Elisabeth Adams

Honestly? I didn’t want to write this article at first.

On October 13th of last year, a friend shared “Menopause and a Hope Deferred” with me, and I discovered I had a lot to say about childlessness as a single. I submitted the idea to my editor, knowing it might meet a felt need for others, but still hoping she’d turn it down.

She accepted it.

And so I began to write “What if I Never Have Children?“

My long-held desire for motherhood had never felt so raw: I was fresh out of grieving a relationship I hoped would lead to marriage, and keenly aware of my age.

I didn’t feel ready to write about another sad topic.

But in January, I created and shared a long, detailed survey, and over the next months, almost 30 people — some friends and some strangers — honored me by sharing their thoughts and experiences of childlessness.

A number of friends gladly helped shape my thoughts. One called me out for tripping over past hurts in my discussion. Another friend asked me to be more honest and direct in a key paragraph. Still another friend described her husband and brother’s experiences with longing for children in a way that kept me from succumbing to the stereotypes about men.

I read a number of books, articles, and blog posts. Some weren’t very helpful. Some were, like Lore Wilbert’s “Gift of Lack” and Betsy Herman’s When Infertility Books are Not Enough. Michael and Chelsea Sobolik’s story and heart refreshed me, too.

In February, I visited my 91-year-old great aunt Helen — a new widow, yet the cheerfulest, most energetic old lady you may ever meet. While we were out on a walk (!), Aunt Helen commented that she hardly ever thinks about her age.

Well! I thought. It’s certainly working for her. Maybe I should try it.

Previously pretty unconcerned about the passage of time, I had over the past year or two fallen into the habit of despairingly repeating my age to myself. Let me just say that simply living my life (without much reference to age) is absolutely, no-question, hands-down superior.

I kept writing.

In March, a dear distant friend delivered her stillborn daughter, and we attended the funeral online.

Just before Mother’s Day, one of “my girls” — a quartet of 19-year-olds whom I was training to cook — showered me with a wealth of verbal affirmation, quickly followed by the kindness of two more friends, leaving me standing tall on a day when I could have mourned.

This summer, I was accidentally (in God’s purpose) present for my newest niece’s birth. (I’m still soaking up her sweetness like I’m a solar panel.)

Meanwhile, my editor kept asking questions that sent me on deeper and more nuanced trails of thought. A male friend was vulnerable enough to share about his unexpected tears over childlessness. My own brother, who has faithfully invested in the children of his town, reached the end of his long wait: Yesterday, he and his wife announced their pregnancy.

And somehow, through the process of simply living, coupled with pondering and writing for you, Jesus came quietly in and healed my despair. I have not given up longing for children, but my heart is more whole and more brave. And even though we mourn together, friend, this is what I pray for you: More whole. More brave. More joy and life.

Yes, here and now. With or without children. Today.