Stephanie Joy Phillips
World Childless Week Founder
Phew… and just like that it’s all over again; World Childless Week 2026 is done and dusted - or is it? Our seven days have finished for now but the stories, webinars and emotions of every description can still be felt in every fibre of my being. I know they exist and are a part of me every day going forward.
Each webinar felt like a safe zone to me and I hope they felt that way for you too? An hour of being embraced and gently held as I became one part of a larger community (one forget me not within a glorious blaze of blue); encompassing support, recognition, validation, respect and so much more.
Each year I build a wall against the emotions I feel in every submission but the wall always starts to crumble during World Childless Week and my determination to stay strong dissolved this year during the very last webinar. I felt my voice start to crack as I said my last few words and when I hit the button to stop the webinar my tears started to flow. I let go of my worries that the week would encounter any problems and my tiredness and every emotion I’d held onto from reading your submissions rushed to be released. I sometimes think I may come across as cold because I deal with the submissions in a systematic way in order to process them as quickly as possible, but I want you to know you all touch my heart.
I add the occasional submission myself and this year I wrote The Clubs No One Wants To Belong To as part of Childless: Disability and Chronic Illness. The clubs in questions being childlessness and living with cancer. It’s not a new subject matter for me as I’ve compared my experience of cancer to my childlessness in previous blogs. The reason for mentioning this blog is because three months ago I had a 6-month check up CT scan. It had already been delayed for two months (due to complications with my veins) and despite the overwhelming scanxiety I felt hopeful of hitting two years as NED (no evidence of disease). My hopes were dashed when I was informed the cancer was growing again in my right lung.
I hoped to have an ablation as the procedure only involves an overnight stay (been there, done that and worn the t-shirt – twice) or second choice SABR radiotherapy (high intensity treatment that only requires a few sessions - yep, one t-shirt at the back of the cupboard). Unfortunately because of the way the cancer has spread both of these options were ruled out. So now I was looking at 25-30 sessions of standard radiotherapy over 5-6 weeks (damn, a new t-shirt) and/or chemotherapy (you’re getting the idea - 2 faded t-shirts on the floor in the cupboard).
A few weeks ago the plan changed to fewer sessions of radiotherapy but at a higher intensity. I didn’t know how soon the treatment would begin and hoped it wouldn’t coincide with World Childless Week. Thankfully it didn’t but just a few minutes before participating in the webinar Nothing To Prove The beauty of life free of pronatalist culture I had a call with my oncologist and it was confirmed I would have a pre-treatment scan the following week. There were tears but I had a job to do so I wiped them away and got on with the webinar.
A week later I had my scan and my treatment was confirmed as starting on the 8th October. They’ve decided to up the intensity and reduce the quantity to 12 sessions with a scan in three months to check it has done the job.
Time can sometimes be on our side and at other times each second can feel like a day. My original scan had been scheduled for April but didn’t take place until June. Waiting for the radiologists to speak with the oncologists whilst working around their holidays felt torturous. Relying on others to get in touch whilst encountering answer machines which don’t take messages, and secretaries that only work part time made it seem I was hitting my head against a brick wall time and time again.
So where did I find peace, solace, and how did I fill my time over these weeks? You guessed it – World Childless Week. Every single one of you has helped my sanity. Focusing and equally getting lost in your stories has helped me hold my reality in check. Without even knowing anything you are my rock and have been so since my original diagnosis in 2019.
Again I see comparisons between cancer and childlessness:
The hope of a happy ending being dashed time and time again
The feelings of being lost or hidden within a system
The idea of being a statistic and not an individual
The physical, mental and emotional anguish
The grief of not being able to change the situation
The jealousy of seeing others reach their desired conclusion
The inability to see a deadline to the pain
The loss of control
Am I sick of the “well meaning” comments and advice, yes.
Am I grateful to be alive, yes.
Have I felt guilty for feeling low when I am fully aware people younger than me, including children and babies get diagnosed with cancer too, yes.
Have I felt jealous when I know people who have been diagnosed with cancer after me, undergone one treatment and come out the other end cancer free, 100% yes, but am I equally over the moon happy for them, again yes.
Being both childless not by choice and someone living with cancer I’ve been in multiple situations where I’ve felt the sting of inequality and unfairness. We know life isn’t fair but sometimes it would be nice to be wrapped in a soft blanket where our worries never surface and all feels good in the world.
This last weekend was Storyhouse Childless and I didn’t publicly mention I was hoping to go because I didn’t know if I would make it with treatment plans looming. Thankfully, I did. The talks were great (particularly the Men’s Panel) and the Open Mic was a beautiful time of poetry, storytelling, laughter and song.
It was the singing (totally unexpected and unprepared for) on Saturday afternoon during the open mic that made my heart race. It felt magical as everyone united in the words, their meaning and simply the beautiful melody of coming together. I blinked back the tears and focused on the ceiling whilst trying to stop myself squeak rather than sing as my throat tightened and filled with the emotions unsaid.
Later the same evening I sat at a table and dined with others whom I had spent time with across the weekend. My eyes filled and the tears came as I could no longer hold inside everything that had been happening. I briefly shared my hidden news that the cancer had returned and I would be starting radiotherapy in just over a week’s time. I shared because I felt seen, witnessed, heard and safe. I felt comfortable to be open and honest amongst friends and with people who have become my chosen childless family.
The love we share in our community can sometimes remain unspoken but I want to say you matter to me and have unknowingly wrapped me in the warmth of a soft blanket. On your darkest days you have brought me light and for that I will always be grateful.
