What if I never have children?

Saying goodbye to the life I thought I'd have...

They were standing by the till, the one at the end of the gloss paint aisle. Her hair was long and loose, grazing the top of her bump. Her partner stood, arm round her shoulder, close beside her. I didn’t look at them long enough to figure out what they were buying. I just made an assumption and found myself fleeing into an empty aisle, displaying an array of shower heads and cubicles. It was mercifully empty - perhaps no one is interested in picking out their dream bathroom at 7.26pm on a Friday night - and I looked at the dummy shower doors, contemplating whether I could slide them open, step inside, crouch at the basin and stay there. 

It was in that moment, under the strip lighting of B&Q, that I realised something. I’m going through a kind of grief. I recognised this thought, this need to hide, as one similar to those I had in the aftermath of when I lost mum, and then grandma. Back then I’d see shop beds and fantasise about climbing into them. They held - in my mind - the deep, dreamless sleep I craved. I’d even imagine myself crawling into the space between the wheels of an eight-wheeler lorry, finding myself transfixed by that darkness, swaying slightly on the street, just staring and thinking of peace. 

Of course, what I felt in the shower aisle doesn’t compare to how I was back then (a shower is a lot better hiding spot than a lorry, in terms of intrusive thinking) but the feeling was familiar. This want to cower away from my emotions, an overwhelming need to reach a state of blankness. 

We’d spent the walk to B&Q discussing friends of ours who were due soon, others who had just decorated their nursery. It was a happy discussion, I felt content, pleased for the ones I love. But then I saw that couple and I thought I’ll never paint a nursery and what life defining moments am I going to miss out on? I felt overwhelmingly, curl-in-a-ball sad. That was followed by anger at myself, how dare I feel sad at a decision I’ve made myself? When so many others don’t have that option? How selfish I am, to even label this as ‘grief.’ 

As, over the past two to three years, I’ve been grappling with an internal rollercoaster of emotions as I try to figure out whether children are in my future or not. And, recently (I think, kinda, maybe, aaaah) Ian and I have decided we won’t. It’s something I have been very, very reluctant to write about, choosing only really to discuss it with others in a similar situation, but when I did - interviewing various experts about how to make the decision for Cosmopolitan - I was deluged by messages from others, not just those in the same boat but also parents who shared that they weren’t entirely sure either. Hearing from others helped me immensely.

Which is why, when I felt that pang of sadness for all-that-would-not-be, I tried to chase away those feelings of anger at myself. To try and be with the initial emotion and question why I felt the need to hide from that couple, to hide from my longing. Is it because I’ve made the wrong decision? I don’t think so. I’ve felt more at peace over the past few months than I have in years. It feels right. 

I’m someone (perhaps everyone is?!) who finds it hard to sit still in life. I’m often questioning different paths and choices - picturing different lives I could have had, romanticising and escaping into little fantasies in my head of what could have been. FOMO drives me to accept too many invitations, to push myself into situations I know I’m not going to enjoy but have to experience them to find out. A life with children is not one that I can simply try on for a week. It’s also the life, out of all the ones I could have lived, I find hardest to let go of. The one that hits me in the gut, tearing at me, on grey mornings. Not necessarily because it’s the one I want the most, but because it’s the one I’m told I should want the most. 

As when I try to examine the moments I feel this (for lack of a better word) grief the hardest it’s when I’ve been living my life at its most unconventional. That moment in B&Q was a few days after my return from a six-day music festival, and the last time I felt it this strongly was after a friend of mine came to stay, having a night off from his more traditional family duties. We went for a Sunday roast that, a couple of bottles of reds in, became more debaucherous. Day turned into night, night turned into day again. In the days that followed I craved a baby. I felt desperately sad that, despite having a nice time, something that was meant to be a wholesome day had become something (that society views as) more wicked. We’d done nothing wrong, yet I felt this pervading sense of doom that I was living my life in a ‘bad’ way. That the only way to live my life in a ‘good, valuable’ way was to become a mother.

It’s not the life I want the most, but because it’s the one I’m told I should want the most. 

“I feel [named redacted] just sees me as a party girl,” I bemoaned to a (different) friend on a voice note afterwards (voicenote therapy saving me once more). “Silly Katie, who lives her life in stupid, worthless, whirlwind ways.” My friend was quick to reassure me that he just needed to let off steam, like everyone does, regardless of their life choices. That becoming a parent, or living a life seen as conventional, doesn’t make anyone a saint. And that while it may not be entirely who I am, I am a fun person to be around. That there’s no shame in that.

Yet I do. I feel as if I should be settling down into a more socially acceptable life. And it’s this that, strangely, causes me the most pain. I feel sad at letting go of a life where I could so easily slot into what’s accepted and expected of me. It’s as if I was given a map, as a little girl, of what I was to do and where I was to go - motherhood is expected of women - and now I’ve torn it up. It’s no wonder I feel lost.

It’s at this moment I find myself swallowing my pain back down again. Wanting to delete this entire newsletter and not send it. As there’s a hissing at the back of my head telling me my feelings aren’t worthy, that there are so many others worse off than me. As, I’m very aware that my circumstances mean that a) I’m hardly pushed to the fringes of society and b) the heartache I will feel not reaching certain life milestones (painting the nursery, holding my baby in my arms, school report days) will be a lot less sharp than those who have had this choice stolen from them. Who have had their map ripped up by circumstance. 

But it also won’t mean that I won’t feel loss. That I won’t grieve what could have been. That I won’t question this decision. Our emotions shouldn’t become a game of one-upmanship. We should always be aware of what others are going through, and handle that with care but not let their issues drown out our own. As the popular bitesize Instagram quote goes ‘all feelings are valid.’ 

Which is why I’m carrying on typing, as I want to be able to talk about it. As with all grief the more we bury it, the more it leaks out in unhealthy ways. I’ve witnessed that over the past few years, as I actually have found myself partying in an unhealthy way, twisting myself into “the party girl” I fear everyone reduces me, and my empty womb, to.

So, this strange grief for an unknown future, is likely to impact me in a myriad of ways, as my years unfold. The only thing I can try to do? Talk about it. Listen to others, in the same situation and in ones entirely different. Recognise that there’s purpose, value and goodness in all lives - not just those I’m told are the ‘right’ ones. Remind myself of that, as often as possible but especially in DIY stores…

What do you think? Can this count as ‘grief’? Are you experiencing a sort-of grief for anything untraditional or unexpected? Let me know and thank you so much for your support. I’m quite scared to send this one. I hope I’ve made sense!