Childless Mother

A womb that will always be empty.
A nest forever free of little hens. 

I thought I was okay. I am okay, right? 

Since having to make the decision, I’ve told myself so many things to make myself forget how painful this might be. I push, push, pushed it down, until I could pretend that it didn’t exist - the agony of knowing my womb will never grow a child full of both Ethan and I. I’d never know whose laugh that child would get, whose eyes, whose sense of humor. Whether he would have a strong personality like me or a gentle personality like Ethan. Whether she’d need braces, or get lucky like I did. Whether he’d be a ‘sports’ kid, or an ‘academic’ kid. 

No matter the option, it wasn’t choice. I knew in my heart that regardless of so many mothering possibilities out there, my physical body is incapable of caring for a child from womb through adulthood. 

I told myself it doesn’t matter, because I’d have been a shit mom anyways. I’d have little patience, I wouldn’t be loving enough, I wouldn’t be caring enough…on and on and on I lied to myself until I could put so much pressure into all of that pain that it became a tiny diamond I could hide away in the deepest parts of my heart. A piece of stone I’d never have to resurrect so that I wouldn’t feel the pain of an empty home, an empty womb…a shattered heart. 

But one day, that stone began to soften. 

One day, the God of Resurrection brought it to the forefront of my heart, where it couldn’t be ignored any longer. He reformed it into something new that needed tended to - something soft, and vulnerable, and the scariest of all, something I could feel again. And as I looked around and saw all of the mothers, saw all of the beautiful pregnant women, that piece began to fall apart. 

It cracked right down the middle, until it was shattered into a billion pieces I could never hope to put back together. So I wept, and I let my heart break. I had to accept that this pain in me could be healed, but would never be completely painless. For isn’t pain necessary to heal? Doesn’t it mean dragging ourselves through those shattered pieces, broken and bleeding until we can present ourselves to the God who says, 

Well done, my good and faithful servant. 

I remind myself that even in this, He is good.

Even in this, He holds me. 

Even in this, He tends to my pain.

Even in this, He is faithful and just. 

Even in this, His promises are true. 

For “God is faithful, and this time will be no different.” 

And if I can’t believe that, then I cannot survive this. 

So I believe. God, help me in my unbelief. 

If you’ve made it this far, I ask that you address this post with compassion, and not questions nor advice. This was a decision prayed over for three years and was not made lightly. I know there are success stories you may want to share, but as I grieve over this, know that all of those stories have been considered. I love my readers, but trying to fix what cannot be fixed will only bring me pain. I appreciate you all so much. 

Taylor

Pictured below is my precious nephew who has helped fill a small part of this hole. I am so grateful for this child.