My colleague told me today that she was pregnant. I smiled and congratulated her wholeheartedly. At last, I thought, I have accepted my fate. I didn’t well up or excuse myself to get some air as I used to, but was happy for her.
And I was. But on my walk home, I realised that my wound of childlessness hadn’t healed. My mind was racing, I was struggling to breathe as tears rolled down my face. How could I be so naïve to think that I had overcome the pain of childlessness and accepted my future?
It is a cross I bear every day. My life stretches out ahead of me, and it is a desert where once I had dreamt of joy and meaning. I feel overlooked, with motherhood lauded in society; those like me are forgotten and taken for granted. If I am not a mother, then what am I? And what can I be? What is worth being?
I continue to experience loss. I will never experience the secure embrace of a child, nor have responsibility for their tantrums. I will not be looked after in my old age, but left to fend for myself with no legacy to leave. I will never proudly display their poor attempts at artwork, nor hear them sing in a concert. I will seek out the non-mothers, rather than face the prying questions or glib assumptions of mothers who cannot understand my perspective. I will never see my father’s face beam as a grandfather to his grandchild.
The grief of childlessness is so profound to me. I prepared for the grief of losing my mother for over 40 years until it came to pass. And I prepare to grieve for my father, such is the natural order of things. However, my dream of having a child – a dream drilled into me from infant days and peddled by society – is still flickering, despite knowing deep down that it can never come true. I see it flickering and I turn away, hoping that I will not see the moment it extinguishes and then to know that my fate is sealed and irreversible.
I am looking for hope and forgiveness. Hope for my future. And forgiveness for my inability to bear a child, and for a dream shattered.
As I walk home, tears stinging in my eyes, these thoughts wedge themselves into my head, tormenting me with the could-have-beens and what-ifs. And yet they change nothing. The wounds of childlessness do not heal fast, and mine are laid bare tonight after months of careful disguise and distraction. I may not have scars on my body from a pregnancy or childbirth, but my scar of childlessness is deeper and etched into my soul.
I resent these ugly feelings and I chastise myself for feeling them. I must, however, remember that they are not feelings of jealousy or malice. They are a sign of grief, pure and simple, of a path that I had wanted to tread and that I have lost the key to.
Despite the scar of childlessness gaping open again tonight, I must carry on. I hope to find courage to become a role model for other women who may follow my path and feel as dejected and isolated as I have done. I hope to show them the way and tell them the truth: that there is a life worth living regardless of parental status. Perhaps even a life worth grasping and a life worth loving. I wonder what sort of a pioneer I can become, to illuminate this path and welcome others into this way of life. I hope to continue to find healing, so that the wound that broke open this evening one day becomes a scar that shows the immense bravery and recovery I have made.
Anonymous
Photo by Donald Giannatti on Unsplash