The freedom of caring less

I think I'm the classic middle child; always the peacemaker, the diplomat, the one who thinks about everyone else but not always myself, agreeable. Maybe that's not middle child, maybe it's just me. I was shy too, so a lot of my younger adult life and career was spent pushing myself to do what scared me, and - it felt - to go against some of my natural tendencies. It usually paid off, but it wasn't always comfortable. However, this was really about defending my own views, or even about developing them. As a child, I'd not felt as if my views mattered. As a student, and then a young worker, I had been intimidated by people who would confidently speak up definitively, even when they were definitively wrong! By my late 30s, though, I felt much more confident that before. The humility of a middle child was morphing into someone who could recognise that, actually, I knew as much as (or more than) the people around me, and I felt more able to speak up. 

After a few years out as a result of the confidence-destroying ectopic pregnancies and infertility, it picked up, full steam ahead, in my mid-40s. Especially helpful were the psychology lessons of adapting to my life through pregnancy loss and subsequent childlessness, volunteering daily for the Ectopic Pregnancy Trust where I learned and gained confidence from wise women around me, and then later, blogging. My confidence grew as the way I thought and approached life became more one of enquiry and knowledge and growth. I bit my tongue less, felt better able to discuss rather than just agree even when I had questions or doubts, and decided that other peoples' opinions and feelings (mostly) did not matter more than my own. 

So I'm still polite, but I don't agree with making myself or my views invisible just to keep the peace. I may not have raised children, and therefore I haven't had to sacrifice my own needs or wants or even opinions in that way, but I've certainly silenced myself for years. And it came to a point where I just said enough. These days I own my views, my opinions, my dignity, my worth. And I'll speak up about it if I need to. I'm still measured about it. Thoughtful, I hope. But I don't want to be silent.

Infertile Phoenix here highlighted a blog post that talks about why women in their forties and fifties (and beyond) suddenly stop biting their tongues. Go and read her post, and then the linked post explaining the neuroscience behind it. 

I'm not sure to what extent the neuroscience explains my own transformation - I'm on estrogen-only HRT, but maybe that's not sufficient - and my personal and career development at the time seemed to explain it to my satisfaction before I read the article. But it is still extremely validating to find that I'm not alone in my feelings about previously putting myself last. And that I can be confident in my choices now to put myself first - or somewhere in between, but always with the knowledge that it is up to me, and me alone.  It gives me the freedom to be myself. What a gift!

 

 

Also relevant: 

Gifts of Infertility series: Self-confidence
Gifts of Infertility series: Self-discovery

 

Wisdom in an advice column

I have discovered I love Carolyn Hax. She’s an advice columnist at The Washington Post, and I would never have heard of her if it hadn’t been for Mel at Stirrup Queens quoting her from time to time. I now have a subscription for the online Post, and part of the reason is her! She is so unerringly sensible, kind but direct. And sometimes really funny.  

The other day I saw an old question reposted, and in her response she said something that I’ve tried to say here too. Someone was worried that by expressing their true wishes they'd offend a friend. Her answer was a classic: 

“The sooner you learn that “direct” and “mean” are not synonymous, the better for your entire relationship future.”

I’ve often worried that same thing, when I have felt under attack simply for mentioning that my reality is different from another person's. I’ve seen a lot of people (on blogs and in messageboards) over the years worry that by speaking up for themselves they are being rude or unkind. No! We can be tactfully direct, eg by saying “those of us without children might see things differently/have to do things differently,” without ever being rude. Talking about our reality is not rude, or mean. It’s simply being truthful.

I know I’m repeating myself. But the older I get, the more I believe this. Don't get me wrong, I'm someone who hates conflict, and likes to smooth waters. But these days, I no longer feel the need to subjugate my truth and feelings for the mistaken perception that by speaking my truth I might upset someone else.

Other posts in this vein of thought can be found by clicking here and, with a lot of overlap, here. 

I'll repost this image reminding us we can be honest and true to ourselves, and still be a kind person:

 

Gifts of Infertility Series - #24 – Self-Discovery

It’s been a long time since I wrote a post on this series, not because I’ve struggled to find a topic to write about, but because I wanted to make the most of the last two items in this series, and before now didn't quite feel I could commit to this.

The 24^th in my list of the Gifts of Infertility is really a summation of many of the other items. It is one of the biggest gifts of the heartbreak that came from infertility and loss. It is self-discovery, and hasn’t just helped me deal with infertility, but has spread into all aspects of my life.

Self-discovery and personal growth often come out of difficult times. Sure, there are plenty of people who go through difficult times and come out of it just as selfish as they were before, just as some people come out feeling much more afraid, less trusting, and more self-focused than they were before this. But after a long time, I certainly recognise the benefits of the personal growth that resulted from of those difficult years.

Self-discovery does not mean that we have all the answers. I think that self-discovery means that we are more open to the realities of who we are, and can face up to both our talents and our flaws.

I have a lot of flaws. I think I’m aware of most of them, as I admit them to myself even if I won’t always admit them to others – just in case they haven’t noticed (yes, I live in hope). What I’ve learned though is that it doesn’t help me if I berate myself over them. I’ve learned to try to change them if I can, to face them – as I faced my shyness when I left on a student exchange when I was 17 – as issues that need to be dealt with or lived with, rather than to judge myself because of these issues.

Self-discovery came to me when I allowed myself to grieve. It came to me when I allowed myself to be vulnerable, to really feel emotions, rather than tamp them down. It came to me when I needed to think about what made me happy, after spending a long time of being very sad. It came to me when I needed to look at what I had, because looking at what I didn’t have wasn’t doing me any good. It came to me when I showed self-compassion, and so could face my flaws without terrible guilt and self-hatred and shame. It came to me when I was as kind to myself as I would be to friends and family, when I stopped beating myself up.

Self-discovery came to me when I saw what worked, and was honest about what didn’t. It came to me when I dropped the judgement, and tried to be productive instead. It came to me when I learned more about others, and that helped me learn more about myself. Self-discovery came to me through hard work and tears. It came to me through love and compassion. It came to me from inside myself, and from learning from other wise women who were walking alongside me and helping me.

Self-discovery is a continuing journey, applicable in all aspects of my life. It is a journey that can still bring disappointment in myself, and could easily be halted by shame. But if I don’t allow the shame to take hold again, if I can commit to the honesty required to get past it, self-discovery can also deliver satisfaction and joy and confidence and growth. The best thing about it is that it can banish a lot of fear, and that results in self-imposed burdens tumble from my shoulders. That freedom has allowed me to embrace the future, whatever it might bring. Self-discovery truly is one of the ongoing gifts of infertility.

My existence is not offensive

I’ve spent my life being considerate, polite, deferential, and was diplomatic long before I ever became a diplomat. It was ingrained into me, my gender, my culture and my family, to put others before myself, to be more restrained, to avoid confrontation, not to be pushy or loud, not to speak out, to mediate and to negotiate.

Some of these characteristics are essential in decent society, and can be beneficial in our business and social lives, but they can hold us back too, resulting in us being pushed around, interrupted, or ignored. I have to say that it really took until my 40s before I felt the liberation of a growing self-confidence, and I know I am not alone amongst women in this.

I think that’s why I am so sad (and yes, why I’m talking about this again) to continue to see – in blogs and comments, including comments here – how reticent* many people are about defending their reality as life without children, that they are worried that they will seem rude. But our existence is not offensive, our No Kidding lives are not discourteous to any others, and therefore having increased visibility as people without children – talking about the fact we have no children, whether in a casual one-line comment, or in response to others, whether correcting assumptions, or by refusing to justify our lives or respond to invasive questions – is not impolite either.

By suppressing our feelings and by brushing aside even small, unintentional slights, I worry that we’re reinforcing our invisibility, we’re giving the rest of society permission to ignore our reality or to feel superior, and essentially we’re contributing to a less diverse, more narrowly-focused society, and that doesn't help anyone.

Like anything, it’s all about timing, about tone of voice, about context, and with good and fair intentions; we simply don’t have kids, and it is not bad manners to acknowledge this.

* I am not talking about the early days, when we are grieving and, out of necessity, trying desperately to protect ourselves.

Knowing ourselves

I was going to write another in my series of blog posts I won’t be writing, but when I looked at some of the prompts that I won’t use, I decided against listing them here. None of us here need to see a list of ways for a mother to brag about what a great mother they are, how much their kids love them, and how adorable and precocious their children are.

They reminded me of a lot of the Mother’s Day posts I saw (translation: was unable to avoid) on Fb, where, instead of tributes to their own mothers, I saw mothers post self-congratulatory photos of cards from their children declaring how much they loved their mother, photos of flowers their adult children had sent, and photos of breakfasts or other meals their children had prepared for them.

I wondered if the mothers felt the need to do this, to brag to the world how well loved they are, because on a day-to-day basis they feel taken for granted and struggle to keep their heads above water? If so, I have sympathy for them, and hope that they find a way to feel better about themselves, a way to define themselves, without endless self-promotion that is focused on their relationships with others.

When we first enter into the rest of our lives without children, it is easy to define ourselves as people without children, and that is a relationship focused on the negative. Eventually though, I think we're able to move to a place where we can define ourselves as simply ... well ... ourselves. That - being realistic and accepting, recognising both our flaws and our good points, not kidding ourselves - brings a welcome feeling of quiet satisfaction and freedom.

I trust ...

In January, I started Yoga with Adriene’s 30 Day Yoga Camp. Each day has a particular mantra, something to think about as you practise, something to help you as you go through your day. Sometimes these have been helpful, and I may write about them too, but the day the mantra was “I trust” I admit that I felt a little betrayed. Because I don’t believe that the universe will provide, or that it will be okay in the end, or that “everything happens for a reason.”

As I thought about it, I realised I don’t really trust in much – certainly not the universe, a religion, my health or my body, society or politics, financial security, or even the security and stability of the ground beneath me (given there is no ground beneath me  - for quite a few metres at least -  and what’s there can be shaky).

But then I realised, I do trust in my ability to get through things – or at least, to know I can come out the other side. That’s not nothing either.

So, for obvious reasons, I’m holding on to that now - you should, too.

The rest of my life

No kids?  So what am I going to do with my life?  I often read this sentiment in blogs of those who are either facing the prospect of living their life without children, or who have just entered their No Kidding life.  I asked it myself, and was reminded of this by Lisa on  Life Without Baby.

The previous few years had all been aimed at getting pregnant, and the lifestyle with children.  And suddenly, that wasn't relevant any more.  I felt as if there was a void that needed to be filled with something big, something amazing, something different.  I know I wasn't alone in those feelings. But even though I felt that everything had changed for me, it hadn't really.  I still had elderly parents that needed to be considered, a husband who liked his job (and wanted to be near his elderly parents), a house that needed maintenance (and still does), friends and interests.  So a major lifestyle change was difficult.  

When I look back though, my lifestyle now is different to what it was ten years ago.  For a start, we have travelled much more.  Partly because we have had more disposable income, but also partly I think because we thought "why not?"  It wasn't as if we were waiting for children.  I have a brother-in-law who puts many possible trips on hold because he wants to go with the his "whole family."  So he rarely goes anywhere, as part of his "whole family" is now grown up and living in another country!  He is putting his life on hold for a fantasy that has passed.  We at least had recognised that our fantasy had passed - after all, the passing of our fantasy was dispatched like a brick to the head!

My working life had already changed, as I moved from a full-time job where I travelled internationally, to being self-employed.  Early through that grieving period, I found myself thrust into a leadership role, and whilst it was scary, it was also challenging and interesting and rewarding too.  At the same time, I got some significant contracts as a consultant, and so my working life was varied and interesting and fulfilling.  I also expanded my wings in the volunteer sector, and began writing - something I had always loved and done when I was younger, but which had been overtaken by the business and diplomatic writing of my career.  The differences between my personal and professional writing styles surprised me.  Finding my voice was scary too, but liberating.

I found that I had changed.  I was more confident in my own abilities, but I was also more content.  I knew my own limitations, and for the first time in my life became able to accept them.  I could push them when I needed, but stopped pointlessly beating myself up for these limitations.  After all, I also found myself better able to understand the limitations of others, to see the insecurities or misunderstandings behind the bluster and bullying and verbosity that are so prevalent in board rooms.  Part of this understanding came from the volunteer work I was doing - analysing motivations behind behaviour had always been an interest of mine, and my volunteer work addressed this intensely.  

But part of this understanding too was simply from being in my 40s, with that combination of experience and wisdom that I think comes to us then, if we are prepared to think, to examine ourselves and our motivations and actions, as well as those of others.  Still, I'm not sure I would have achieved this growth if I hadn't been through the losses I had been through.  Sure, as a parent I may have grown in different ways.  But as an adult without children, I had the luxury of time to contemplate the world, and how I wanted to be in it.  And that has brought me a lot of peace.

I never did find though that one amazing thing that would fill my No Kidding life. We look for something to replace the children, but I think what happens is that life fills that void.  You know, the life we're living when we're making plans.  And it can fill the void in wonderful, inspiring, surprising ways.  Tiny ways too.  Like learning gratitude.   That doesn't mean though that I'm not still looking at new opportunities.  I suspect I'll still be looking when I'm 70.  That doesn't scare me though.  In fact, I quite like that idea, because in looking, I'm always learning, I'm always changing and growing and challenging.  

It may look from the outside that everything is the same.  I'm in the same city, same house, and yes, even drive the same car!  (I'd love to move and go off on a grand adventure, but circumstances at the moment don't permit that.)  I'm the same person, with the same values.  But life didn't end when we said good-bye to children, and began a No Kidding life.  And as a result, I have changed, and in ways that make me happier, more content, more confident.  I know that I continue to change.  And I embrace that change. 

Do as I say, not as I do

As a consultant, I've designed and taught several courses about marketing, in particular, about marketing your services.  After all, there's not much more personal in sales than selling yourself, your thoughts and abilities and personality and style.  It's not easy.  You may be a brilliant consultant because you understand your clients, they trust you, you develop insight, and you tailor your approach to each individual client and their specific needs.  You may be a brilliant consultant because you are an expert at what you do - leading your city, country, or even the world.  But unless you're able to

a) explain your value in terms your client understands and values, or
b) actually put yourself out there in front of potential clients, put yourself out to be seen (and yes, judged),

then you won't get the work.

I'm terrible at the above.  Well, no, let me qualify that.  I am skilled at knowing how to do it, but point b) gets me every time.  Call it fear, call it a lack of self-belief, call me shy, or call me a coward.  I wish I was better at self-promotion, at acknowledging what I'm good at (and I'm very good at that), and at convincing others.  Heck, forget about convincing, saying it (or believing it) in the first place would be a good idea.

I think this blog is the same. I know what I need to do, and how to do it, to live a good life, to embrace my future.  And I think I'm more succesful with this than I am at my own self-promotion.  But just because I think I have some of the answers, or sound as if I might know what I'm talking about, doesn't mean it is always easy.  It doesn't mean I always manage to embrace my life, to shrug off negative comments as if I'm coated in teflon, or to always be happy.  I can't.  And that's okay.  And I think I need to acknowledge it here, that I have moments or even days of sadness, that I often take a step back before I can step forward again, that I don't always follow my own advice.

Coming to terms with our life-style will be a life-long issue.  But our lifestyles - whatever they might be - are a life-long issue - whether it's coming to terms with not having children, or a partner, or the career we wanted (or not being able to figure out what career we wanted), or not having the health, the friendships, the body, the partner, or the money etc we wanted.  All these things are our issues.  And too often we focus on what we don't have, rather than what we do have.  That's natural and normal.  But sometimes, if we focus to an excess on what we don't have, it is neither natural or normal.  But unfortunately, too often, it is encouraged by the societies in which we live.

And in this focus on what we don't have, we open the door to feelings of disconnection* and we invite in shame.  I think that that stops us reflecting on what we do have.  And so often, and certainly in my life, a lot of what we do have, the good things in my life, are a direct result of not having something we wanted.  And you know, that's not a bad thing.

Yes, I'm referencing Brene Brown and her thoughts on shame again.

Our kinda people

One of the joys of blogging is “meeting” people who are inspirational, people I admire and look up to, people who are kindred souls, people who can teach me things and expose me to new lives, ideas, and ways of thinking, people who remind me I’m not alone, and last but not least, people who make me laugh.  I have found all these people in the blogosphere – first my friends over at A Separate Life, and now here in the no kids and ALI communities. 

So I was especially interested to hear the recent podcast on Bitter Infertiles that featured Pamela and Loribeth.  For one, I wanted to hear their voices and accents.  You see, you all have kiwi accents when I read your blogs.  It’s always a bit of a shock to hear someone’s real voice!  (As I’m sure you would find it a shock to hear mine.)  But mostly, I listened because I wanted to hear what questions the Bitter Infertiles’ hosts would ask our two living-life-without-children representatives, and also, of course, hear their responses.

The discussion didn’t disappoint, and made me want to highlight a few things here, especially for those who haven’t heard the podcast, or don’t have the time.  (I had to listen to it in two separate sittings, simply to get through it, and it's taken me some time to be able to comment too).

The main issue that I think many infertiles struggle with is how we actually take the decision, how do we get to that stage, and how could we ever bear to do it, to say “enough” or “that’s all folks.”  And so I was interested in the comment that this fear of the decision is actually the fear of grief, and the fear of failing to grieve.  I’m not sure if I’m going to represent their point of view correctly, so I’ll give my perspective.  If you’ve been through infertility and loss, you’ve most probably grieved.  We grieve lost pregnancies, or cycles that never ended in pregnancy, and we grieve the loss of our natural fertility/biological children long before we get to the end of the road.  So we all know how painful grief is.  Then we have to grieve the loss of our dream of being a parent.  And the thought of that grief, being the culmination of all the others, the end of a dream, is painful.  And yes, the reality is painful too. I’ve never tried to hide that.  Equally, though, the decision might be accompanied by a moment of relief, of a vision of the future opening up in full technicolour when we have been stuck in immovable grey despair.  In my experience at least, that moment of relief – whilst wonderful – is only a moment.  Then we have to go through the hard slog of grief, grieving the loss of our quest, the loss of a future we thought we’d have. And it takes time, and yes, it is painful.  But it is not something to fear.  Because we need to do it to come through the other side.  We need to do it to let go of our dreams, and start to dream something else.  It is worth it. Believe me.

But if we fear to make this decision (and I’m referring to the decision to grieve rather than the decision to stop trying for children – because for many of us that decision is taken for us), if we drift in denial, then we drift in limbo.  When we’re drifting, as one of the panelists pointed out, too often we’re afraid of being around children because of the emotions they elicit.  Yet when we resolve and accept a life without children of our own, we can open our hearts to other children around us, and bring them into our lives.  Again, it doesn’t happen overnight.  But we get there, and it’s worth the effort.

Of course, the inevitable question of any childless woman was asked.  But perhaps it was to be expected in this environment of open, frank discussion.  “Why didn’t you pursue donor egg/surrogacy/adoption?”  And whilst both Pamela and Loribeth had different experiences, there was an interesting discussion about taking into account what might be best for a child of DE/surrogacy/adoption, instead of just blindly staying on the treadmill, and pursuing what can become an overwhelming desire for a child.  And I wanted to applaud all who were involved in this discussion, and particularly the comment from Mo or Cristy (I can’t remember who) noting that in many ways the decision to live life without children is a selfless one, one that recognises what might be best for the child, not just what the parents want for themselves.  As Pamela or Loribeth pointed out, so often those of us without kids are painted (ignorantly) as being “selfish” it was nice to hear recognition that there are selfless (and I would add, responsible, rational) reasons for our decisions too.

As a regular reader of both Pamela and Loribeth, I wasn’t surprised that they come across as very confident, self-aware women, women who know who they are and are comfortable in their own skins.  Perhaps, it was postulated, this is because they have to make their own markers in life, recognise their progress and different stages of relating to others, when the major markers of life for many women are markers as mothers  – giving birth, first day of school, graduation, marriages and yes, more babies.  I liked this thought – as I certainly think I’m more self aware than many who perhaps don’t have the time to reflect, or who define themselves as mothers and don’t reflect on that.  I am certainly more self-aware than when I was going through infertility and loss, and before that too.  There's more to think about here - that'll be a task for me in the coming days and weeks.

Finally, I wanted to cheer Pamela when she corrected the interviewers (a couple of times I think) that she didn’t choose not to have children.  Instead, she “had no choice but to come to terms” with her life without children.  I have said this before (here), and I want to say it every time I see Mel and other bloggers write the words “choose to live child free.”  As we’ve said before, the real choice is whether to live in regret, or rather to embrace life and live it to its fullest.  Pamela and Loribeth are doing this, and I salute them.