My submission is a series of three paintings, each representing a stage on a journey beyond failed fertility treatment. Painting them has provided a release for deep emotions, in a way that words cannot. There are parts of my story for which I am deeply grateful, which are down to a huge amount of luck and good fortune, and which are never taken for granted – being in a stable and loving life partnership, having good health, and having a foundation in life of love, support and encouragement from my parents. For anyone for whom these parts of life involve missing, loss or longing, I see your journey too, with honour and respect from deep within my heart.

The first painting captures emotions at the end of our second and final fertility treatment, following several years of trying to conceive, a journey which ended with an early miscarriage. It marks the moment of letting go of hope, having strived and reached so far to make the impossible happen. I shared it as part of World Childless Week 2020. It is called Hope, out of reach.

Soon afterward, I painted the second painting in the series. The first two paintings came to me very clearly in my mind’s eye, ready formed, waiting to be set free on the page.

This painting is called A long way from home (sometimes I feel like a motherless child, sometimes I feel like a childless mother). It is a painting of the deepest grief and sorrow I have felt for becoming childless, whilst grieving my Mum (who died very suddenly aged 60, shortly before we started trying to become parents) and missing my Mum-in-law (who died aged just 42, when we were in our early adulthood). The sadness and mourning of not being able to be a mother, and not having the love, support and wisdom of my own dear Mum to call on, is profound. The vertical threads of the generations are broken, only the weft remains. The loss, longing and missing is always there, even as I have moved forward beyond the depth of raw grief for childlessness – I wish that she could see me grow through this journey.

I always knew there would be three paintings, and the third would show a view toward a future without children. For a long time, the composition eluded me. I knew it would have a tree in it, but I couldn’t see how to depict what has been and what might be.

A couple of months ago, the image came to me in the middle of the night, and I sleeplessly composed it in my head. It is called Room in my heart. A tree, with branches and leaves for the loving and special relationships in our lives, ancestors past, friends and loved ones present, and the colour and richness they bring. Looking out from its shelter, the bright and joyful things which fill our lives (some of which might not have been possible if life’s road had taken that other fork, and we had become parents). Our cats are with us – though one has very recently passed over to the other side, but I couldn’t bring myself to move her in the painting.

Behind the tree, a glimpse of the life that might have been, my Mum and Dad, my Mum-in-law, grandparenting our children who never came. There is room in my heart for all this – for what might have been, and at the same time for appreciation of what life now holds.

At first, the life that might have been filled my heart to bursting and the sadness and loss were boundless, triggered at every turn. With time, my heart has grown, and the missing ones have their own space. Sometimes a memory or a daydream, fragile and fleeting as a butterfly, sets me to thinking of them. I do so tenderly and with love, then gently close the door on that shadow realm in my imagination. I do not dwell there for long. At other times, the door is flung wide open unbidden, when something in the world reminds me of what might have been: a couple with a baby on the hotel terrace; a friend sharing photos of her Mum’s birthday milestone, surrounded by the young ones, their smiles a mirror of each other; a lunch out surrounded on every side by grown up children, with their parents and their babies; another dear friend sharing joyful photos of a beach-side holiday with her boys and her Mum and Dad. They all richly deserve their happiness in life, and I wish them well in it. And at the same time, I deeply feel the missing, loss and longing for that other life.

There is room in my heart for all this. I have moved imperceptibly forward, out of the storm of pure grief to a place of calm waters, with hidden depths.

Rachel A