Should we have kids?

Navigating endless mind loops around the next steps in our quest for a family

As things have slowly started to settle in Wales, and as the year begins to wake up, I’ve felt myself, tentatively, begin to look ahead. When we arrived here, I was so frazzled, I made the decision not to think ahead about anything. I wanted to concentrate instead on getting through the days, establishing a life here, getting some sort of routine back, finding my feet. All of those things have now started to happen, which is lovely, but with it, I’ve also felt a familiar activation in my thoughts, namely around the big question of my life: should we have kids? 

I realise the insanity of someone who has been medically diagnosed as infertile asking this question. Of course it’s not as simple as that, because, if it was, 5 years in, we’d have a family by now. What I really mean is: the clock is ticking! Time is running out! Should we continue to pursue the idea of having kids, even against the odds, against my age, against the miscarriages, against our diagnoses? Should we try another round of IVF, or donor eggs, or adoption, or fostering? Or should we let it go, draw a line under it, move on. 

If the part of me that’s tired was in charge, it would be the second option in a heartbeat. It’s impossible to overstate how much mental energy it takes to attempt to conceive, once a diagnosis of infertility is given (more on this in another post). But the tired part isn’t the only one with skin in the game. After so many highs and lows these past 5 years, I’m finding it difficult to get to the truth of my real feelings amidst the competing voices in my head, each with its own pros and cons list.

These past couple of weeks, as the question has - once again - loomed in my mind, it’s as though I’m being spammed by the universe in the form of helpful information and opinions that might make the decision easier. Except it’s not helpful, because it’s all so contradictory.

Last week I stumbled across an article entitled “10 things I wish I’d known about not having kids, at 45”. A sign! I thought. I read it, and it resonated and made sense to me. But that very same day, I read a Substack post from Sophie Beresiner, a mother or two by donor egg and surrogacy, who articulated one of the exact reasons why I believe I want a family (essentially that it’s a massive, worthwhile adventure). The next day: a stray line in an article about the perils of trying to conceive after 40, followed swiftly by the news that Tara Ramsey just gave birth at 49. And those are just the ones I can remember.

All around me: women having kids, living the life I want. And also all around me, women choosing to do the opposite, also living the life I want. What’s a girl to do?

Last week, I headed out for a walk and opened my podcast app to see the newest We Can Do Hard Things, with Ruby Harrington as the guest. Ruby is the author of Women Without Kids, and is a passionate advocate for those without children, whether by choice or circumstance. Another sign! I reached for my headphones and dug in.

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As I listened to the interview, I felt a palpable drop in my shoulders. So much of the discussion resonated for me. Like Ruby, I have never been struck by the maternal ache, and, regardless of how long it’s actually taken me to act on it, I’ve always felt a stronger pull towards creative work. I’m easily irritated by the cultural perception that a woman’s primary purpose on earth is to procreate, and I’m also sensitive and I enjoy my quiet life very much. As the podcast progressed, I started to think: was this it? After everything we’ve been through, is this where I realise its all been for nothing and I don’t actually want a family after all? I imagined myself looking back on this moment from an as yet defined point in the future: the day I finally “let go.” I saw myself walking down a golden corridor, the weight of the last 5 years falling away from my body, as I set out into a bright landscape full of possibilities. At peace. Sure of myself. No regrets.

And yet as the discussion meandered back and forth, and a dizzying array of perspectives were shared, I felt a niggle arise and knew that it wasn’t as simple as that. Yes, I’ve never felt desperate for children, yes we’d started late, yes we’ve been on a weird hiatus from ‘trying’ for the past 18 months, yes, we only did 2 rounds of NHS funded IVF: all these things are true. But also true: the reasons that we began this quest in the first place. The underlying sureity that Karl and I want to be parents. The certainty that we can have a life without kids, and that it would be amazing, but also, that life is short, and that we want to experience this miraculous and mundane thing together. That knowledge that everything we’ve ever done that has been challenging and life-changing, has ultimately also brought the best, most rewarding moments too.

One of the most refreshing things about the podcast was the discussion around the spectrum of motherhood. It acknowledged the different paths women have taken, and recognised that the ‘one size fits all’ version of motherhood is outdated and not fit for purpose. Obviously, there was a lot of focus on women who never wanted kids. Who always knew. Who made the decision relatively easily, and who feel completely ok with it. But they also talked about women that were childless not by choice: infertile women, women who hadn’t met the right person, who hadn’t found themselves in the right place at the right time. And then they spoke about the mothers: those who, for better or worse (they pointed out that it’s not straightforward), had born children, who were living as parents. Some of these women had always wanted to be mothers, and others had come to parenthood in less direct ways.

As I walked along the river in the drizzle, I was hit by a thought -  that while I appreciated the spectrum they described, I didn’t really know where to place myself on it. I’d put myself in the ‘childless not by choice’ camp if pushed, but it felt like the women they described there had moved on from trying to start a family, and were somewhat resolved to their fate in a way that I’m not (at least not yet, anyway). It was a strange, and slightly alarming thought, to consider that even after everything that’s happened, I still wasn’t sure what I really wanted.

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Walking is my medicine: it’s where I process and think and daydream and clear my head. It’s also usually where my clearest intuitions drop in - where I get my biggest lightbulbs and ‘ahas.’ So when that thought - that I still didn’t know what I wanted - popped into my head, I felt a bit annoyed. It was spoken in the quiet, certain voice that characterises the truth for me, so I knew it was real, but it felt inconclusive. There was no certainty in it. The thought crossed my mind, that when I’d pressed play on the podcast, the part of me that likes to fix things had imagined that I might have an answer by the time the hour was up; that I’d finally have the clarity I so desperately wanted.

If only it were that simple. After all the twists and turns of the past 5 years, it’s as though there are a million pieces of an impossible puzzle scattered around me. When we began this quest, full of hope and expectation, I could never have imagined what would transpire. But those years have taken a toll and have skewed any straightforward sense of what bringing a child into the world means for us.

In another life, one of those pregnancies may have worked out. All that longing, all the love, all the wishing and wanting and joy that went into those few short weeks, both times - it doesn’t just go away. Both times, we grieved the dream of a life; grieved the dream of a little person. As much as the well-meaning people of this world would have infertile people believe, adoption isn’t a simple or easy process. Neither is conception by donor eggs. And none of them are a done deal: problems can and do arise; using a donor egg doesn’t guarentee a pregnancy. None of it is as straightforward as having sex and getting pregnant and having a baby, like most other people do.

It’s hard.

While I’m not afraid of hard things (the irony, given the name of the podcast I was listening to), what started to emerge as I walked, was that under my confusion, lay a thick layer of fear. Part of me is terrified to jump back in and be hurt again. I’m somewhat making light of my indecision, but I truly don’t know which way to go, or what to do next.

My heart has been shattered in recent years and it hasn’t recovered yet. I’m emotionally shut down a lot of the time, and I often find it hard to feel any sense of love or gratitude. Right now, my armour is strong. My quiet life feels safe. I don’t know how to open myself up all over again. And in this light, the idea of jumping back on the TTC rollercoaster feels like insanity.

I imagine the alternative: just Karl and I, and our cats, growing flowers and vegetables on our little farm, coming home to a fire and a big pile of books. I can see the appeal. I’d jump at this route if I felt like it was truly what my heart wanted. But I don’t think I’m there yet. A wise therapist once told me that when the time came to stop trying, or to move onto using donor eggs, or whatever the next step would be, I’d know. I believed her, but I don’t know yet. 

And then of course, there’s the nagging voice in my head that says surely, if you really wanted a child, you’d have taken one of those other routes by now. You’d be relentlessly pursuing your dream.

I flit between thinking that I’m stuck in a paralysed freeze state, too frightened to go forward after all the heartache, to thinking maybe it’s just not my dream.

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As I tramped on through the drizzle of the damp February day, eventually I began to feel my thoughts settle and organise, and a tiny speck of clarity began to emerge. It surprised me.

It said that it was ok that I didn’t know. And even better than that, that there could be freedom in not knowing. That, instead of being plagued my perceived inability to make a ‘decision’, there was another option: to drop the oars, and simply let go of my need to control the outcome. That nothing good ever comes out of anxiety and obsession, or from striving and grasping for anything, even if that thing is a wished-for child.

I wondered: could it be possible to do the thing that everyone always talks about, and actually trust the process? Could my belief in myself, in my inner voice, in my body, be enough that I have faith that it’ll tell me what to do, where to go, what to say, when the time is right, all the while ignoring those who would tell me my time has run out?

Can I own my grief and my sadness and my shame, and my indecision and my fear and my uncertainty? Is it possible for me to eat well and sleep well and take care of myself, because I’m worthy of it, rather than simply in service of having children? Can I recognise that I may still be shut down, imobilised, frightened to step back into the ring, and give myself love, and patience, and time anyway?

Can I accept that I still don’t know what I want and that’s ok? That my indecision has intensified because of the things I’ve experienced? Can I accept that I might never know?

And can I remember that, whatever happens, there will be grief for what is lost?

The answer I heard was an unqualifed yes.

After all the to-ing and fro-ing of the past few weeks, in that moment I realised that while the thoughts about our next steps are big and often invasive, I don’t need to make a decision right now. That perhaps all the conflicting opinions I was reading and hearing were there to reassure me, rather than stress me out: showing me that whatever happened, we’d be ok.¹ A moment may come in the future, where we get clarity, and when that the moment arises, then I will know. But that moment isn’t now.

I walked home feeling lighter. I know from experience that my mind can bite back at any given moment, but these insights felt like a small victory.

My new mantra: just four simple words: “I don’t know yet.” As someone who has always wanted to know everything, I’m trying to lean into the freedom of what it means to not know, and to give myself a little grace in the process.

Have you been on a fertility journey and experienced some of these wild swings of indecision? I’d love to hear about it - email me back or post a comment if you feel called.

My old friend, the ticking clock

1. Two things about this comment: 1) I’ve seriously pulled back my phone use in the past few days. While the internet can be a wonderful place to get new and interesting perspectives, I know from experience that it can quickly become too much. 2) There’s a whole other post in my head about the ways that we make meanings / tell stories about what is going on in our lives. I loved this recent post by Emily McDowell on that subject, and will be writing more about it at a later date:

The month everything I owned imploded