Auntie MK, want to build a sand sculpture gallery?

The answer is always yes. Children naturally practice presence and mindfulness in the most beautiful ways, giving transcendental meditators a run for their money. Thankfully, on this particular beach day, my mind let my niece’s imagination take me with her. I found myself happily covered in sand, discussing which sculptures should be on display in our gallery. My normally tired soul exhaled deeply and let joy in, thanks to pure presence in the form of sand sculptures and my four year old goddaughter.

Auntie MK, I wish you had a baby. Then I could have a girl cousin.

Gulp.

Because of our trips to the nail salon and extensive conversations about clothes, I’d obviously birth a daughter.

I do too, honey. But someday when I have a baby, you’ll be able to teach her everything.

Yeah, I’ll teach her all the girl things. I’ll probably be ten or something, right?

Maybe she’ll be ten, telling her youngest cousin about manicures. Or maybe she’ll be 18, telling her college roommate, “My Aunt MK bought me this Tiffany’s ring for graduation. She never had kids, so she treats us like her own.”

I’ll be 35 in a few months. I’m single, and I recently talked to my doctor about freezing my eggs. My doctor’s first response to me was, “so you’re almost 35 and feeling the pressure.” That’s not it for me. It’s not pressure. It’s not a lack of understanding that we’re all on different timelines, nor is it a desire to fit in with my peers on Instagram. It’s the heart pang I feel when I hear my father talking hockey with my three year old nephew, wondering if my children will be added to Mimi and Pa’s crew of grandkids. It’s the radio-off-pull-over-on-the-drive-home kind of cry that happens on Christmas night after witnessing the magic of Santa through the eyes of my siblings’ and friends’ kids. It’s grief. Living grief.

I hadn’t heard the phrases “involuntarily childless” or “childless not by choice” until I happened upon the podcast A Single Serving and listened to the episode The Beyonce of Childlessness. It was an interview with Jody Day, founder of Gateway Women, a support network for childless women. There are many reasons someone might find themselves in this category. In my case, it’s not having a partner. Thankfully for many, having a partner is not a necessity for being a mother. In the podcast, Jody Day gave me permission to feel the following truth in my bones: if you are involuntarily childless and you want to have a child with a partner; the fact that there are other options for motherhood does not lessen your pain, nor does it invalidate your grief. Right now, my childless grief is one that is about my lifelong desire to bring children into the world with a loving partner by my side. Being involuntarily childless is often a silent and painfully isolating grief. Answering “no” to a new acquaintance’s “do you have children?” touches an excruciating heart wound while having to prepare for the well intentioned gut punches of: “One boy, one girl! Want to see pictures?” or “You can sleep in?! What’s that like?” I say this while recognizing the privileges and freedoms I have as a single person AND the immense responsibilities, exhaustion, and sacrifices of parenthood.

Watching my siblings, friends, and coworkers have children has felt like cheering from the JV bench, and then quietly crying on the bus ride home because I didn’t get to be a part of the victory. I’ve been teaching in the same school for over a decade, and have witnessed the school culture naturally shift from drinks on Friday afternoons to conversations about maternity leave and daycare. Not being part of the shift that most groups in my life have made often leaves me feeling behind in life or less than, and

like I have very little to contribute to conversations with my peer groups. I’ve become an expert at half smiling and half engaging in conversations, while trying to mask my feeling of alienation. Some days, when I’m deep in the fog, I have to withdraw completely from and avoid any conversations about in-laws, potty training, or birthday parties. Then, the guilt sets in because I worry that it seems like I don’t care. The thing is, I’m genuinely happy for the people in my life who have children. I care about them deeply. It’s just hard to hear about their everyday happenings when they are triggers for the greatest void in my life.

Think of someone in your life who might align with my story.

I challenge you to hold space for her without offering other ways she can become a mother, or asking if she’s on dating apps. I’m not suggesting that you eliminate all kid talk from your conversations. What I am suggesting, though, is that you ask about the amazing ways she’s created a life for herself that is full and real. If she’s anything like me, she’s working hard to get to know herself and really love herself. She’s rewriting her story so that singleness and childlessness are not the most interesting things about her identity. Her story is now about the connections she’s created, communities she’s joined, and purpose she’s found, all outside of a partner and children. Ask her what has brought her joy lately, what book she’s reading, or what music she’s been into. Talk about your personal and professional goals together. Invite her to go out to dinner or for a walk- just the two of you. Tell her you’re proud of her. Buy her a supply of gift bags and tissue paper so that she doesn’t have to stop at CVS on the morning of another baby shower. Hell, remind her she can just send the gift. This is a tough one: try to have compassion if she seems disengaged when you talk about your children. I promise she cares; she’s just protecting her heart. She’ll be back.

And if you are someone whose story aligns with mine:

I teared up writing this part for you, for us.

Avoid social media around the first day of school, holidays, and any other time when you’re deep in your grief. Pay close attention to the things in our world that light a fire in you. Go learn more about those things. In turn, you’ll learn about yourself. Fiercely honor your needs and boundaries even if it means disappointing other people. Read that again. Consider this your permission slip to speak your truth. It’s ok to skip a family event or even a whole family vacation. I speak from experience when I say- they’ll still love you. It’s ok to tell your mom friends you’d rather hang out with each of them one on one because being around the whole group is too painful for you right now. Trust me, their responses are likely to be wildly understanding and loving. It’s also ok not to explain. The phrase “I’m not going to be able to make it this time” is all you need. Let’s promise each other to show ourselves the same compassion and the same grace that we show to others. Let’s remind each other that we are not behind in life or less than: we are whole just as we are. Let’s celebrate the degrees we’ve worked for, the salaries we’ve negotiated, the careers we’ve established, the promotions we’ve earned, the cars we’ve purchased, the damn trash we’ve taken out every week in the homes that we pay for, the social circles we’ve built, our own heartaches we’ve eased, the brave healing and deep growth we’ve done. All on our own.

Let’s hold on to hope for each other.

MaryKathryn Conceison