Perusing Instagram, my attention got stuck on a post about sisters. Specifically, sisters with radically different lives. One sister with a husband and children and one, single and fancy free.
This didn’t feel like an accident, as yesterday I stumbled across a post about the grief of parenthood not coming to fruition. The idea that you spend your life anticipating a thing that morphs into something altogether different, or even disappears.
The truth is even when we have found a path that suits us, that serves us, it doesn’t always eradicate the sadness we feel over that thing that did not happen, that was ultimately not meant for us.
I always assumed I would be a mother. Of course, I can’t fully differentiate the societal pressure to be a mother from my own desires, and yet, I know there existed a deep and separate wanting. I remember as a young woman, pushing out my belly and imagining what pregnancy might look like, might feel like. I’ve held and cared for children of all ages, wondering what it might feel like to have my own. And still, I accepted some time ago that this would not be my path.
Specifically recalling the time period where I accepted that I would not be a mother isn’t always easy. There wasn’t a switch that flipped. There wasn’t one day where I realized or recognized or embraced that reality. It was a process. A fairly lengthy and bumpy process. Hope and despair. Awareness and delusion. Fighting and resignation. And then, peace. Really. Not some bullshit meditation fueled, sandalwood scented peace. A deep breath of understanding.
I will often be told, as I’ve shared here before, that it’s not too late. This is true. One day, I could find a partner with children and those children might become a meaningful part of my life. I’ve also been the receiver of the famous Jennifer Aniston quote whereas she expressed that she’s birthed so much into life- that children are just one, myopic view of motherhood or birthing. And I too have birthed so much into life.
Yes. True. Sure. Agreed.
Except, no. Except that friends still give me that “you wouldn’t understand” look when they talk about sports schedules or school projects or sick days. Except that people still exclude me from conversations and activities because “I’m not a mom.” Except that I am still asked how old my children are, because it’s easier to believe that I am divorced or a widow or was never married than it is to believe that I am not a mother.
It would be easy for me to talk about how full my life is- social activities and a lot of work, and dedication to my hobbies and passions. But that also feels like an explanation, an excuse. That feels like I need to make people understand why I am not a mother and further, what’s wrong with me. And don’t get me started on the countless humans who always have a good friend who is also single. And yet, we are rarely inclined to say “my friend has kids and so, I get it.”
I am not going to say that I have no medical issues that would have inhibited my ability to have children. My body is riddled with auto immune issues. But that aside, there are options. Insemination, adoption, and more.
My motherless status is not a deficiency and a lack of choices or options. It is a result of decisions, good and bad and neutral. Decisions and consequences. Choices. I had choices and I chose.
And that’s hard for people to understand without some external thing to point to.
And then, I read that post about the sisters and something warm and gooey filled my body. The choice was mine and for me, but what if it’s bigger than that. What if my choice was about having space for others. My sister. My parents. My friends. My mentees.
What if our energy is finite and thus, mine was limited to be reserved for others. For those for whom I need to hold pockets of love and consideration, and even, grief.
I have no idea where my path is going to take me. None. Yet, there is a sort of comfort in knowing that no matter what, my life is conducive to keeping open corners for those I love and respect the most.
And that, is really something.
x
L.
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