The Mother I’ll Never Be

There’s a particular kind of grief that comes with wanting something so deeply, so innately, that your body aches for it, only to realise it will never be yours. A silent, suffocating grief that lingers in the background of every baby shower, every pregnancy announcement, every quiet moment when you let yourself imagine the life you were meant to have.

I was meant to be a mother.

I have known this since I was a child myself, cradling dolls in my arms, whispering stories to them as I rocked them to sleep. I knew this when I babysat my younger cousins, marvelling at the way their tiny fingers curled around mine, their warm weight a perfect fit against my chest. And I knew it the first time I held my best friend’s newborn and felt my heart shatter, not with happiness, but with the raw, gaping wound of knowing that this was something I would never have.

The reasons don’t matter, not really. Whether it’s infertility, a medical condition, or the fact that my body was never built to carry life, the pain is the same. It is the pain of seeing my siblings and friends create perfect little versions of themselves, while I remain the eternal spectator. It is the pain of knowing that, even if I adopt, even if I pour my entire soul into loving a child who is not biologically mine, I will never hear a stranger say, "Oh, they have your eyes."

I tell myself that love is what makes a mother, not biology. And I believe it. But I also know that it doesn’t take away the longing to feel a kick inside me, to watch my body swell and change, to experience the sacred intimacy of pregnancy and birth. It doesn’t erase the jealousy that creeps in when I see a friend absentmindedly rest a hand on her growing belly, or the way I have to bite my tongue when someone complains about morning sickness, aching feet, or sleepless nights with a newborn.

I would give anything for that exhaustion.

And yet, the world does not know how to grieve with women like me. There is no funeral for the children we will never have, no words of comfort that don’t feel empty. "You can always adopt" is said with the best intentions, but it does not heal the wound. "Maybe medicine will advance one day" feels like a cruel joke, dangling hope where there should be acceptance. "At least you have more freedom" is an insult wrapped in a poor attempt at reassurance.

I am not free. I am trapped in a body that has betrayed me.

This grief doesn’t just live within me, it bleeds into my relationships. Every new love comes with the unspoken fear: what if they want children? What if they dream of bedtime stories and tiny feet pattering across the floor? What if they expect that from me?

I’ve had those conversations. The ones where you sit across from someone you love, hands shaking, heart racing, and force out the words: "I can’t have children."

I watch their face carefully, bracing for impact. Some respond with quiet sympathy, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. Others hesitate, searching for the right words, trying to mask their disappointment. And then there are the ones who, no matter how kind they try to be, simply can’t see a future without biological children.

I can’t blame them.

But it doesn’t make it hurt any less when someone you love chooses to walk away because your body cannot do what it was supposed to do.

There’s an added layer of shame in intimacy, too. The conversations about birth control feel unnecessary, almost mocking. The casual and intendedly cute jokes about "when we have kids one day" land like daggers. Even in the most loving relationships, there is always the ghost of what could have been, a quiet undercurrent of grief that never truly disappears.

And when they do stay, when they tell me it doesn’t matter, that we will find another way, I wonder if they will resent me one day. If, years from now, they’ll look at other families, at women who could give them what I never could, and feel regret.

Because I will never stop feeling regret.

Some nights, I lie awake and imagine what she would have looked like. My daughter. Would she have had my freckles, the little constellation of them dusting her nose? Would she have inherited my mother’s curls, the same ones I used to twist around my fingers as a child? I picture her voice, soft and sweet, calling me Mummy.

But she will never exist outside of my mind.

There are moments, though, when I find small pockets of joy in being the best auntie I can be. I have two little nieces, and I love them fiercely. I can’t wait to pick them up from school and take them for ice cream before dropping them home to an unimpressed mum. I can’t wait to pick them up tipsy from a party they weren’t supposed to go to, shaking my head but secretly proud of their boldness. I can’t wait to pick out their prom dresses, and eventually, their wedding dresses. I will love them with every ounce of maternal instinct I have, but I will always know that the joy of seeing them smile in those moments is not something I can take home with me.

I don’t know how to make peace with that.

This isn’t a wound that heals. It’s a scar that stays, a quiet ache that lingers in the spaces between conversations, in the moments of silence when I let myself wonder what could have been.

I wish I could end this with hope, with some grand revelation that makes it all hurt less. But the truth is, I don’t have that. I only have this grief, this longing, and the knowledge that I will carry it with me for the rest of my life.