A woman I follow on social media had a baby. A much longed for child. She had tried unsuccessfully to conceive for many years & had shared this fact with the internet. Finally, her dreams came true. Of course she also shared this joy. I felt genuinely happy for her.
Then a kind of depression hit. I don’t actually know these people. I didn’t even follow her for that content. It was just another part of her life that she chose to be honest about. I saw her occasional posts about infertility and empathised. I hoped things would go well for her. I was happy when she talked about her pregnancy. Her posts about preparing for the baby were lovely. I clicked the heart on all the little outfits and baby paraphernalia. I didn’t give it a lot of thought. When she came up in my feed I thought it was nice that she was getting her happy ending.
I don’t really understand why the shift when her baby arrived. The photos are adorable. I don’t begrudge her having something I cannot. Still, I plunged into a really yucky pool of emotions. I wouldn’t even describe as a fully fledged depression. I feel sort of hollow. Numb isn’t quite right and neither is sad. It’s a little bit like the world is a technicolour picture and I am merely the text. My life lacks dimension. Absolutely nothing has changed. This woman’s story does not impact me at all. I will remain the same. It’s possible that witnessing someone else transform really underlines my stubborn lack of metamorphosis. It’s hardly my first rodeo, though.
My mind‘s ability to fuck with me never fails to catch me off guard. People are having babies everyday. There are films and books and friends and strangers with tales of loss, of waiting and of miracle babies. I can’t enumerate the number times I have been told about someone’s cousin or work colleague who tried for a million years and when they’d given up hope, it just happened. Social media is jam packed with pregnancy announcements and birth stories, they don’t all put me in a tail spin. Why this one? I’ll never know.
There is a hole through the centre of me and periodically something will disturb the wound. That constant background absence becomes a painful cavity. Often without warning or my full comprehension. It’s tiring. I have made strides towards another life. Most of the time, I’m proud of what I have built, but I cannot fill the gap. I’m 45yrs old and I believe I have reached another of those epic life realisations. This is it.
I don’t mean that in a defeatist way. I have been labouring under the illusion that I could find an alternative centre of gravity. Not knowing what was or could be felt sad & awful. I understand now, it doesn’t exist. I will never be a Mother & nothing will fill the role. Acceptance has been a long time coming, but it might be here. It’s painful, but there’s also a large amount of relief in it. The desperate search can cease. As can all the feelings of inadequacy that arise with never being able to find the thing. I have what I have, my efforts are much better spent making the most of that.

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