Frankie Hockham

I’ve known since I was a teenager that having children might not come easily to me. PCOS was the label I was given. I was told it might affect my fertility, but no one could say how or when. At that age, it's hard to understand what that really means.

Years later, I met my husband at 30. We fell in love and started trying for a baby just before we got married. Quietly hopeful, quietly terrified. But nothing happened. No near-misses. No surprises. Just silence.

We were referred for fertility treatment. There were drugs, scans, needles, endless appointments. Hope became something I rationed, like a precious resource. IVF followed, round after round. One cycle worked…for a moment. Long enough for us to imagine a new chapter. Then it ended. We grieved in silence because there was nothing to show. No name. No scan photo’s. Just a line on a test and then... nothing.

We tried ovarian drilling next. Another attempt to unlock a door that never quite opened. In 2020, I miscarried again. I didn’t even know I was pregnant until it was already over. The loss was quiet but still real. It stays with me.

Now, we are childless. Not by one single choice, but by a long series of moments, decisions, and losses. Sometimes it's circumstance. Sometimes it's just the odds. Sometimes it's something you can't even name.

People often assume childlessness is a space where nothing happened. But in truth, so much did. Love. Hope. Pain. Waiting. Trying. Letting go. Choosing peace, over and over again.

This is where we are. This is still a life. Not a second-best one. Just a different one.