Katy Seppi
World Childless Week Ambassador
I’d never given much thought to intentionally creating a support system.
I had a few people I could turn to when I needed something.
It wasn’t perfect, but it felt like enough.
But everything changed when I let go of my dream of motherhood.
I was disoriented and overwhelmed by how much I needed.
I remember the dread and panic I felt when I realized my existing support wasn’t enough.
Not because people in my life didn’t care.
But because the care I needed had drastically changed.
I needed a full, vibrant ecosystem of support.
Not a few people who do it all.
But a living, breathing web of connections, resources, and relationships that could shift and evolve with me.
Roots
In the wild chaos of a storm, roots act as anchors, weaving deep into the soil, keeping the plant from falling.
My therapist was the first person who said it was okay to stop.
It seems obvious now, but at the time, I was convinced I could find a path to motherhood - I just had to keep trying.
She told me I could stop.
That I could choose myself.
That I could consider all I was losing while gripping this dream so tightly.
That letting go wasn’t failure - it was a valid choice.
And then, she walked with me as I navigated the grief and loss that followed.
I felt a deep sense of loneliness, despite having a lot of love around me.
I longed to hear from other people who’d been through this.
I desperately needed to hear their stories and how they navigated it all.
More than anything, I needed to hear that I’d be okay.
I searched online, collecting and devouring stories through books, podcasts, and blogs.
These stories helped me start to understand my own.
They gave me language.
They gave me hope.
There were a few people who really showed up for me. I could see my pain reflected in their eyes.
They knew they couldn’t take away my grief, but were willing to sit with me in it.
No matter how raw and big it was.
They held me while I cried. They cried too.
They listened as long as I needed to talk - countless hours over days, weeks, months, and years.
They couldn’t fully understand my pain, but I know they let themselves feel it deeply.
They carried some of it for me.
They reminded me I wasn’t alone.
Nourishment
In a healthy ecosystem, roots are just the beginning - sunlight, water, and rich soil make growth possible.
And I began to find those, too.
Sunlight came in the form of people and resources who reminded me that life could still hold joy and meaning, even without children.
It was the friend who believed in my future even when I couldn’t see it myself.
The podcast that made me laugh for the first time in weeks.
The mentor who pointed toward possibility, without rushing me through grief.
My little Pisces heart needs a lot of water - emotional support, presence, softness.
It came through people and resources that could make space for my emotions.
The friend who said, “That sounds really hard,” and “I’m here,” without trying to fix it.
The book that put words to my grief.
The echo of “I’ve felt that too,” from a member of a support group.
And soil, nourishing and supportive, came through the small things that held my life together.
Friends who brought meals, checked in, or remembered hard anniversaries.
People who offered practical help when I didn’t have the energy to ask.
Workshops that taught me to be more compassionate with myself.
This was my new ecosystem.
As time went on, my ecosystem expanded in ways I never expected.
Online, I found people who were also navigating childlessness.
Communities and social spaces became pollinators - spreading ideas, stories, language, and solidarity.
And then there were wildflowers - brief, beautiful bursts of connection.
A meaningful exchange in a comment thread.
A deep and unexpected conversation with a coworker.
A text from an old friend I’d lost contact with.
Not every connection stayed.
But each one offered something real and beautiful in the moment.
Now, when I think about support, I don’t imagine a perfect, permanent group of people who show up exactly when and how you need them, as if by magic.
That version is too small to hold what we really need.
Too rigid for the way grief and healing move and shift.
I imagine a vibrant ecosystem.
A living, breathing network of connections, resources, and relationships that shift and evolve with me.
Some parts long-lasting, others fleeting.
Some rooted deeply, others blooming briefly and beautifully before fading away.
An interconnected web of friends, family, professionals, strangers, community members, and online connections.
Each one playing a role.
Each one nourishing a different part of me.
If you’re hoping to grow your ecosystem and wondering where to begin, start with what you need most right now.
That might be someone to talk to.
It might be a therapist or a book that speaks to your grief.
It might be simply knowing you’re not the only one going through this.
Whatever it is - start there.
And let the rest grow over time.
It doesn’t have to be perfect.
And it won’t stay the same forever.
But it can be beautiful.
And life-giving.
And enough.