I ¬†am not doing great. It is Friday and I should be happy for the upcoming weekend, for the summer warmth and for the chance to simply hang out with my husband. To enjoy the garden, cuddle the cats, keep writing, keep working on that embroidery too that I’m so proud of.


Instead I just hurt. I cry. I do my job but without pleasure, with every minute stretching out to last an hour.


By necessity I am trying to face and accept the possibility that we won’t ever have a child. Wondering when to say stop, when to give up, when to decide that it won’t happen. But that acceptance does not come easy. The questions hover over me like a dark cloud, blocking out the sun.


I’m not doing great. It hurts, badly.


All this time I have been longing for children.

All this time we have struggled, and hoped, and cried without use.

Again and again have we had hope torn away.

Again and again have I felt as though

life itself deems me unfit,

a failure,



Perhaps I am not meant to be a mother.

Perhaps that pain is one I can not escape

but one I am meant to embrace.


Perhaps it is not meant to be.