Anonymous

Dear Best Friend,  

I wonder if you remember this moment: It’s two years since I found out I would be permanently childless. In that time, I have been made redundant, broken up with my partner and lost my Dad. I am trying to scrape my way back towards healing. We’re walking back to your house, your little girl walking ahead of us, the child you had when I was trying and failing to get pregnant. I tell you I have signed up for a one year course to help me process my childless grief and move forward. You say,  

Isn’t about time you were over that by now? 

I know – I think – that you mean well, that you don’t want me to wallow in my grief and get stuck there. 

I try and persuade you that I am doing this course to help me to move on. But I don’t think you get it. 

Thre are so many things I wish I had said. Things like,  

It’s up to me when and how I heal.

Of course, I am not over it. A part of me never will be. But I am doing all I can to look after myself.

How would you feel if I said that to you about your divorce?

Childlessness is a permanent grief that will change as I grow older, and it’s a grief you’ll never understand. Allow me to feel what I feel and do what I need without judgement and with understanding.

I shouldn’t have to apologise to you for doing what I need to do.

Yes, I am angry. I am hurt. But I don’t say anything. And, after a while, it feels as if it is too late. When I try and talk about being childless, I feel as if you’re not interested. You seem to gloss over my experience while talking at length about your life, your frustrations with bringing up your child. Part of me wants to say to you, don’t complain about being a parent when it is what I long for. But most of the time, when we talk, there isn’t room for me to share how I feel about anything. It’s all about you. It’s the parallels between my life and yours that hurt the most. The things that are the same and the things that are different. But you are a flawed hurting human too and I get that. It’s just that I want you to understand it about me too.  

I’d like you to understand where I am in my childless journey and how that changes. A lot of the time, I feel all right about it, and I just get on with living my life and then something will push the grief button and I will feel sad again. Like seeing my god daughter’s shiny silver trainers. Like seeing a little girl with two beautiful pony tails and wanting to be the one who could brush and style my own little girl’s hair. So some things do still hurt. And, although it is too late now, if I could still have a child, I would. Or rather, if my younger self could still have a child, I would want it for her. I still want it, I still mourn for it. I am still sad for myself. I am still on my journey and I wish that you might still, sometimes, ask me about it. I just would still like my grief to be acknowledged by my friends with children, to be considered, as sometimes in the past, it has felt ignored. I have felt ignored. 

A few years later, you have had a painful relationship break up and you want to get together so we can talk about it. But when we actually meet, it seems that what is most on your mind is how I have been with you and your daughter since she was born and all the things you found hard. You say I haven’t helped enough, that I am never available to look after your daughter when you need me to. You say it is really hard being a single parent. You say, my upset when your daughter was born made it hard for you to feel celebratory and that it would have been better if I hadn’t come to the christening. J thought I had to, I say, I tried to hide the way I was feeling. I am so surprised, so taken aback, that it is hard to think of what I want to say. When I talk to other friends, both with ands without children, they say I owe you nothing. I don’t, of course not, and it is insensitive to expect a childless person to be the one to offer you the most support with your child. There are other people you can ask. But I want us to remain close too.  

In this part of my life, I have less than you. Allow me to be glad about what I do have. Be satisfied with what I can give, be grateful for what I have offered. Do you really want me to give more than I can? 

I would like you to check in with me and I will check in with you. I want to tell you that there should not be pressure on me to help you with your daughter, that I‘ll only do it if I want to and at times that work for me. You are not the only one who has judged me, tried to hurry me along. But your expectations of me, a childless woman, are unfairly high. I won’t look after your child unless I want to. And I will try not to feel guilty. And if you want me to look after her when I can’t. I will say no, although I will offer an alternative time.  

I know that things are more difficult for us, because of timing, because of proximity, because of the differences between us. I want us to overcome that. And there are things I want you to understand. I am doing my best, always, to get over my grief, to offer support. But I need to do it for me, first, and then for others. I am permanently changed by not being a mother, as you are permanently changed by being one. I owe you nothing, except what I want to give you. And I long for you to remember this earthquake in my life, and to check in with me about how it is impacting me.  

You are a wonderful friend. You will always help me when I need help. You came to difficult meetings with me and you always offer practical support when I need it. I love you. I appreciate you. We have had difficult times, needs have not been met, resentments have built up and yet we are still friends. Please, if you can, imagine what my life is like for me and I will do the same. Please, make room for me and my experience and I will do the same. Please, manage your expectations and I promise, I will do the same.  

With love from 

Your best friend 

Photo by Roberto Nickson on Unsplash