Sandra McNicol
For some time now, my grief around childlessness has settled into something less like crashing waves and more like a steady sea. Over time, we become experts at scanning the horizon, anticipating where the pain might come from. So when I see it I make choices. Often I need to put myself first. Or find support. And for the most part, it feels like plain sailing.
But the seas can suddenly and unexpectedly change.
And last summer, they did just that.
Like many women in their late 40s and 50s, I’ve been navigating the murky waters of perimenopause. Hot nights, insomnia, and hormonal turmoil pushed me to seek medical help. My regular gynecologist was on holiday, and instead of visiting the usual satellite clinic — a place I trust, filled with older women and far from motherhood’s reminders — I was referred to the hospital clinic just across the road.
What greeted me there was unexpected.
And jarring.
Pregnant women. Everywhere.
I knew instantly: I was in dangerous territory.
What I hadn’t considered was that it was Friday, August 16, the day after a public holiday in Spain. Most people had taken a “puente” — a bridge day — to create a long weekend. Fewer appointments. Fewer staff. A waiting room full of women experiencing complications. These weren’t just women expecting babies. These were women in distress.
And there I was — childless, vulnerable — doing my best to disappear into my phone.
But there was no escaping this unexpected storm.
The wait stretched nearly an hour. When the consultation door opened, I watched a couple walk out in tears. In that instant, I was back in 2017 and 2018, back to my own heartbreaks and losses, in another clinic which felt and smelt like this one.
I tried to hold it together.
To stay present.
But just minutes into my appointment, a nurse burst in:
There’s a woman who needs an emergency appointment. She’s 20 weeks and bleeding heavily.
There it was.
My fears. My memories. My grief.
No longer imagined — now spoken aloud.
I felt my stomach and heart sink, but I held it together — oddly helped, perhaps, by my frustration that the male doctor seemed completely uneducated on menopause and how unnecessary bloodwork was for a 49-year-old woman. That irritation may have helped me survive the moment.
But I left that clinic feeling shaken, like a part of my grief was reawakened.
And the weird thing is — I’m a therapist. I hold space for precious CNBC stories every day. I witness pain. I hold space. I listen. I know how to support. And it feels healing to me to hear others and see them step bravely forward in their healing journey. But this was different.
It was Barcelona, my own territory. It was unexpected. It was real-time.I wasn’t hearing about loss — I was watching others potentially live through it, right in front of me.
That experience — as painful as it was — became a moment of truth.
I spoke to my husband.
I shared it with my clinical supervisor.
And in doing so, I realised something profound:
I had grieved the children I lost.
But I hadn’t grieved her — the version of me who thought it was easy to get and stay pregnant.
The innocent one.
The one who believed that getting pregnant meant having a baby.
The one who thought motherhood was a choice available to everyone.
The one who still believed there was a solution for every problem.
With my clinical supervisor’s help, I gave that part of me a voice.
I let her speak.
I let her be witnessed — in private, and in public. On podcasts. With peers. In blogs. In community.
Because healing doesn’t come just from surviving.
It comes from being seen, witnessed and held.
And while I often hear people say they’re never triggered anymore, I want to offer something different.
I do still get triggered — rarely now, six years on — but when it happens, I feel more resourced, more supported, and mostly I can step in and out of it more quickly.
That day reminded me that even with all the tools and healing I’ve done, I and we don’t have to do this alone.
The healthcare system holds a responsibility too.
We need choice.
We need trauma-informed care.
We need waiting rooms that don’t retraumatize.
I have the privilege of choosing my doctor — someone who doesn’t offer maternity services, whose clinic feels like a safe place.
But this shouldn’t be a privilege.
It should be a standard.
Safe spaces matter.
