As Mother’s Day approaches, the absence of children in my life weighs heavily on my heart. Wandering through the local card shop, I search for the perfect card for my mother, only to be met with sentiments like, “Because of you, I’m a better mother to my children” or “Now that I’m a parent, I understand your sacrifices.” The tears I fight back are all too familiar, and I take a deep breath, pondering when, if ever, this feeling will fade. Will I still feel this way at 45? At 50? The clock is ticking, and I’m now 42 years old.
Like many, my life has veered from the path I envisioned. Motherhood was always a dream for me. As a teenager, I babysat three children in my neighborhood, who felt like family. Those long summer days spent with them often led me to fantasize about them being my kids and conjuring up images of a husband walking through the door. I adored the sweet scent of baby powder, their soft, chubby skin, and the way their tiny fingers would curl around mine.
I won’t sugarcoat it—there were days when, after hours of babysitting, I felt utterly drained and swore off ever having children. While my teenage imagination sometimes romanticized motherhood, I came to realize that a few hours with energetic kids is the best birth control.
My first job in publishing was with the Golden Books Adult Division. (Rest assured, we weren’t publishing anything inappropriate; we focused on books for parents whose children enjoyed our classic children’s stories.) The editor I worked with acquired various titles, including self-help, psychology, memoirs, and parenting books. When I eventually became an acquisitions editor, I found myself drawn to similar topics. My authors often asked, “Do you have kids?” I’d reply, “No… not yet. I’m not married. But someday, I’ll be fully prepared after working on all these parenting books!“
I married my husband at 36, but we chose to delay starting a family to stabilize our finances. We aimed to be responsible, especially since I was earning a modest income in publishing and my husband had traded his musical dreams for a blue-collar job in lawn care. With debt piling up, I found myself editing parenting titles again, and the familiar question arose: “Do you have kids?” I’d answer, “No… not yet. We just got married.” I couldn’t help but wonder if my voice betrayed the longing I felt.
When my husband and I finally agreed to pursue starting a family, our marriage hit a rough patch. The idea of having children was postponed once more as I grappled with a mix of desperation and denial. I recognized that time wasn’t on my side, especially since we lacked the financial means for fertility treatments or adoption. I resented the notion that if you truly want kids, you should do whatever it takes, regardless of your circumstances. It’s not always that simple, and I refused to bring a child into the world without being sure it was the right moment. Now, as I age and see friends embark on this journey, I understand more profoundly the weight of the decision to raise a child.
As my husband and I worked to mend our relationship, we revisited our desire to have children. We began trying earnestly, and I meticulously tracked my cycles, embodying my type-A personality in the quest for conception. Gradually, the excitement dwindled. Each negative pregnancy test deepened my feelings of inadequacy. I began to dread that time of the month, knowing I would inevitably feel a sense of loss despite convincing myself to remain hopeful. Each time someone asked if I had kids, I answered, “No… not yet,” but now I feared the upcoming answer could be a definitive “No.“
By this time, most of my friends had multiple kids, and every day seemed to reveal another friend or colleague announcing their pregnancy. I genuinely rejoiced for them, but it stung to witness everyone else’s journey. I started to convince myself I was experiencing pregnancy symptoms—nausea, fatigue, and tenderness—only to realize they were signs of PMS. One month, I was certain I was pregnant, but when my period arrived, one of my closest friends called me with her own happy news. I returned home and broke down in tears in my husband’s arms.
At a certain stage in life, women find themselves either in the “mommy club” or on the outside looking in, with so much of our identity intertwined with motherhood. I don’t know what it feels like to be pregnant, give birth, or breastfeed. I often feel excluded from conversations surrounding these experiences, leaving me to wonder if I’ll ever belong.
Every Christmas, my husband and I hope that next year will bring us our greatest gift: a child. We dream of family traditions, holiday joy, and the milestones of school and life. But there’s also a lingering worry about loneliness. As we watch our parents age, the reality of mortality becomes more pressing. If one of us were to pass, we don’t want the other to face it alone. I want my husband to have someone to love, to visit him in a nursing home, and to share in the memories we’ve created.
After about a year of trying to conceive, I stopped due to worries about job security. The company I worked for was struggling, and I feared that if I got pregnant, I might lose my job and face a difficult road ahead. I had invested seven years in my career, proving myself, but the thought of starting anew while pregnant was daunting. I felt frustrated that men didn’t have to navigate these challenges. I was paralyzed by indecision, trapped in a cycle of worst-case scenarios.
Months later, I lost my job, and the world didn’t shatter. I regret allowing fear to consume me for those nine months. Now, I’ve spent the time looking for a full-time position and building a freelance editorial business. Yes, we’ve “pulled the goalie,” as a friend humorously phrased it, because I’ve come to realize that life will never be perfect and sometimes you must embrace the things that scare you. I’m done worrying about others’ opinions and expectations; this is my life, and I refuse to let “No… not yet” become an outright “No.“
With Mother’s Day approaching, I prepare myself for the well-meaning people who will wish me a happy holiday. I’ll put on a smile, thank them, and move on. For now, I’m grateful to still have my own mother to celebrate—I recognize this is a precious gift. Perhaps, just perhaps, next year my response to questions about parenthood will change. Maybe it will even be a resounding yes.
In Summary
The journey of longing for motherhood is fraught with emotions, societal pressures, and personal challenges. As I navigate this path, the hope for a future filled with children remains a possibility, and I continue to embrace each step of the way.