My childlessness story is a fifteen year journey of assumptions, disappointments, denials, self blame and what I now recognise as trauma.

In August 2000, I had the slightly quirky wedding of my dreams and thought my future was all mapped out. I assumed, as I think most of us do, that we would have children.

We used to have friendly arguments about their names – we settled on Isaac or Charlotte - and we discussed who would give up work to do the child care. I was thirty-five when we got married, so we wanted to get pregnant sooner rather than later, but it just didn’t happen. We did all the usual fertility tests, had sex at all the right times; I gave up alcohol, reduced caffeine, looked at sperm through a microscope; but nothing happened and nothing was explained. Looking back, we never really talked about anything other than the practicalities of trying. We never discussed our feelings, in fact I don’t really remember my emotions at the time, other than a sense of anticipation when I thought I might be pregnant and the disappointment when it wasn’t so. There was no panic. We were happy and in love, life was good and we still thought it would just happen someday.

Until we weren’t happy and in love anymore, and life wasn’t good and it still hadn’t happened. As my marriage ended, I focussed on moving on, being strong and independent. Somewhere I must have buried a fear that my hopes and expectations of having children were disappearing and I didn’t dig up that fear because it was just too dreadful to even acknowledge.

In Spring 2004 my sister phoned me to tell me she was pregnant with twins. I vividly remember the raw emotions I felt at that news. I was genuinely happy for her - and for me at the prospect of being an aunty. I am close to my sister so this was truly joyful news. I was relieved that my parents would be grandparents and realised that I had been feeling guilty that I hadn’t been able to give them this gift.

And I felt overwhelming sadness at my own failure to become a mother or even to be a wife.

I expressed this to no-one.

I cried for a while, baked lots of cakes, booked a holiday and thought I was ok. I briefly recognised guilt, a sense of failure and shame; kept these to myself and tucked them away in that box of non-acknowledgment for the next twelve years. In 2015 my ex husband contacted me to tell me our dog had died, he had remarried and they were expecting a baby. When the call ended I curled up on the sofa and cried like I was in pain – which, of course, I was.

I remember trying to process all three bits of news and for some reason I told myself I was most upset about the dog. I was actually feeling like a complete failure because someone else was giving him a baby, but I told myself and anyone else who would listen that I was most upset that the dog had died.

What was really going through my head were the most desperate thoughts...

“That was supposed to be our baby.” “Why didn’t you tell me you really wanted a baby and we could have tried harder?” “If he’s having a baby with someone else it must have been my body that wouldn’t get pregnant.” “I am a good person, I wasn’t the one who messed up our marriage so why didn’t I deserve to have a baby?” "I would have been a good mum."

And I carefully dug up that little buried box of denial and shut those thoughts and feelings away.

This was the thing I had dreaded most, but I still couldn't acknowledge what I was feeling, even to myself.

It wasn't until three years after this chapter that I began to realise that my childlessness was having an impact on my health, happiness and wellbeing and maybe I needed to work through what had happened.

Sarah Bradley