is a deeply personal and existential quest. It’s not something you can work out logically and logistically. It’s not a new job, a new country, a new partner, a new dress size. It’s a new way of being in the world that makes sense to you again. But how do we know what will make sense to us again when we don’t make sense to ourselves any more?
And this is why grief is so important. Vital. Essential. Because grief isn’t just about sadness, about finding a way to live with the heartbreaking loss of the children we longed for. Grief is an identity transformation.
In grieving, we let go, bit by painful bit, of the person who believed that one day we’d be a mother. And as each part of that version of us goes onto the bonfire of our personality, space is freed up for something new to arise. I’m not going to sugar-coat this for you; it can be hellish. And in many cases, it’s not just aspects of internal reality that go up in flames, but parts of our external reality too.
Ashes to Ashes
I remember speaking to my therapist during the darkest part of my grief (although I didn’t know it was grief yet) and saying that I felt that my life was on fire – relationships, friendships, finances, career, living situation – absolutely everything was going to pieces. He asked me if I knew of the legend of the phoenix, and of course, I did. ‘But do you know what comes before the phoenix arises from the ashes?,’ he asked. I didn’t. ‘Everything in life, everything is burned away,’ he said. ‘That’s what the ashes are made of. It’s called ‘calcinato’ in alchemy--purification by fire. Only then is the phoenix reborn.’
And I got it. I understood that I wasn’t going to get to hold onto anything; that the very ground I walked on could no longer be taken for granted.
That conversation was fourteen years ago now, and having walked through those flames and come out the other side, I realise that there is nothing from those ashes that I want back. Absolutely none of it was necessary for the onward journey, none of it was needed for my Plan B. But did I feel like that at the time? No way! I was furious – hadn’t I suffered enough? Hadn’t I been a good girl? Didn’t I deserve some kind of karmic gold star?
In the end, my belief in a just and fair universe was yet another thing that ended up on the bonfire too, along with all those goddamn vision boards.
So What Is a Plan B? (adapted from my book ‘Living the Life Unexpected’)
Creating your Plan B is about having the courage to take risks again when you feel that you’ve taken enough risks to last a lifetime, and look where it got you!
Creating your Plan B is about learning to trust your instincts and follow your hunches again, despite what your Inner Bitch, your partner, your family, your friends, your boss and the wider world think.
Creating your Plan B is about finding out who you are again once you drop the ‘baby story’ and having the faith that there is something left, a diamond to be found in the rubble.
Creating your Plan B is about experimenting with your life and opening up that part of you that dares to dream again, when your last dream nearly killed you.
Creating your Plan B is about having the self-belief that you deserve to have a happy and meaningful life despite the fact that society, your family and your peers have pretty much given up on you. You damn near gave up on yourself . . .
Creating your Plan B means making changes to your relationship with yourself, the result of which will cause a ripple of change throughout all your relationships, whether you, or they, like it or not.
Creating your Plan B means giving up some of the comfortable benefits of being one of life’s ‘victims’ and starting to notice when you’re making excuses for yourself.
Creating your Plan B also means learning to be kinder to yourself as a way to encourage your growth and healing, and to allow yourself to become the mother to yourself that you would have been to your children.
Creating your Plan B means thinking about the future, about your old age, about what kind of footprint you want to leave in this world instead of the family you thought you’d have.
Creating your Plan B is about taking responsibility for yourself and letting go of the idea that someone or something is going to save you. You don’t need saving from your childlessness, sorry.
Creating your Plan B is a radical, line-in-the-sand way of saying to yourself, ‘I matter’. Which in turn will start to show up all the things in your life that aren’t working and which no longer serve you.
Creating your Plan B is about creativity and change. About dignity and courage. About honouring yourself, standing up for yourself, valuing yourself. It’s about paying attention to what matters to you, so that you can offer the best of yourself to your life, and to others.
Creating your Plan B is about creating a life that fits you from the inside out and learning to accept that others may or may not get that, and that what they think is not actually all that important, frankly!
Creating your Plan B is about creating a life that, when it’s over, you think, ‘Well, that was worth it!’
Creating your Plan B is about whatever it means to YOU.
The anti-bucket list
Your Plan B is not a contract with your future self to meet certain goals. It’s not a vision board, a bucket list or some worthy resolution. It’s a new way of living – a creative way of living – one where you reach out for life rather than sit back and wait for it to disappoint you. Because, you see, Plan B isn’t an idea; it isn’t even a plan when all’s said and done; it’s a process. A process of healing, of growth.
It doesn’t have to be ‘a thing’ and it certainly doesn’t have to be a big deal to anyone other than you. Indeed, your life may look exactly the same on the outside as it did before, but the inside – well, that’s a whole new environment, one where you feel at home again. Then again, you may indeed retrain for a new career or in some way have a life ‘makeover’. But that’s not what it’s about – lasting changes in our outer life are reflections of how our inner world has shifted, and tend not to stick when done the other way around. Anyone who’s tried to outrun grief by moving countries or careers know that grief goes where we go. And that it’s just as at home on a tropical beach as you live out your fantasy of becoming a writer-cum-surfer in Costa Rica (or was that just me?) as on the 7:20 am commute.
Your Plan B will change over time; it will evolve, as you do. Because you’ll be out of the railway sidings of life and back on track again. The pause button of grief will be lifted. You’ll be fully alive again, fresh feathers and all, and who knows where they will take you? I’ve watched so many childless phoenixes hatch over the years, and you just never can tell what’s about to rise from those ashes…
Now in my sixties, I want you to know that the childless life I now live is a life I love. If you’d have told me that fifteen years ago, I wouldn’t have believed you. Or I would have thought, ‘Well, it’s alright for her because…’ But I want you to know that whether you call it a Plan B or not, healing from childlessness and reclaiming your right to exist in a world that sees you as ‘less than’ has the potential to create a version of you that you’ll be proud of.
You get to have a life too, even if it’s not the one you wanted. And you get to love it too. Have faith in your power to transform, and surround yourself with inspiring childless women (and they’re all inspiring). And one day, when you’re ready, fly.
