My story of unplanned non-parenthood
7-min read
I had never really considered that I might not become a biological parent someday. Of course I’d have children. I adored them. I was the little girl who always wanted to hold the baby at family gatherings, the teenager who loved babysitting and taking neighbours’ kids to the park, the adult who just knew she’d one day have a family of her own.
So when my husband and I got married, it felt completely natural that we’d start trying for a baby. We approached it with all the excitement of newlyweds, that hopeful sense of “let’s just see what happens.” I think deep down, I assumed it would happen straight away. It always looked so effortless for everyone else, didn’t it?
But as months turned into a year, and a year turned into more, that easy optimism started to fade. We began to learn, the hard way, that conception in humans is actually an incredibly complex and largely unknown process - like a biological lottery where timing, luck, and microscopic miracles all have to align.
We did what most couples do at that stage: ‘rainbowed up’ our diets, dosed up on all manner of vitamins and supplements, cut out the wine, and tracked ovulation. We basically took all the spontaneity out of our lives and hit pause.
Every weekend became a non-committal affair just in case we had to make it home in time for ‘The Window’. We put travel plans on hold because it always felt like, what if this is the month? I even stopped buying new clothes in anticipation of a growing bump. Everything started to revolve around this invisible finish line that we never seemed to reach.
Enter IVF: the “magic wand” that wasn’t
Eventually, we decided to seek help. Tests, scans, awkward consultations, the works. We discovered there was a reason why it wasn’t happening naturally, and IVF (specifically ICSI) was our best chance.
I think we both believed, at least at first, that IVF was the magic wand that would fix everything. You go through the injections, the egg collection, the waiting, and then… ta-da! Except that’s not quite how it happened.
Our first round resulted in lots of eggs but only half fertilised, and the ones that did weren’t developing as they should. In the end we were left with only one embryo suitable for transfer. One. None to freeze. It felt like a cruel joke.
Still, we had one more round. There was hope! Like the science experiments we did at school, we would analyse the results, adjust the variables and go again. Only, the doctors didn’t really know why the embryos behaved as they did.
That’s when I started to realise, maybe we had placed far too much faith in medical intervention, in spite of how advanced it had become. Perhaps there was no magic wand after all. At least maybe not for us.
Somewhere in the haze of hope and optimism that led us down the IVF route, pragmatism must have prevailed. We agreed that we’d do two rounds, and if it didn’t work, we’d draw a line under it. The emotional, physical and mental toil had already been a lot to take.
The second round was much the same; injections, hormones, tears, hope, fear. Again, one embryo. One precious, fragile possibility. Those two weeks waiting for the result were the longest two weeks of my life. We didn’t go anywhere, didn’t make plans, didn’t breathe too loudly in case it somehow cursed things. But deep down, I think I knew.
When the pregnancy test came back negative and my body discarded any shred of evidence that there might have been something there, the grief hit me like a wave I couldn’t swim against.
I remember feeling like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, staring into this vast, empty space where the rest of my life was supposed to be. All the plans I’d made, the milestones I’d imagined were gone. I felt weightless, untethered, like a balloon that had slipped free, floating aimlessly, at the mercy of the elements.
Learning to breathe again
Grief is strange. It’s not linear. It doesn’t politely finish when you’ve ticked off all five stages. It loops back on itself, sneaks up on you when you least expect it, and sometimes shows up years later disguised as something else entirely.
For a long time, I lived in that fog. Functioning, but not really living. But eventually, something inside me stirred. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was the faintest flicker of hope that there might still be more for me than loss.
I started to think about what I needed - really needed - to start feeling whole again. For years, I’d been pouring every ounce of energy into trying to become a mother. What would it look like if I poured that energy into myself instead?
Rediscovering purpose through coaching
I’d always been drawn to psychology and coaching. In my early twenties, as a Psychology graduate, I worked with children struggling with confidence and self-esteem, and I loved it. But back then, I convinced myself I was too young and inexperienced to make a career of it. Life took me elsewhere into roles that were interesting and rewarding in their own ways, but that deep pull towards human experience and personal growth never really went away.
After IVF, without the need to “save for the next round” or structure my life and career around potential maternity leave, I realised I finally had permission to invest in myself. So I did something I’d been talking myself out of for years: I signed up for a coaching qualification.
And honestly, it was the best decision I’ve ever made.
It gave me something to focus on that wasn’t loss or grief. I loved learning again. I loved discovering new ideas, meeting people who were open and curious and kind. It was like opening a window after years of stale air. And for once, I wasn’t doing it for anything or anyone. I was doing it because it made me feel alive.
Getting to know myself again
Through coaching (both studying it and receiving it), I started to reconnect with who I actually was now, not who I thought I was supposed to be. I started to see how the tensions in my life and career were actually symptoms of unmet needs I’d been neglecting for years.
So I started to explore them. I learned to sit with my emotions and see them as clues rather than something to be suppressed or avoided. Peeling back the layers and noticing patterns, I began to see my life in an entirely different light. A clearer light.
I realised that to feel fulfilled, I needed to live in alignment with the values most important to me at this stage of my life. To make choices and take actions that lead to tangible outcomes. The actions can be tiny, but they must be there. Without them we can stay stuck on a merry-go-round of perpetual frustration and disappointment when we don’t give ourselves what we need.
“If you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you’ve always got.” Henry Ford had the right idea.
The setback that taught me everything
Then, unexpectedly, we conceived naturally. Against all odds.
Once again, life hit pause. I put my plans on hold, convinced that I had to “stay sensible” and keep my job for maternity leave, for security, for the future that might now be back on the table.
But that pregnancy was short-lived and we lost the baby not long after finding out. And once again, I was back at square one; grieving, exhausted, and stuck in a life that didn’t fit anymore.
It took another year (and burnout) for me to finally see that knowing what you want isn’t enough. Understanding your values isn’t enough. You have to act on them, even if it’s messy, even if it’s scary, even if it’s one tiny step at a time.
As humans we have a propensity towards staying safe. Naturally we want to protect ourselves from risk, from failure, from pain, from loss. But if we play it too safe, we risk doing nothing and staying stuck.
Moving forward is as much about setting yourself a direction as it is about making the steps to walk the path. And coaching helped me remove the roadblocks and gather the resources I needed for the journey.
So I started taking those steps. Small, experimental, imperfect steps. I worked on my beliefs about myself, my perfectionism, my fear of failure - all the things that had kept me safely trapped. And slowly, things started to shift.
Finding my flow in the “after”
Today, I live a life that feels more me than it ever has, not because everything is resolved or easy, but because I’m no longer waiting for some external event to validate it.
Non-parenthood wasn’t part of my plan. It still isn’t easy. There are moments when grief sneaks up on me - a passing comment, a social media post, a reminder of what could have been. But there’s also space now for joy, curiosity, connection, and purpose.
And the truth is, finding flow again isn’t about reaching some final destination. It’s an ongoing process. A dance between acceptance, self-discovery, and action. Some days it’s graceful, some days it’s clumsy. But it’s living.
And that, I’ve learned, is its own kind of creation story.
If this story resonates with you and you’d like some support figuring out your next chapter, get in touch and say hello.