…and the strange peace that follows
For as long as I can remember,
I wanted to be a mother.
Not just in the abstract way people talk about future plans—
but in the marrow of my bones.
I imagined it often:
A baby to adore.
A child who would look into my eyes and love me unconditionally.
A connection I had longed for most of my life.
I always thought it would happen eventually.
That when the timing was right, the money stable, the pieces aligned—
I would have a child.
My child.
The one I would give everything to, and maybe, finally, feel like I belonged.
But my path always seemed blocked.
Wrong time.
Wrong place.
Not enough.
Too much.
Something always in the way.
And then finally, I felt ready.
Emotionally. Financially. Spiritually.
I pursued IUI. I waited. I hoped. I tried—for four long years.
Once, I got pregnant.
And once, I lost it.
The doctors found no cause, but I blamed the fall off my motorbike.
A slippery road. A moment I can’t take back.
That moment buried more than just a possibility.
Since then, nothing.
No second line on a test.
No swelling belly.
No heartbeat flickering on a screen.
And somewhere along the way…
I stopped talking about it.
Stopped hoping.
Numbed the grief, tucked it behind practical distractions, and moved on—
or at least, I tried to.
Something Quiet Has Shifted
Lately though, I’ve noticed a strange feeling.
One I never thought I’d feel:
Peace.
Not the loud, celebratory kind.
Not a grand revelation.
But a soft, almost imperceptible release.
The kind that whispers, maybe this wasn’t my path after all.
It’s an odd thing to say.
A sentence I never imagined myself forming.
Because it still hurts.
Letting go of the dream still makes my chest ache.
But it’s not the same kind of pain anymore.
It feels… less like a gaping wound,
and more like a scar I’ve made peace with.
A mark that reminds me of something I loved so deeply
that even its absence left a permanent imprint.
Letting Go Doesn’t Mean I Never Loved It
For a long time, I thought letting go meant giving up.
Or betraying the part of me that longed to hold a baby in my arms.
But now, I think letting go just means I stopped fighting myself.
Stopped torturing my body for something that wasn’t arriving.
Stopped holding my breath, waiting for life to look the way I imagined it.
I can still love that dream
and
love myself for finding peace without it.
What Emerges in the Space That Was Once a Cradle
Here is the truth I never saw coming:
That love I reserved for a child…
didn’t vanish.
It is still within me,
still pouring out—
in the way I create,
in the way I nurture others,
in the way I now hold myself gently through my own healing.
Maybe I won’t raise a child in this lifetime.
But I am raising something.
A new version of myself.
A wiser, softer, more spiritually attuned version
who knows the pain of loss
and still chooses to love again.
This Is Not the Ending, It’s the Turning
There was a time when I thought this dream was the entire story.
Now I realize it was only a chapter.
And this chapter ends not with bitterness,
but with grace.
I still grieve.
But I also give thanks.
Because this journey has softened me, cracked me open,
and led me deeper into the mystery of who I really am.
Maybe I was never meant to birth a child—
Maybe I was meant to birth a new way of being.
And in that quiet, sacred space inside me,
something beautiful is finally being born.
