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I’ve been thinking a lot about babies lately.

Wait. That’s not right.

Rather, whenever I see anything, anywhere, having to do with babies, it’s hitting me a lot harder than it should. Baby clothes on Facebook, a storyline about giving birth on TikTok, Maggie losing her baby on Sullivan’s Crossing. Actually, now that I think about it, Maggie even getting pregnant in the first place hit even harder.

It took me a while to figure out why this old pain is resurfacing. You see, as many women do, I struggled with infertility.

But let me start at the beginning.

I Always Knew I Wanted to Be a Mother

From the time I was a little girl, I always knew I wanted to be a mother. In fact, I had my life all planned out. I’d teach skating in the early mornings, after school, and on weekends. My husband would have a regular 9–5 and he’d watch the kids while I went out and worked. It would be perfect for staying home with them until school started, and then someone would always be there to run them to their sports and after-school activities when they were done school.

You see, I grew up in a family of five, me and my two younger brothers. And there was always noise, movement, family dinners, and endless travel to sports, our cottage, and family vacations. We were busy, it was bustling, and yes, it was soooo annoying in my younger years. Even though I’m not particularly close with my brothers now, I still know they’re there to talk to if I need them. When push comes to shove, they’d always be there for me.

I wanted that for my kids. I didn’t just want children. I wanted a family. A drive-each-other-crazy, beat-each-other-up, but-don’t-you-dare-talk-smack-about-my-sister kind of family.

I was thinking maybe three, or four, depending on time, and of course money. I wanted to see myself in my children, watch them grow and become little humans, help them on their journey, and be there for them in every way I could to help them have a happy, fulfilling life. To impart lessons, maybe spare them some of the pain I felt growing up (I know, fat chance there), and then eventually see marriages or long-term relationships, grandchildren, and a legacy of family after me.

I wanted that so badly.

And of course, there were babies. Just the act of carrying a child, of being able to give birth, create life. And yes, I know it takes a sperm and an egg. But to me, it was always the woman who did the majority of the work, the carrying, the parenting in the early years, simply because that’s how nature worked out the deal.

The smell of babies. The feel of them. I would literally have sold my soul to hold my baby in my arms.

So when I met my potential husband back in 1999, I didn’t mince words. I was a woman on a mission. On our first date I made it clear that I wasn’t getting any younger (I was 32ish) and I wanted children, so if he wasn’t down with that, then don’t waste my time.

I know, right? Cart? Horse?

Yet, he stuck around. Kudos to him.

Within a few months we were living together, and knowing we were committed, and knowing my thoughts on children, not much care was given to pregnancy prevention.

And a year passed. Still nothing.

That little voice in my head, the one that had always been worrisome, started whispering to me that maybe there might be something wrong with me. Over the course of my life I’d had my fair share of sexual partners and, while safe sex and birth control were always a priority, mistakes HAD happened. And yet, no pregnancies.

(Don’t judge. I’m a sex-positive girl.)

Suddenly that whisper became more strident. I wasn’t able to turn down the volume. So, I got an ovulation kit and started charting.

And another year passed. Still nothing.

And the charts weren’t looking good.

Of course, I told myself I wasn’t a fertility doctor, so I was likely reading them wrong. My doctor advised me to cut back on stress, so I stopped waitressing and working my other side hustle and just focused on coaching. I kept in the best shape I could. I kept charting. And of course, we got engaged, then married.

So, I told myself, planning a wedding and getting married would stress ANYONE out. There’s no reason to be worried.

But that whisper had become a knock on my awareness, insisting it needed to be heard.

When Infertility Became Real

So, we went to see a fertility doctor. Both of us. Together. And the usual tests ensued.

I remember going in for one, sitting in the waiting room in my gown at the hospital, surrounded by other women. All of us fearful. All of us wondering how much this would hurt.

And it hurt.

I wondered why we weren’t given more painkillers, or put under for these procedures. But that, my friends, is the topic of another blog on inequality in medicine.

For the time being, suffice to say it was a painful, isolating experience that women didn’t talk about. See, there’s shame surrounding the fact that you can’t get pregnant.

For me, being a woman was connected to the divine right of creation. It’s our sacred space, separate from men. To nurture. To guide. I’ve never felt comfortable in the Christian faith, and I felt better learning about religions that recognized the feminine aspect of the divine. The Goddess. Whatever name you want to give that entity in your life.

So to be unable to conceive life felt like I wasn’t feminine. I wasn’t a woman.

I was faulty.

Of course, the world continues to turn, regardless of our struggles. So during this time my sister-in-law was pregnant again with her second. My friends were getting pregnant again with their seconds, or thirds. Everywhere there were baby showers, shopping for baby clothes. It was like the universe was taunting me, holding this dream I would have given anything for just out of my reach.

And then the results.

I still remember the specialist at the clinic entering the room, sitting down with my husband and telling us it was me. I remember my husband trying to be funny, looking at me and saying something like, “See, I knew it was your fault.”

(Side note: I left him a few years later. Surprise, surprise.)

I won’t share the details, but the prognosis wasn’t good. Even with trying in vitro, my chances were only around 12% at best. We tried fertility drugs that summer, which resulted in a deep depression, crippling anxiety, and a near psychotic break and suicidal ideation for me.

I’d share more about this, but frankly, I went to such a dark place during that time that it’s difficult to talk about. I was willing to do anything to realize my dream of being a mother and, in the end, it nearly cost me my life. I had to let go of that dream because it was killing me. It was also one of the final blows to an already crumbling marriage.

I wish I could explain the hollowness you feel. It’s there all the time. Whenever you see families together. Pregnant women. It’s a pain that seldom goes away, although you do your best to focus on other things.

And I know I’m far from alone. About one in six people experience infertility in their lifetime. That’s an awful lot of people walking around carrying some version of this story.

I was holding onto motherhood as if I were hanging from a cliff, one-handed, my bloodied fist wrapped around the rope that was keeping me from falling. And so, I let go. Slowly opening my fingers, one at a time.

And I fell.

I threw myself into my work and, when my husband and I broke up, into a bunch of meaningless relationships as I tried to sort out my social life.

Then, My Miracle

Then, my miracle.

I got pregnant. By accident.

I’ll never, EVER, be able to express or explain the joy, elation, disbelief, or adrenaline you feel when you are FINALLY staring at two dark stripes on a pregnancy test after peeing on literally hundreds of them.

I will never forget that night as long as I live. Every detail of that night and the days that followed is etched into my memory as one of the most profound experiences of my life.

I was finally pregnant.

That little soul I had been waiting for for so long, that I’d been praying for, dreaming of, longing for, crying for…was finally here.

I will take that memory to my deathbed and beyond.

And she was my miracle. She is my miracle every day.

It hasn’t been easy, because I’ve been doing it alone. But I am so grateful to have her in my life, and watching her grow and become this beautiful, funny, kind, smart, insightful, powerful young woman is an honour I never thought I could have.

You’d think having my miracle would have erased the grief of the children I couldn’t have.

But it’s back. And it’s strong.

That sorrow for the family I could have had. The fear that my child will be alone, with no brothers or sisters to turn to when I’m gone, literally guts me.

The feeling I’ve failed her because I couldn’t give her that perfect family. Family dinners. A present father. Vacations filled with sibling fights and taunting, but in the end, togetherness.

It’s such a fear. It keeps me up at night. The thought that she might experience the kind of loneliness I’ve felt for so much of my life is devastating to me in ways I’m not sure I can explain.

I know having brothers or sisters wouldn’t guarantee she’d never be lonely. Hell, I’m living proof of that. But I wanted her to have people who shared her childhood. People who would remember where she came from. People she could turn to someday when I’m no longer here.

Why Is My Infertility Grief Coming Back at Menopause?

And I finally realized why, suddenly, I’m feeling all these feelings again. Why that voice is knocking at my soul. It’s because I’m now four months into the year without a period that marks the transition into menopause.

I’m losing my ability to conceive a child.

Knowing something and realizing something are two different things. Before menopause, you know that you have the ability to create life. The possibility is there. And with possibility, there is always hope. The door is never completely shut.

But now, my ovaries are closing up shop. Parts of me that were once fertile, capable of creating and nurturing life, are reaching the end of that purpose. And it feels like a death.

Oh, I know…dramatic much?

But it’s like I’m moving from the Mother into the Crone period of my life, and I’m not ready for it.

And I’m surrounded by people who have bigger families. Every get-together, every event, I see and hear them talking about their many children.

And it’s just me and my daughter.

Our little island of two.

It’s like this cocktail of sadness, failure, guilt, and what could have been if only, maybe, I’d done things differently. I fear for her. And I’m mourning the family that could have been.

Because now, that door is closed.

For better or worse, I have to move forward and carve a path for her and me. All those feelings I’d thought I’d dealt with had apparently just been percolating below the surface, waiting for the right moment to well up again.

What Will I Leave Behind?

If I’m not able to have babies and be the matriarch of a big family, what am I? Who am I? What will I leave behind? Will it be enough for my child to stand on her own when I’m gone?

I don’t have any answers. I wish I did.

And I know that I’m not alone in this grief and this struggle. So, for now, I’m just going to sit with this. Allow myself the tears and the pain and tell myself it’s not forever.

Just for now.

Then I’ll focus on ways to create family beyond the one we’re given by blood. Friends who will be around for my child when I’m gone. Aunts and uncles and cousins.

And maybe legacy doesn’t have to mean a long line of children and grandchildren who carry my DNA.

I hope that after I go, I will have changed a few lives. That by being in my daughter’s life, I’ve taught her some things about how to weather the storms. How to love herself. How to thrive, despite life always trying to grind us down.

And maybe a piece of me will live on in my friends or my students. Maybe I gave them some joy, or humour, or happiness at some point in their lives that they’ll carry forward.

I guess that’s all any of us can ask.

I keep remembering a quote I used to have hanging in my coaching locker. I thought it was Ralph Waldo Emerson then. Apparently, it wasn’t. I used to read it every day before I stepped onto the ice, and I haven’t thought about it in years.

Part of it said that success was knowing that even one life had breathed easier because you had lived.

Maybe I need to hang it up again.

Maybe that’s enough.