Is It Too Late for Motherhood?

At 44, I’m still unsure what to do

When I turned 40, I realized there was a very real possibility that I might never become a mother as I had always planned. It seemed like an absolutely stunning turn of events for someone whose childhood nickname was Little Mama.

At 40, I started doing what I imagine many women do when they realize they are barreling toward perimenopause: I started thinking about the past.

This looks differently for each woman, as we all have such unique histories, but for me, it included mourning the time I spent in my ill-fated relationship — my last chance, I suspect, to have had a biological child. It included sadness and regret but also my relief. I couldn’t imagine being tied forever to one of my exes.

But there was one thing on which I zeroed in: my one and only pregnancy. I was 19, in an abusive relationship, and despite my precautions (I genuinely did not want to have a child at that age), I found myself pregnant.

The entire experience was magical in ways that I cannot describe. All these years later, I’m still convinced that that child came to me to literally save my life. I could hear her voice and feel her presence so strongly. She specifically told me that she would not be born but that she had come to remind me of the danger I was in. Clearly, I wasn’t willing to protect myself, she said, but realizing what my partner might do to a child, to a little girl (she told me she was a girl), surely that would wake me up and make me leave him.

So I knew I would not have that child and I knew what I had to do after the miscarriage. I left my partner and never looked back.

At 40, I started doing what I imagine many women do when they realize they are barreling toward perimenopause: I started thinking about the past.

There wasn’t much sadness in the miscarriage. That child had had a job to do, she’d told me, and she did it.

I was so convinced at the time that I would have another chance that it didn’t seem like a huge loss. I was only 19, after all. The next twenty years seemed like such a long window of opportunity.

But I never got that second chance.

Or maybe I never took it.

Since I was in my mid-twenties, I’ve had a vision of my future daughter. Was it the child who had briefly come to me at 19 who would return again when I was ready to become a mother? Was it another soul, entirely?

I wasn’t sure. But I could see her in my mind. And I’ve known her name for a long time.

I’ve written about her in my journals. I’ve talked to her in imaginary conversations. I’ve dreamed about her.

One day, a year or two ago, I needed to know more. I needed to know who was the child that I have met and who is the child of my dreams. Are they one in the same?

What is your name? I asked the child that I knew at 19. Are you ____?

My name is Sarah, she answered.

I thought that was odd. In my family, unique names are the norm and the name I’d chosen for my daughter follows that tradition.

I could see her in my mind. And I’ve known her name for a long time.

Sarah? I love that name; don’t get me wrong. But it’s not a name I would choose for my child.

It’s not about me, it’s about you, she said, and I swear, she laughed.

I suddenly remembered the story of Sarah from my days in Christian private school. Wife of Abraham, promised a son by God but beset by infertility. And then…at 90, she finally bears the child she’d been promised.

Of course, this sudden recollection made me cry. Was it possible that my chance to become a mother wasn’t over? That maybe I would just be a really old mom, like Sarah?

Whether I had a baby of my own body or adopted, was I not actually bound by the timeline our culture has given to women? That 40 is not the end of the line, after all?

It’s funny to think about being 40. It was just four years ago, but it feels like a lifetime. So much has changed. And it went by so fast.

I thought I still had a fair amount of time back then. Even at 42. But now, at 44…it feels like I’ve hit a turning point. This is officially middle age, right? This is the last year I’ll be able to check that age box on surveys that includes people in their thirties. Next year, it’ll be 45–54. Wow.

Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like I have any time left. Not biologically, with my unpredictable periods and strange hormonal swings. I certainly don’t have any hope of meeting a partner “in time,” anymore. That ship has definitely sailed.

Adoption has always been at the back of my mind, though. In some ways, it seems far more practical to me, as a passionate environmentalist. Yes, I always wanted to experience childbirth, but god knows, there are more than enough people on this earth as it is and so many who have no family of their own. Why not open my home and heart to someone who is already here?

Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like I have any time left.

And it sounds great, sure, but also, I’m no fool. I can only imagine how hard the process is. How expensive. How invasive.

I look at my life now and can’t imagine it would even be possible. I write about sex and sell nude self-portraits. There’s no way that will be considered an acceptable job for an adoptive parent. Not in this puritanical culture.

I’ve also been told that people with mental illness are automatically disqualified. I don’t know if that is true, but if so… Yes, I have depression and anxiety and occasionally have to take medication to manage them. So apparently, that’s a potential issue, as well.

And why would anyone willfully sign up for single parenthood? That’s crazy, right? Almost half of my friends have been single mothers at some point in their journeys — some of them, like Sunny, throughout the entirety of it — and I’ve seen the struggles, the sacrifices, the scarcity, the sorrow. I honestly don’t know if I am strong enough to endure that. Single mothers are genuine demigods who ought to have altars where we can leave them offerings of wine and honey.

But beneath all of that…just under the surface…in a place I try not to look too closely is the one big fear that I have: that I would be a terrible mother.

I’ve spent so much of my life taking care of others. I really did kinda raise my youngest brother. I mentored three kids for ten years during my twenties and early thirties, all of whom became like children to me. I’ve spent my entire career, until recently, working with children and teenagers, exercising endless patience, compassion, and love.

And of course, I’ve spent the last 14 years at my sister’s side, being “Second Mommy” to her six kids.

I’ve loved it all. I can remember endless visions of a student, mentee, niece, or nephew throwing themselves into my arms, crying or asking for help or thanking me for saying something they needed to hear.

I’ve spent so much of my life taking care of others.

I remember little Dougie, my 3rd grader, who held my hands, looking up at me with his puppy dog eyes, when he whispered, “I wish you were my mom.” I remember Celeste, my 4th grader, who smiled at me from across our class craft project and said, “Why don’t you have kids? You are such a good mom to us. You should have kids of your own.” I remember Audrey, my 8th grader, who gave me a painting on her last day of school of a mountain scene with my name on it and said, “You were the only person who made me feel safe here. You were like a mom to me.” And of course, my sweet Alex, who still clings to me every time I see him. And darling Kai who always begs me to stay for dinner whenever I visit. And…

But I’m 44 now. Those days of endless energy are gone.

And I’m alone now. How will I make it 18 years without a single break? Without backup? Without relief?

And…I’m so imperfect. I’m so utterly messed up. How could I teach a daughter to have solid and clear boundaries within their romantic relationships when I struggle so much with that? How could I teach her to love her body when I struggle with my own? How could I teach her to believe in herself above all else, when I struggle to do the same?

It all seems so impossible to me.

Yet it has been on my mind so heavily these past few years.

I think of Sarah often. It blows my mind to think that she would have turned 24 this year.

Yet I am so glad she is not here. So glad that we are both free from her father’s violence.

But still I wonder what could’ve been. And what might still be.

I don’t want to become a mother at 90, of course, but maybe…maybe there’s still some time left to figure out what to do. To decide if I am worthy of this. And if this is the right path for me.

Because somehow, even at 44, I still don’t know. And maybe I have to face the fact that a decision will have to be made in the absence of that certainty.

Author’s note: This is a very personal exploration for me, so please refrain from comments offering opinions on whether or not I should be a mother, or expressing urgency that I should “hurry up.” I’m happy to hear people’s own experiences and feelings about the issue, but I’d like to establish a boundary of protection around my own feelings and experiences regarding this subject. This is an extremely emotional issue for many childless women. Thank you for your understanding.

© Yael Wolfe 2020

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