As Mother’s Day approaches, I find myself acutely aware of my childless status. While perusing cards for my own mother in a local store, I encounter sentiments like, “Thanks to you, I’m a better mom to my kids” or “Now that I’m a parent, I truly understand your sacrifices.” Tears prick at my eyes, and I take a deep breath, familiar with this emotional ache. At 42, I can’t help but wonder if this feeling will ever fade. Will I still feel this way at 45 or 50?
Life has taken twists I didn’t anticipate. I’ve always dreamed of being a mother. During my teenage years, I babysat three children in my neighborhood, who became like family. I would spend sun-soaked days with them, often imagining they were my own. I dreamed of my future husband—whoever I had a crush on at the time—walking through the door, ready to share the joys of parenthood. I adored their baby powder scent, soft cheeks, and tiny fingers curling around mine.
Of course, there were days I was completely exhausted after babysitting, vowing never to have kids. But as much as I romanticized motherhood, I soon realized that caring for young children was the best birth control.
My first publishing job was with Golden Books Adult Division—not what you might think. We published books for parents of children who loved our children’s stories. The editor I worked for acquired various genres, including parenting books. When I became an acquisitions editor, I naturally leaned toward similar topics. My authors would often ask, “Do you have kids?” and I would reply, “No…not yet. I’m not married, but one day I’ll be well-prepared from all these parenting books!”
I married my husband, Mark, at 36, and we decided to delay starting a family to stabilize our finances. We were being sensible—at the time, I was working in publishing with a modest salary, and Mark had shifted from his musical dreams to a steady job in lawn care. With debts piling up, the question of children loomed over us again as I found myself editing more parenting books. I would respond, “No…not yet. We just got married,” and I wondered if my voice revealed the longing I felt.
As we began to consider parenthood seriously, our marriage faced challenges. The desire to start a family was postponed once again. I felt caught between desperation and denial, understanding that time wasn’t on our side. I didn’t want to pressure the situation by bringing a child into an unstable environment. Now, as friends welcomed new babies, I recognized the weight of the decision to raise a child.
When Mark and I finally committed to trying for a baby, I meticulously monitored my temperature and tracked my cycles, embodying my usual type-A personality. Sadly, with each negative pregnancy test, my sense of inadequacy deepened. I dreaded that time of the month, knowing I would feel a profound sense of loss. When asked if I had kids, I continued to say, “No…not yet.” But now, I started to wonder if that response would soon change to “No.”
Most of my friends were parents, and I was thrilled for them, but every announcement of a new pregnancy stung. I found myself imagining pregnancy symptoms, only to be slapped with the reality of PMS. One month, I was certain I was pregnant, but the day I got my period, a close friend called me with her joyful news. I collapsed in tears on Mark’s shoulder.
As women, we often feel categorized into the “mommy club.” I don’t know the experience of pregnancy, childbirth, or breastfeeding, and I sometimes feel excluded from those conversations. Every holiday season, Mark and I hope that next year we’ll welcome a child into our lives. We dream of festive traditions, first-day-of-school photos, and shared family moments. We also grapple with the fear of loneliness as our parents age. If one of us passes first, we don’t want the other to be alone. I want to know Mark has someone to love and care for him, someone to share memories and support during difficult times.
After trying to conceive for about a year, I lost my job. I had been worried that if I got pregnant, I wouldn’t find a new position. It felt unfair that men rarely faced such dilemmas. Ultimately, I let fear dictate my choices. Now, with newfound clarity, I realize that waiting for the perfect moment is futile. Life is unpredictable, and I don’t want “No…not yet” to become “No” for good.
As Mother’s Day nears, I prepare for the well-meaning wishes from others. I’ll smile, thank them, and move on. For now, I cherish the opportunity to celebrate my mother—a gift I recognize as precious. Maybe, just maybe, next year will bring a different answer to the question of motherhood.
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Summary
As I navigate the emotional landscape of childlessness, I reflect on my desire to become a mother, the challenges I’ve faced, and the societal expectations surrounding motherhood. My journey has led me to reconsider my choices, and as I look forward to the future, I hold onto hope that my answer may change.
Keyphrase: childless journey
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