Dear God,

Why?

Why are most people I know married? Why aren’t I?

Why do most people I know have children? Why don’t I?

I know I made a mistake in my 20s and married the “wrong” guy. But other people have made mistakes too, and then they found the “right” person. Why don’t I get a second chance? Why haven’t I found the “right” guy?

Why?

It hasn’t been for lack of trying, that’s for sure. I’ve asked friends to set me up. I’ve tried multiple dating apps for a decade and have gone on countless dates - most of them leaving me in tears on the way home. I’ve put my introvert-self out there and attended many co-ed MeetUp events. I’ve gone to church “youth” groups, even driving an hour away for one of them. I’ve also asked my mother if her friends know anyone - something I would never have done when I was younger! Short of putting an ad for my single self up on a billboard, what more should I do, God? Why has it been so easy for everyone else to find their special someone? Why hasn’t it been easy for me?

Why?

You know I always wanted a husband and children, God. I wanted them from the time I was a little girl, playing “house” with my dolls. I’ve had so much training, God. I helped take care of my seven younger siblings. I’ve taught hundreds of elementary school children. I’ve baby-sat and taken care of my friends’ children. I like to think I’d pass whatever tests there may be to become a mother, yet I haven’t even been given the chance.

Why?

Time is running out, God. I’ll be 40 soon. I know you can work miracles, but I’ve been praying to you about this for a long time, and my hope is running out, God. My mother has been praying for me too. So have my friends. We don’t hear or see any answers, God.

Why?

Today I found out another friend of mine is pregnant, God. That’s two just this summer. My “baby” sister is now married. My younger cousin has a child. My cousin who also went through a divorce like me got remarried and has children. Kids I baby-sat for when I was a teenager are married and have children. Everyone on TV and in the movies is married and has children. My students are children. Their parents are younger than me and they have children. My colleagues are married and have children. The neighbors have children. Everyone is moving on with the circle of life. Why am I still stuck in singleville? Why don’t I have children? Why?

It hurts, God. It hurts to feel alone in a world where I don’t fit in.

It feels strange, God. It feels unnatural not to “become one flesh” (Genesis 2:24), not to “be fruitful and multiply” (Genesis 1:28).

I am embarrassed, God. I don’t know what to say when people ask me why I’m not married, or why I don’t have children. Why don’t I God?

Why?

I am sad, God. Sad that I don’t have grandchildren to give to my parents. Sad that I don’t have nieces or nephews to share with my siblings. Sad that I’ll never feel a child stir in my womb. Sad that I’ll never hold my own flesh and blood in my arms. Sad that I’ll never send a child off to their first day of school. Sad that I’ll never worry about where they are and what they’re doing when they’re a teenager. Sad that I’ll never get to watch them grow up and become an adult. Sad that they won’t get to hold me in their arms when I am old and gray. Sad for a lifetime of memories - good and bad - that simply never will be. Why do I have to miss out on all this, God?

Why?

I am mad, God. Mad that everyone else gets these things and I don’t.

I am jealous, God. Jealous of the weddings. Jealous of the baby showers. Jealous of the Christmas cards with the happy family photos. Jealous of the Facebook posts showing how great it is to be married with kids. Why them? Why not me?

Why?

I am worthless, God. Why am I even here, God? If I’m not supposed to be married or have children, then why did you put me on this Earth, God? What is your purpose for me, God? If you could at least tell me what my “Plan B” is, then maybe I could try to embrace it. But I don’t even know what it is, God!

I am afraid, God. Afraid to spend the rest of my life like this. Afraid to live a life that is not how I imagined it.

I am 39. I am single. I am childless. I did not choose this life. This is me, God. This is my life.

Why?

Anon.