We should cease anticipating childless girls to coo over infants

As a woman, one of the first questions people ask me you is ‘do you have children?’

When I say I wasn’t able to, some jokingly say, ‘do you want one of mine?’

They’ll make a quip about how they bet I have a lovely, tidy home and how lucky I am to be able to go on holiday during term-time when it’s quiet.

Then there are the more bullish. I’m constantly amazed at people who just leap in and declare ‘you should adopt!’ – as if that thought might not have occurred to me.

One woman, who I’m sure intended to be comforting, patted my hand and told me that ‘God must have other plans for you’.

I’m not religious but I walked away thinking that, if I were, those words would make me feel as if God had deemed me unworthy of having children.

What very few people acknowledge – or even seem to consider as a possibility – is the grief I still live with, every single day.

The loss I feel is just as agonising now I’m 57 as when I was 40 and first had to accept that my hopes would never come true.

In recent years, there’s been much written about the freedom and joy of being child-free.

I have no issue with any woman who chooses not to have children and is happy with her decision – but I don’t want the increasing celebration of this choice to hide the pain endured by women who wanted to have kids, but never could.

That’s why I established World Childless Week, to call for change so that women like me aren’t constantly reminded of our loss.

Since starting this campaign, I’ve been ridiculed on social media, repeatedly told I am bitter and twisted and making a fuss.

But I believe society must change so that women like me aren’t constantly surrounded by reminders of our grief.

Raising awareness in the workplace is our main priority. There have been huge advancements in women’s rights at work in recent years, with adaptations for pregnant women, help for mothers returning to work and now a big focus on the menopause. And it’s great – but what about us?

There are so many small changes companies can make. Imagine having to coo and smile at a colleague’s new baby, knowing you can’t have one because you went through menopause in your 30s. Perhaps firms could pick a designated room for parents who bring their new babies in to meet colleagues?

Lots of women who contact us say that their meetings often start with parenting chat – why not have that at the end, so that anyone who wants to can leave?

Some offices have pin boards where they proudly display pictures of the workers’ children; perhaps be discreet about where this is placed. Imagine having to stare at a pin board full of babies when you’ve just had your sixth failed attempt at IVF.

It’s absolutely not about bitterness or resentment. However, at times, being faced with babies and children can be heartbreaking.

I was ten years old when I picked out the name I was going to give my daughter. I called her Kizzy, after a fearless, independent character in a children’s drama. My little boy’s name took longer; I was 20 when I decided the perfect choice was Joshua.

In my twenties, I was not in the right environment to bring a baby into the world. For years after that, I felt anxious around men and dating was difficult.

Then, when I was 33, I met Gary, the gentle, loving man I’m married to today. After four years together, we started trying to conceive when I was 37.

Two years passed with no sign of a positive pregnancy test and we were referred for tests. Doctors told me I had ‘unexplained infertility’, meaning they couldn’t pinpoint the reason but it was unlikely I’d ever get pregnant.

Edging towards 40, I was too old for IVF on the NHS and, devastatingly, we simply couldn’t afford to pay thousands for private treatment that had only a slim chance of success.

I would have considered adoption but Gary did not want to go down that route. I asked him if he wanted to leave me. I thought about whether I should leave him and adopt on my own. But we loved each other.

My sadness overwhelmed me but I couldn’t talk to friends or family because I felt like a failure. Why couldn’t my body do what everyone else’s could?

I couldn’t bear to hold anyone else’s baby. Even today, if someone offers their child to me to cuddle, I’ll just politely decline.

I have to constantly brace myself when I hear someone start a sentence with ‘as a parent’ – they’ll often go on to imply that a particular tragedy or sadness has affected them more deeply because they have children. The suggestion is that by not having children means you can never experience the empathy they do.

And yet they seem to have no empathy for me, or the 3.5million people affected by infertility. For 18 years, I’ve wept for the children I never had.

‘What have you lost?’ people ask, when I mention this grief I feel. I’ve lost my baby’s first smile, first words, first step, first birthday – every milestone I imagined but will never get to experience. That absence tinges even the happiest days of my life.

Take the family get-togethers I treasure, with three generations all eating together at a large table. It makes me happy to watch my young relatives grow and thrive, but I still hold this sense of not being good enough because I’m not a mother.

Over the past few years, my brother and some friends have experienced the joy of becoming grandparents. That won’t happen for me.

Neither will there be any children around to look in on me when I’m older and less mobile.

The sorrow comes at the most surprising moments. Recently, I’ve heard older parents say they have been clearing out their clutter so their children don’t have to worry about it when they have passed away. It made me tearfully wonder what will become of my possessions – particularly those that hold huge sentimental value – when I’ve gone.

When facing up to my infertility I saw that there was plenty of help for those struggling to conceive with advice on IVF, adoption and surrogacy but nothing for people who would never become a parent. The lack of recognition both annoyed and upset me.

Eventually, I discovered forums for childless women like me. After months of reading others’ stories, I posted my own. Suddenly, all the sorrow I had been bottling came out. I sobbed as I sat at the keyboard and asked when the pain would stop? Why had my stupid body let me down? How was I meant to live with this when I saw pregnant women and babies everywhere I went?

That’s when I knew I had to speak up, to try to change the way we treat childless women. I set up a platform where people could share their stories, knowing that their experiences wouldn’t be questioned or mocked. They wouldn’t be told their grief wasn’t real, as I have heard so many times.

At World Childless Week, I receive heartbreaking stories from 70-year-old women who were treated like outcasts for not having children and had nowhere to go to for help.

There are disabled women who don’t feel they can adequately look after a child. Then there are those who throw everything at IVF, spending fortunes to no avail.

My dream is to have posters and leaflets up in every doctor’s surgery and hospital waiting room, so anyone affected knows that we are there to help.

I never got to have cuddles with Kizzy, or push Joshua on the swings at the park. But my hope is that future generations of childless women won’t grieve, struggle and feel alone and ashamed, as I did.

* worldchildlessweek.net