The Way This Childless Woman Celebrates Mother’s Day

It’s a time of deep grief for many of us — and this is how I cope

I’ve spent the last six years in a very strange place. There’s a trajectory to the journey, and yet there’s also a circular, or perhaps spiral nature to it. In fact, it reminds me a bit of that Winnie the Pooh story in which Rabbit decides to lead Tigger into the woods and leave him there in order to teach him a lesson — but the joke’s on Rabbit, because when he and his companions try to find their way home, they realize they’ve gotten lost and are walking in circles, always coming upon the same fallen log again and again.

Yes, that’s an accurate depiction of this journey. I have definitely moved from one place to another. But damn, there’s that same old hollowed out log. How did I find myself here yet again?

I thought I had moved on.

The grief of my type of childlessness, the kind that happens due to unforeseen circumstances rather than infertility, backs up on you. You don’t see it coming, and then one day, it’s like a freeway pileup that keeps growing as more and more cars hurtle toward it, unable to stop in time.

As far as I knew, I was popping out viable eggs every 28 days of my incredibly consistent menstrual cycle. Between that and the fact that I’m quite a catch, who would ever think that it just wouldn’t happen?

The first collision in my emotional pileup — or, to return to my original metaphor, the first time I saw that hollow log after having already passed it once before — was early in my forties, when I realized the window for having a child was closing a lot faster than I thought it would.

I was determined that slow and steady was the right course of action and that I had plenty of time. I figured I had five years before things got really dicey.

I honestly didn’t know about the Post-40 Time Lapse. Things move so much faster in middle age. I could’ve written fifty novels in the time it took me to crawl through the interminable decade of my teen years, but goddammit, the first five years of my forties went by in a blink of the eye.

So there it was: half a decade of more and more cars slamming into the pileup. Or yet another circle in the dense woods where I’d come upon that damn log yet again. (Sorry for all the metaphors…but this experience feels like it’s complicated enough to justify more than one.)

I went through the boxes of clothing and dolls I had saved from my childhood and passed along some to my nieces and gave the rest to a local thrift store. I dated a man who had kids and wondered what it might be like to be a stepmother, only to discover that had never been one of the potential outcomes of our pairing. I watched my sister have her sixth baby, fell madly in love with him like I’d never been in love with a child before, and then had to say goodbye to him when they moved across the state.

But hey, I feel like I took all these hits like a champ. I made it through. Sure, there were tears. A few breakdowns. (Okay, a lot of breakdowns.) But all in all, I felt like I had weathered the hardest part of the storm — those years between 40 and 45. The years of last chance possibilities. The years of holding on to tiny scraps of hope.

I’m going to be 46 in July. I suppose it’s possible I could still get pregnant…if I wanted to. Which I really kinda don’t, anymore.

But I think now we’re hitting that window of time in which last chance possibilities are turning into final endings. This feels like the end of a road. Or rather, the beginning of a new road: a road of cronedom. A road where my body will be transitioning out of its reproductive habits and into entirely new ones.

I’ve been preparing myself for this. I really have to pat myself on the back here because I’ve gotten so savvy about this kind of grief. I’ve learned so much about it. I’m figuring out how it works (the pileups, the walking in circles in the woods). I’ve even become aware that it works entirely on its own timeline and there is absolutely no way to really process it until you are totally and completely done in the reproduction department. Until you have bled for the last time.

And yet, still, I find myself stunned by this latest wave of grief. It is the most intense and long-lasting I’ve had since this journey began. It feels like it will never end.

This is like an all new pileup, a few miles up the road. Or coming upon a whole new landmark in those dark and foggy woods, realizing I’m even more lost than I thought.

I know exactly when and why this latest wave of grief came upon me. Last fall. Seeing my darling nephew, Alex, for the last time before the mountain pass became covered in snow, making travel a bit risky. Dating the guy with the kids and… Well, you know.

There were other factors, too. Small things that added up to big things.

I think that was the first time that I understood this was really, really happening. I am not a mother. I will never be a mother. There is absolutely no reason for me to hold on to any hope around that dream. In fact, it’s probably detrimental to my mental health at this point to do so.

And even though I knew I would probably have to get to this point someday…I didn’t expect it to hurt so goddamn much.

I thought I was over the worst of it.

I can’t believe I was so naïve.

So here I am, staring down the barrel of Mother’s Day, which is followed by my birthday almost exactly two months later. This is my absolute least favorite time of year even when I’m not in a pit of grief inspired by the strange trajectory my life has taken.

This year has been so much worse than all those that came before. Is it just me, or did we start celebrating Mother’s Day in early April? I swear, I’ve been seeing the ads since then.

Seeing pregnancy announcements, baby bump compilations, “how many years I’ve spent pregnant and breastfeeding” counts, and family portraits cropping up everywhere on social media sent me reeling. I don’t know that I would have participated in these social media traditions…but I still wanted to be a member of that club.

Why does this place look so familiar? Why do I feel I’ve been here before? Oh, I know. I recognize that log. I’m traveling in circles again.

Goddammit.

I often wonder when — or if — this will ever end.

I have made peace with where I am in life. And yet…it still hurts. And yet…I still wonder what if? And yet…a little part of me still longs for the fulfillment of that dream.

I have never experienced anything like this before. Acceptance and regret. Peace and torment. Certainty and confusion. Hope and cynicism. Patience and frustration.

And I’ll admit it: I think it’s important. All of it. Yes, I dare to say that, even right before Mother’s Day.

There are so many women in the world going through this, and so few spaces that are open to our stories.

We all have motherhood stories — it’s just that some are a little different. But no less important.

This is how I choose to celebrate Mother’s Day. This is the only way I know how. I tell my story over and over again, sharing my view of that damn log, knowing that there are other women out there who are traveling this same circular path.

Somehow, though we might not be together, though our paths might not cross, we can know that we’re not alone in this.

© Yael Wolfe 2022

Yael Wolfe is a writer, photographer, and creator of Howl. You can find more of her work at yaelwolfe.com.

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