Aisha Balesaria

World Childless Week Ambassador

‘Rising from the ashes’ is how Jennifer Aniston describes her current phase of life after IVF. This might sound dramatic to those who’ve never been in the infertility trenches, but that’s exactly how the ‘come back’ feels after ten, arduous years of back-to-back IVF fails.

While a phoenix rising aptly describes my present state, for a very long time I was more like a turkey, feebly emerging from the abyss (I type, laughing out loud). I assure you, nothing about infertility was funny back then. But surprisingly, five years on, the fears I had surrounding my non-parenting life are undoubtedly different today.

I’ve written many blogs about my difficult journey to parenthood, receiving a late endometriosis diagnosis, 11 failed IVF cycles, miscarriages and the grief of walking away without a baby. As the years have gone by, I’ve certainly challenged my perspectives surrounding motherhood, and the work I currently do supporting others in similar circumstances has been a huge part of my healing. And right now feels like an appropriate time to write about the nuances and what I’ve learned about life without children, post ‘stopping trying to conceive’.

Can life without children be a fulfilling one?

It’s a question that shouldn’t need answering, but yes, of course it can.

That being said, it didn’t feel this way after many failed IVF cycles and, for a while, heartbreak gave me a very distorted view about how I believed my life should look. The reality is, I have a wonderful, fulfilling life without children – but, here’s the thing, life without kids (when you wanted them) really is nuanced, so here’s what I want people (mums, childless, undecided) to take away from my blog...

There’s a huge misconception that there are only two outcomes when you’re involuntary childless: you’re either in the depths of grief, or totally over it and living happily. The emotions surrounding involuntary childlessness are on a spectrum and our situation is like any other person’s who’s experienced bereavement and heartache. Some people will never move forward from their grief, others may totally embrace life without kids, later identifying as ‘child free’. Then there’ll be those in- between, like me, who have gotten through the depths of grief, embraced life without kids, but still have moments of sadness surrounding it. This isn’t an exhaustive list, and how one feels or identifies may change day to day on the sliding scale of the ‘childless/childfree spectrum’.

We get to define who we are, some days I’m more childfree than childless (and vice versa) – my aim has always been to lean into the freedom that life without children brings. There is no right or wrong way to live a life without kids. Much like death, grieving over not having a child is something most of us don’t get over, it’s something we have to work through, constantly. And while I’m no longer grieving (hoorah!), or wishing for the life I used to, I will always be sad about some things, including my babies who are no longer here with me. These are the nuances of childlessness, dear readers.

What fills my cup if I don’t have children to fill it?

Many things! Probably too much to write about here. When I knew I’d no longer become a mum, I shifted my focus.

Travelling brings me the most joy and having the freedom to up sticks any time I want is a huge privilege. I feel fantastically ‘child free’ when I travel because I don’t have the pressures of worrying about a child, fitting in time away around school dates or the expenses of an extra plane ticket. I’ve been able to visit destinations that aren’t so child friendly and it’s been amazing ticking off even more places on my bucket list since stopping trying to conceive.

When I think about it, the life I’m living now feels no different to when I never thought about having kids. I continue to fill my cup with writing, coaching, faith, family, husband, cat cuddles, brunch dates, dinner parties and, much needed rest days.

Pronatalism makes people, particularly women, feel as though they have no purpose. Not me! I definitely don’t need to do ‘big things’ to make up for not being a mother and neither do I cram in copious amounts of travelling to fill the (so called) ‘no child void’. My days are pretty similar to others’ – working, cooking, doing household chores – although I do have the added hardship of managing a life with chronic illnesses.

I was diagnosed with stage IV endometriosis after seeing several doctors over a 15-year period. And, more recently, it was discovered I had adenomyosis. For a very long time both conditions caused chronic pain and devastating debilitation, affecting my fertility, social life, intimacy, pregnancy, and my physical and mental health.

What I’ve learned five years post infertility:

We’re fine, until someone says something stupid:

Societal pressures, taboos and stigma are still widespread (yes, even in 2024) and can negatively impact how we feel about ourselves when we don’t have kids.

When the life you didn’t choose is peppered with unsolicited advice (often bad), it can leave you feeling wounded, unconfident and unworthy.

Previously, people’s comments and judgements would pull me back to square one, even when I was at a good place with my childless circumstances.

Creating community and cultivating friendships with those in similar circumstances assisted my healing and gave me a true sense of belonging that really helped strengthen my self-worth as a woman without children. I came to realise that I don’t owe society kids, my parents grandkids or people an explanation about my circumstances!

Don’t take advice from others who’ve never spent a day in your shoes:

“When setting out on a journey, do not seek advice from those who have never left home”. Thanks Rumi, there are no truer words! I wouldn’t dream of telling someone how to parent their child, so stop telling childless folk what to do!

“Don’t give up”, a phrase I commonly heard (and still hear), doesn’t reflect my circumstances – infertility unfortunately didn’t allow me this privilege. Infertility, being single, not having a womb, and mental health issues are just a few reasons why those (like me) who wanted kids can’t necessarily have them. We’ve all heard the stories about those lucky enough to have a baby through IVF *yawn*, but that’s not evidence the same thing will happen for everyone (because it didn’t)!

Much like Rumi’s quote, don’t take advice from those who’ve never been (and could never in a million years cope) a day in your shoes!

Some people will never try to ‘get it’:

This can be due to privilege (they had a baby easily), ignorance or black and white thinking. Some onlookers either water down my lived experience (infertility) and wonder what the fuss is about that I can’t have kids, or they can’t fathom I’ve accepted a life without them. Not many people understand it’s a situation I had no choice over or the nuances of it.

If infertility and people’s circumstances surrounding childlessness received the same amount of empathy as other medical conditions and life altering situations, healing from this incredibly hard journey would be much easier. People don’t have to have experienced what I’ve been through to know what hurt and pain feels like, they just need to believe us when we tell them our stories.

Examine your internalised pronatalism:

This won’t be popular and, in the past, I’ve had to re-examine my own beliefs about what it means to not be a mum. Knowing you’ll never be a parent is really difficult to accept, so it’s more than okay to be sad about that; however, this is very different to believing you can NEVER, EVER have a happy life unless there are kids to fill it.

When I began accepting my circumstances, I started to surround myself with people who believed I could still be happy and fulfilled without kids and it made all the difference. I know happiness comes in so many forms (because I fill my days with a variety of beautiful things), and parenting is just one of them.

Working towards your happiness is a daily task:

When I stopped trying to conceive I didn’t consider alternative paths to parenthood – adoption, surrogacy, donor eggs – I’d been through enough. The pressure to ‘try’ beyond your capacity, and consider every possibility carries a lot of emotional weight. And when you don’t, the assumption is you couldn’t have wanted it enough. Society will have you believing partner + baby = the only way to be happy, *rolls eyes*, so when you’re struck by involuntary childlessness, you can forget how to be happy.

Unlike others, we have to put so much more effort into nurturing a life that brings us happiness and joy because we’re going against societal norms. Five years after my fertility journey ended, looking for joy doesn’t feel like such hard work. I now have a lot more space to appreciate what I currently have, as the grief I had doesn’t take up that much room. I try to find joy in small, everyday things and I make sure I always plan something to look forward to.

Not everything is a beautiful opportunity to grow:

Preparing for a child that never arrives is incredibly painful. Our agony doesn’t need to be turned into something worthwhile and our fears about how we’ll embrace a life without kids shouldn’t be silenced to make other people feel comfortable. There is nothing good in finding out (15 years too late) that I have severe endometriosis and adenomyosis (the primary causes of my infertility). These conditions heavily impact what I can do each day. For the rest of my life I will have to manage the symptoms of these diseases, including pain and chronic fatigue, so there are no silver linings or lessons to be learned here, thank you very much!

Our journey doesn’t need to be compared to something ‘worse’:

How many times have I heard the comment; “at least you don’t have cancer”? When others compare our situation to something they consider ‘worse’, it doesn’t make it less painful. Imagine, if I told someone with cancer not to be upset because there are children in war torn countries, starving to death, who’ve lost their entire family, home and livelihood, who have it worse. It would make me pretty unkind and uncompassionate. Something will always be worse! Yes, we can acknowledge that and at the same time want our pain and suffering validated, no matter how big or small someone thinks it is.

Letting that sh*t go:

The difficult part of the journey was moving forward. I realised that I could choose not to stay hurt or angry and get support to help me process the trauma and pain I’d experienced for such a long time. It’s incredibly hard to see the world moving on after you’ve been through so much. However, moving forward didn’t mean I had to forget my journey. I write and speak about my experiences in the hope that my story can offer hope and support to others. Sharing my story has been incredibly healing.

Holding on to pain can be the only link to what we’ve been through (I’ve been there), but letting go of the hurt which took up so much space allowed more joy to enter – it’s the best thing I did!

Rising from the ashes

Five years post infertility, I’m nobody’s mum and I’m assuredly okay with it. ‘I’m a woman without kids’ and when I read that out loud it almost feels like a rebellious act! At some point post infertility, I thought I may begin to like parts of the life I’m fortunate enough to have, but I never believed I would actually fall in love with it (without kids)!

Childlessness isn’t linear and there are nuances to embracing our lives without kids. That being said, I will always be sad about some things, the anniversaries of my due dates and whenever I see twins. It will be a reminder of the two little lives I carried that are no longer here, and I will always wonder what my life may have looked like with them in it.

However, my current life has taken a pivotal turn and the things I desired five, or even ten years ago (including motherhood), no longer have a place in the life I am building now. I’ve risen from the ashes, I’m at peace with the decision I made to stop trying to conceive and I’m about to tick the next adventure off my bucket list!