It was March when I left the hospital after a tumour removal and started the 5-year wait to be declared cancer-free.

Sharp, spikey, painful to touch

Difficult to lift, to hold, to carry

Yet I carry it everywhere I go.

Bournemouth,

Though across the room, there is a couple with a baby,

I see red

Red again

Another month

We were told we could have it all. We did everything right.

I still wonder who you might have been—

a laugh echoing through quiet rooms,

tiny shoes by the front door,

finger-painted suns hanging crooked on the fridge.

I wanted so much to be your mom

From as young as I can remember, I dreamt of you

Lost in a world full of expectations.

My own and those of others.

I've always been told how good I am with children

I will sing you a lullaby.
And I will love you till the day I die.

This is an artwork I created while vacating my second art studio.

You have no home in my belly, though I often rest my hands there,

Willing you to take up space within that hollow bowl of my pelvis.

This will make you sterile

The doctor said as I signed my name

My Alex, In the blink of an eye, I was 40. It was never the plan to be single and childfree at that age. But I was. I made an appointment for IVF and decided to go for it. Alone.

There is a Fear I don't say out loud very often.

I wrote this in 2019. At the time my husband and I were going through fertility treatments.

One hard thing about infertility is the feeling of being left behind-over, and over again.

The Childless Girlfriend/stepmom: An Essay on the experience of a 40 something dating a single dad

I never questioned whether I wanted to become a mother. I always knew I did. From a young age I assumed I would get the opportunity.

Like a sunrise viewed through hazy mist,
Life real, yet so opaque.

You said it wouldn’t be easy

And made me believe you loved me

What does a childless, single woman do in August?

I am a 50 year-old teacher in a medium sized school. I have never received flowers or congratulations of any form from my colleagues ever.

Everyday I smile, I say that I’m ok,

As another part of me breaks & falls silently away.

Don’t ask “why no children”, it’s too late, it’s too soon.

Some dreams turn to dust, when the blood leaves your womb

From a young age, I always knew I wanted to be a mum.

com·post / käm-pōst/
noun - • decayed organic material returned to the earth as nourishment.

I felt like I wanted a letter from my narcissistic mother, in which she acknowledged what she did. So I wrote this.

Sometimes I feel happy,
Sometimes I feel sad,

I hold them in the palm of one hand. A tiny pair of blue denim trainers with neat Velcro straps and white trim.

When my twin niece and nephew were born, I was overjoyed to become an aunty and full of longing to become a mother.

At 24, married and desperately wanting children, my husband and I were told at the IVF client, “Don’t waste our time”!

This is a painting I made over 20 years ago. I had taken a few months of work to undergo IVF. I started painting as a form of therapy.

It all started well when we pregnant but suddenly, our of nowhere,it felt like each brick from our wall was falling and we were told our precious baby had died and everything stopped.

I am in the last year of my 30s.

my body is poetry

these curves

these stretch marks

these surgery scars

“I love your necklace. It’s so pretty.”

Names I would have whispered at bedtime.

She smiles at me,

I had always pictured myself being a mom. I had a note file in my phone of baby names.

The things people say…

“Have you checked your vitamin D levels?”

“Have you thought about IVF?”

Every one of your children

Was a baby

Was a pregnancy

As a glass artist, I use my work to explore and manifest ideas.

Therapy is a space designed to provide a holding environment—one where we can gently turn towards those parts of ourselves that have been hidden from us.

Stage 1 the 70s

Brown and orange swirly fabrics, flares and Abba the first time around

Is this what it’s like to be a mother?

Feeling his beating heart against mine

Licks on my cheek instead of kisses.

Most likely two thirds of my life is over – that is, if I’m lucky.

They call them successes, babies smiling beneath clinic logos,
another miracle, another reason for someone like me to keep believing.

No
New Arrival
Baby boy
Baby girl

Someone once told me to pretend the role I need to play at that moment, to fake my feelings, or thoughts, or identity to placate the moment in order to avoid awkward truths.

I started dry pressing flowers

to help me to cope with grief.