Letting Go of Not Being a Mother

In college, I had a dear friend who once told me that her dream was to be a mother.

I sorely admit now — back then, I looked down on her dream.

There we were, two young, educated women about to embark into the world, and that was her dream? I didn’t get it.

I was never the little girl who played house or cared for baby dolls. I never fantasized about being a wife or a mother. My outlook on motherhood was bleak — and it makes sense, given what I witnessed growing up. In my childhood home, motherhood looked like a chore, a burden.

Layer that with the endless tragic headlines, the fear of bringing a child into a world of chaos and uncertainty, and I was firm in my conviction: No thank you. I wanted no part in adding another soul to this troubled planet. That was my worldview then.

But time has a way of softening edges. With experience — and the steady tick-tick-tick of biology — something shifted. I began to open to the idea of raising a little one, especially as my understanding of motherhood changed. The word began to mean something more like unconditional love — not duty or sacrifice, but devotion, presence, and awe.

For a while, though, I was stuck on the image that a “fulfilled, happily married woman” must have children — that home and family were the proof of success in love and in life.

Countless times I’ve sheepishly replied “not yet” when asked if I have any children. People — mostly other women — smile kindly and say, “There’s still time.” And every time, a soft blanket of shame falls over me.

Because of course I’ve imagined it: If I had a child to cherish, I would love her in all the ways I wasn’t loved. I would honor her spirit, her strength, her gifts. Through her, I would grow in love. I would give her the childhood I needed — one full of safety, laughter, and belonging. She would be a force of nature, unafraid to be herself.

And yet, every time I’m asked about my childless life, it feels like a sucker punch to the gut. Another story rises: She doesn’t understand the real joys or pains of motherhood. She’s not a mom. She doesn’t belong to the club.

As if my existence as a woman — as a human being — has less value because I’ve walked a different path.

No, I may not be a mother. But I am a daughter. And I know that ancient, aching thread that binds mother and child. I know that longing, that loss, that love — deeply.

As the seasons change, the trees begin their slow, graceful release. Leaves loosen and fall away. And I too am learning to release — the stories, the expectations, the quiet contractions that have pressed me into corners of unfulfilled ideals, both societal and personal.

Somatically speaking, I ask: Where do I hold these stories in my body?
In the contraction of my heart.
In the pressure of my gut.
In the emptiness of my womb.
And strangely, in my left foot — as if whispering, “Take these shackles off already.”

Be uniquely you, Jen. No matter how it looks to others.

Live the life you want — one filled with connection, play, laughter, travel, and wonder.

Now is the time for full embodiment — to inhabit this beautiful, divine instrument you’ve been given: your body.

Grow, grow, grow.
Sing, sing, sing your heart.

And as I write these words, I know I am not the first to walk this path.
There are countless courageous women who have wrestled with the same ache —
who have faced the tender question of what it means to create, to nurture, to love, without becoming a mother.

I know I am not alone in this.
Our stories intertwine,
each of us finding our own way to mother the world —
through art, through touch, through presence, through being. 💚