Jessica Hepburn
World Childless Week Ambassador
At Storyhouse Childless last September there was a ripple of agreement amongst the audience when someone suggested it took 10 years to heal from childlessness.
I rippled too.
Before I write on, I want to apologise to anyone reading this who has just swiped left but is still hoping for Mr Right. Or anyone who has recently been through the devastation of a / another round of unsuccessful IVF and are questioning whether you’re finally done. Or simply anyone who has reached the brink / the precipice / the abyss for whatever reason – facing a future different from the one you dreamed of. 10 years from now is a long time. And I don’t want to scare you. I want to bring you hope. But I do think there could be something in it.
This month (February 2024) marks a decade since I ‘came out’ about my infertility in my first book – The Pursuit of Motherhood. And next month (March 2024) marks the publication of my new book – Save Me from the Waves. It’s the third and last in a trilogy of work with my fertility journey and childlessness at its emotional core. In the intervening decade lots has happened in my life. In some ways, I’ve made my childlessness my vocation. And whilst I’m never ‘getting over it’ (please don’t dare suggest that I am). Nor do I rule out ever becoming a mother. Even at aged 53, and that’s because I think there are many ways to parent in the world and they don’t all involve a womb. But what I can say – hand on heart, saluting to the sun – is I feel pretty good. I feel pretty healed.
In fact, this week, I was interviewed by Professor Joyce Harper from UCL for a new research study and book she’s writing about health and happiness over 50. Her first question was: ‘How has your life been up to the age of 50?’. I searched for an adjective. And the word that bubbled up unbidden was: ‘lucky’.
Lucky? Lucky! Lucky???!!! For most of my life, and especially during my 11 rounds of unsuccessful IVF (my final one a decade ago last November), I’ve felt ‘Unlucky’. But suddenly I am describing myself as its antonym. What the f*** happened?
10 years.
If you’ve read my books, or you’re signed up to my Substack newsletter which is called ‘Lists of Love’ - you’ll know that I am a diehard list lover. You may also have gathered that my favourite number is three. One of the great things about getting older is that you can wear your eccentricities with pride. So I’m going to end this blog with a little list of three things I’ve done over the last 10 years which changed everything about my relationship with my childlessness. They are written, with love, in the hope they might help you too.
1. I ‘came out’. And yes, I do use that phrase. If you’ve never watched the Brene Brown TED talk on ‘The Power of Vulnerability’ then you must. It’s my best suggestion to anyone who wants to understand why being open and honest about the things that cause us most shame and sadness is a big step to human happiness. Coming out about my infertility and childlessness diminished its power immeasurably. It made me realise it isn’t all of who I am. It’s an important part of me. But I am many other things as well.
2. I found something else to focus on. I always say I lost a decade of my life to ‘Project Baby’. And when I turned 43, I decided enough was enough. So the last ten years has been about going on new adventures which I would never have done if I was a mother. I’ve written and published three books. I’ve swum the English Channel. I’ve run the London Marathon. I’ve climbed Mount Everest. I’ve become the first woman in the world to do all three. I’ve also listened to every episode of my favourite radio programme – Desert Island Discs. I may be the first person to do that too but that feat is impossible to certify. So I may not be a mother but I am a record breaker – and it was my childlessness which gave it to me.
3. I grieved. There’s a lot of talk about ‘disenfranchised grief’ in the childlessness community. What I call ‘the pain of never’ – a loss that is not a loss because you never had it but is a loss nonetheless. I believe you need to find your way to grieve it. I’m a champion of therapeutic support and have done a lot of it myself. But I did my main grieving in the sea and in the mountains. At times my new adventures were hard (as hard as IVF). At times they felt like a version of ‘self harm’. But the hardness helped release my emotional pain and also re-connected me with nature. I had felt betrayed by her when she wouldn’t allow me to conceive and carry a baby, but when she did allow me to swim from England to France, and to reach the top of the world (and saved my life on the way down), I finally felt she loved me, and my grief was done.
So does it take 10 years to heal from childlessness? Who knows? Not me. But I do know this. It is possible to heal.
