Childless, and now, Single

My husband died late last month. It still seems unbelievable to write it, let alone say it or live it. In the end, things happened quite quickly. We spent a (largely) peaceful week or so in the local hospice, with (mostly) wonderful staff and volunteers, and space for family and friends to visit, and a nice view across a valley, much like life here at home. I was able to stay with him the entire time, which was a comfort to us both.  

My sister and brother-in-law, who had stayed with me just a week or so earlier when he was in hospital, and had fed me and supported me and chauffeured me when I was exhausted, jumped in their car on very short notice to drive seven hours to be here to support me. They were amazing, took over everything, made the hard phone calls, organised the small gathering we had to honour him, and helped organise people too. Other family were here, and after they all went home about 12 days later, friends have been checking in on me. I have been lucky to have that support. 

But having so many people around so intensely was at times overwhelming. I felt I had no time to grieve. But maybe that's why we do it that way. The brain and heart has to catch up with reality. And now that I'm alone, I can mourn freely, whenever the moment hits me, knowing that I can also be strong around others.  

One thing that has surprised me is that receiving messages, texts, emails, whatsapps etc, having actual conversations chatting about anything, makes me feel much less alone. They are real connections, and very important. Physical presence hasn't been essential every day, if I've been chatting to my sister-in-law in Australia, or my friend in Thailand, or my sister in the north. Messages are also much easier to respond to, when I weep at the drop of a hat. (When writing this, for example.) Responding to heartfelt messages takes a toll though, so I am doing that very slowly.

Thanks to neighbours and wonderful blogging friends, my freezer is almost overflowing with food. Cooking is not so much the problem. Going out to the supermarket is. I went once, and was surprised how hard it was - walking past his favourites, picking up only enough for me, answering questions at the checkout. So knowing there are ready-made meals waiting for me is a great relief. I am extremely thankful for their support. 

I have a long list of things I need to do. Some of it feels overwhelming. Some of it is routine. But it is all hard, though I'm trying to force myself to get at least one thing done each day. I'm not sure how soon or how often I will be able to write here again. I might need the outlet, I might need privacy. 

We were together since our university days. We grew up together.  We shared everything. Together we learned and explored - ideas, activities, and the world - in ways that we might not have done apart. I am who I am because of him. But now I have to learn to be alone. 

 

The importance of connections

I remember when I had my ectopic pregnancies that I could talk about the "mechanics" of the situation - scans, what an interstitial or cornual ectopic was, etc etc, relatively easily with friends and family. But as soon as it got into the emotions, I couldn't speak. I'm not someone who cries easily in public. Or should I say, I'm not someone who wants to be able to cry easily in public. I hate it! I try not to. But ectopics and infertility opened the floodgates. And being in contact with kind people who were empathetic saved me. Blogging here has reinforced that. Helping people who are going through hard times, or just having a space for myself to have a moan and a wobble, a space where I know people will understand, has been a gift.

So this last year has been tough. People ask how I am, and I talk about my husband's condition. If they're extra kind, they'll say, "and how are YOU?" and that's the danger zone. So I explain that, through the tears threatening to spill, and see if we can change the subject. The thing is, I don't even know what the answer is. So even if I could talk, I'm not sure what I'd say. The kindness though, starts the waterworks. Accepting their sympathy and/or empathy is really tough. So I let them know I appreciate it. And that contact helps. Whether it's a blog comment, an email or whatsapp, a dinner or coffee out, or a visit. Support comes many different ways. Sometimes the most meaningful is also the simplest.  I am pleased to be reminded of that, so I can help myself, and at the same time support others too.

 

Managing our energy and boundaries

 Well, I blithely wrote about The Freedom of Caring Less last week. But here's a confession. Sometimes I am much better at putting myself first than others. Friends this morning reminded me - in a good way - of the importance of boundaries, and ensuring that we have enough energy (or spoons) to get through the day. I'm talking about "spoon theory" - a concept that explains how we manage limited energy. I'm not always good at this. 

Setting boundaries and not sacrificing or silencing ourselves for others is easy when we do it with people who might be a little distanced from us. But it's a lot harder when people are closer. When we don't want to hurt people we love, but don't actually have the capacity to do more, to listen more, to be the friends or family support we really want to be. Or would be, in other circumstances. But we want to hold those people close too. Because they matter.

I guess that's life, isn't it? We all have limited spoons. We all deal with different issues and situations, and therefore are in completely different grief or crisis circles or rings (see "ring theory") when it comes to the comfort-in/dump-out ideal. Putting comfort in can be really hard if we are already in crisis in a different situation. Likewise, dumping out to someone who is already in crisis isn't really appropriate either. The rings don't overlap, do they? But it's really hard when there are several active crisis rings in my life, and I'm at a different place in each of them. As are my family and friends. There are no rules or maps for navigating that. And no extra spoon/energy allocations for any of us.

I guess I'm saying, I don't want to give the impression that all or any of this is easy. Even though it is easier than it was, and I'm much better at it. I still struggle. I'm trying to find an even path that feels right to me. And I still have limited spoons, and none in my bank, so I need to be careful and take care of myself. It's good to have good friends who can remind us of this.

Anxious anticipation, and support

I recently took part in a social media discussion about meeting up with an old friend when we're childless. A poster was nervous - since she had last met up with this friend her long term relationship had broken up, she hadn't had children, and she'd had some difficult times. She was dreading the "what's happened in your life since I last saw you" question. And she felt embarrassed and ashamed about how her life had turned out.

I recognised her feelings acutely, remembering back to the years immediately after my last ectopic and attempts at IVF. I dreaded meeting former acquaintances who had taken on the "earth mother" mantle. I don't have those feelings anymore. If people want to judge me for not having children, or having pursued a different career path, or retiring early (partly by choice, partly not), then that tells me much more about them than anything about me. Because I have had years to deal with this and figure it out, and I'm content.

I said to her that her feelings were familiar. And that the worst of these situations were never how people acted towards me, or reacted to my childlessness (some good, some not so good). The worst was always what I imagined people might say or think about me. This made the anticipation of an event so much more miserable than it needed to be, and always worse than the event ended up being. 

Of course, as I've said here a lot, it was the voice in my head telling me to that they would think I was less, that then made me wonder about it too. But then I realised that I could retrain my brain, ask myself if those thoughts and feelings were true, and then dismiss the thoughts if/when the answer was no. I have written about it, in slightly different contexts, frequently under the label "negative thoughts." With this visual:

 

I reminded her too that she is worthy, worthy of friendship and love, regardless of whether she has children or not, is in a relationship or not, etc. 

There was a lot of good advice for the anonymous poster, and I was so pleased to see social media being used to support and help someone.  Here are some of the best suggestions for her from the others:

1. You are in control of what you tell her and what you don't. Another person said, you don't have to have a deep and meaningful conversation - keep it light, meet over an activity (eg go for a walk) as a distraction.

2. Everyone has something going on. You might be surprised that her life isn't as perfect as it seems.

3. Is the anxiety more about what we internalise from society's expectations of us as women, rather than what she may think of you?

4. Your friend might be feeling nervous too, after such a long gap. "She's going to judge me for being so family oriented," etc. 

5. See it as a low stakes situation. You're just having (insert lunch/coffee/walk etc). If she is judgemental, don't give her any more of your energy, and if she is not, great!

6. Be yourself. You don't need to overshare. Stories can be shared over time. 

7. "Half my friends are single and childless." The social norm is still considered families and mothers, but the reality is different.  There's nothing unusual about you.

8. Highlight the things that make you shine. If she is the right person, talking can be healing. Your friend will be over the moon just to see you again.

 

Looking back on the blog: 2025

This last year my blogging has suffered. I was seriously considering whether I would do a review this year, but I like being consistent, so here goes!

So, looking back on No Kidding in NZ in 2025. I wrote 28 posts here last year, a reduction of almost 50% from 2024, and less than one a week. The reason for that was a major health upheaval for my husband. I just couldn't stick to regular posts. My mind was understandably elsewhere.

It also influenced my theme of the year, writing more about how we give and receive support, as I both received it, and didn't, from various circles. But I also found that coping with diagnoses and treatments and yes, grief and anticipated loss, have similarities with my journey through infertility, pregnancy loss, and childlessness. Many of the lessons from that time have proven to work for me now too. Taking joy in little things. How we want support, and how to support others. (Because life didn't stop, and I had to seriously support a close friend at the same time). And most of all, being kind - to myself, as well as the person I'm caring for. Giving myself permission not to stick to a rigid weekly blogging schedule helped a lot. I'm going to try to blog a bit more this year, but I'm making no promises.

The issues of ageing without children are also topmost in my mind - but perhaps I've articulated those less this last year. I'm sure it will be a theme in 2026. I have a lot of thoughts! 

The end of the year finished on a bright note, when we were able to travel together, once treatments took a pause. We were very lucky to be able to do so. You can find my travel photos on instagram as travellingmali. 

Thanks to those who have stuck by me this year. And whether you comment or not, whether you’re a long time reader or have just stumbled across me for the first time, I want you to know how much I appreciate you. Sending love.

Hoping you all have a very safe and happy 2026!  

 

When does caring count?

Does caring count if you never show that you care? 

People who find it difficult to support others – “I don’t want to say the wrong thing” – always forgive themselves (or so it seems) by saying, almost as an afterthought, “but I do care.”

As if that is supposed to make their silence or insensitivity okay.

Others excuse them by saying, “they find it terribly hard.”

And in saying that, they easily dismiss our feelings of disappointment, neglect, isolation. In fact, we’re practically admonished for feeling hurt.

I understand that others might have limitations that mean they can't provide the support we want and need. Even after we specifically articulate what we want and need. But being told that "they care" is really irrelevant, if the person in need of support doesn't feel that. Doesn't even hear it, because it is never said by the person who counts. Having to hear “they care” from a third party kind of proves that they don’t care enough to tell you themselves. That their feelings of awkwardness and discomfort outweigh our feelings - of trauma, of loss, of despair, of grief, or whatever is relevant when we desperately need support.

For those of us in the No Kidding space, this feels all too familiar. We are told not to make people feel awkward, put our feelings after others. Our losses are minimised by flippant or trite comments; "just adopt," “here, have mine,” "you never had anything to miss," "at least you can <fill in the blanks>"  etc, that dismiss our concerns about not having children. Someone once said to one of my sisters-in-law that she never knew what to say to me when I lost my pregnancies. “I’m really sorry, I don’t know what to say,” would have been nice to hear. How hard is that? That person maintained their silence for 15 years!

So I’m not even asking the question. I’m coming to a conclusion. Caring isn’t Schrodinger’s caring. You don’t both care and not care until you break your silence. Because it is the silence that hurts. Sometimes, it hurts a LOT.

Caring doesn’t even matter if you never show it.

 

Thinking about support

I've been thinking about how we support each other recently. Not only because I have been in need of support this year, but also because a close friend is now in need of support too, and I want to continue to be there for her, when I am able. I learned a lot back when I was going through my ectopics and hospital stays, etc. I learned what worked for me, and that is always helpful. And I learned how to support others as a result. But I'm definitely still learning, and have been far from ideal over the years, I am sure.

Here are some thoughts on support, and how to be supported: 

• Reaching out really helps. Knowing someone is thinking about us helps. It doesn't matter that there's nothing you can do. It just helps. 

• Or if you haven't heard from them in a while, reaching out lets them know they're not forgotten or alone.

• Not reaching out - even if it is because you don't want to bother the person who needs support, or don't know what to say - can make them feel that you don't care. 

• Listening helps - not just to our woes, but to what we say helps. A friend overseas commented that she was twittering on about her travels, when we were going through some awful stuff. I said it helps. And now I love getting her messages with photos of her adventures. Better than flowers! I might not be able to be out and about travelling now, but that doesn't mean I want everyone else to stop. 

• Don't put the onus of information updates on the person or people at the centre who need support. Ask! They can say "I can't talk about it right now" if they need some space. 

• Be honest. My friend and I have talked about how we can continue to support each other, unless circumstances mean we can't. We know we can easily say to the other that we are overwhelmed or busy, and know the other one will understand. So let people know what you can, or perhaps why you can't, do for them. 

• Be aware of the person's preferred method of communication, and use that, even if it isn't yours. This is a big one for me. It's not about you! I'm fine on the phone with people I'm close to, but sometimes I just can't talk about it. So I rarely enjoy phone calls out of the blue. One person in my life has been told at certain times of my life not to call me. She always respects this. In fact, recently I had to say, "I'm okay for a call!" A text saying, "can you talk if I ring you right now?" is great to receive, even if our response might be, "not right now, maybe tomorrow." I'm good with texts/emails/written communication (no kidding! lol), but I know others prefer talking directly. So when they are at the centre of something, I call them. (I know that, because I was once berated for messaging not calling!)

• Pace yourself! Don't overwhelm the person at the centre, and don't rush in with support that you're going to be tired of providing in a few months. Especially if they're going to need more support down the line. Pace yourself, so you can be there for them later.

• Read between the lines. If someone is giving limited information, don't pry. I have a friend who always, always asks follow-up questions. Yes, that's nice. But sometimes it's a bit much. It's why I didn't tell people I was going through IVF. Oh, the thought of all those questions! Yet I could be quite detailed about my ectopics, because it had already happened.

• Hope and optimism is good, but let people sit with sadness and dread too. Don't dismiss their feelings by telling them to cheer up, especially if they are still dealing with a new reality. Those of us who have gone through infertility or pregnancy loss certainly know that, don't we? We need time. 

• Think before you speak. Yes, I've blurted out one or two things I haven't meant to in the past, and one statement in particular still haunts me. I'll never do it again.  

• But also, be normal! Normality is so great. A good conversation, lots of laughs, a meal together, etc. It reminds everyone of what brings us together, or why we might be friends or beloved family members.  

• Don't make it about you. I'm thinking of parents (not mine) who grieve the lack of grandchildren, and put it on the childless people who are grieving their own loss. Or people who want to see someone who might not have much time left, and don't think about what they might want, or when they might want it. 

• Don't expect the person in need to make all the adjustments to the relationship, or to remember to contact you, or keep you up to date with ongoing events, because you don't want to be a nuisance. I remember, in the midst of several procedures I needed to resolve my second ectopic, that I had assumed a particular person was being kept informed by others. And they were, pretty much. When we eventually spoke, they indignantly said to me, that even though I hadn't kept them informed of everything that was going on, they did still care." The blame was put on me. But I'd not had a single message from them when they knew I'd lost the pregnancy, and three months later, still going through procedures, I'd never heard from them. Not a text, not a card, not a voicemail message. As you can see, 20-something years later, it still irritates me. (I need to forgive them. Except exactly the same thing has happened before, and is happening now.)

• Be kind. The kinder the better. Then they can be kind to you too, when you need it. 

 And as a person receiving support:

• Be grateful.

• Don't feel guilty for getting support. People like to feel they're helping. Let them. 

• Further, remember to ask for help. It's one of the hardest things to do, but once you've done it, it can feel so easy! I did this in the middle of my ectopic. I dreaded the response. It was wonderful. What was I so worried about? Almost everyone likes to feel they can help another person. So let them! 

• Accept that people might not be in touch, because that's how they handle these things. Their reaction is not about me, even if the situation is all about me! If that makes sense. They're not doing it to hurt me. (I don't think). 

• Forgive. Forgive the difficult comments, and actions. Life is too short to hang on to them. (Yes, I'm consciously working on that. I'm half way there!) 

• If you can't forgive, maybe explain. I did this with infertility - explaining what has been lost, or why I don't "want your children," It's the same now - explaining why a comment isn't helpful can actually help both of you. 

•  There is dignity, I think, in accepting support gracefully. It's not a failure, not weakness, just evidence that life hands us all difficult times. We can fight it, but that does us little good, or deal with it. 

 

Loss and the community

The lowest time of my life was when I was going through pregnancy losses and infertility. The loss of my parents was less traumatic, both because it was signalled in advance, and because my life really was separate from theirs on a day-to-day basis. But the pregnancy losses, infertility, and discovery that I would never have children changed my life - or rather my vision of it at the time - in a fundamental way. There was a lot I had to come to terms with. Failure to get the outcome I had tried to achieve. Isolation and "otherness" from society. Recognition of my own mortality. Acceptance of my body's limitations. Judgement, pity, and condescension from others. The list is longer than this. I also remember a time when I really didn't want to go on. Though I'm glad I did.

I've been thinking a lot about that in recent weeks. How I don't want to feel those depths of despair again, but how I know I will. How I got through them and came out the other side. How I had my husband with me during that entire time. How physical touch said volumes when words couldn't. How isolated I felt from most of my friends who were actively parenting at the time. How finding my tribe online really helped. How my family wanted to understand but didn't. How people were afraid to talk about it with me.

It's weird how that going through a health issue is both similar and yet very different. Similarities include  finding that "worst case scenarios" can and do suddenly get worse and worse, and each time we adapt. Loving each other becomes so much more important. Taking enjoyment in the little things helps us cope. A focus on what's important - food, sleep, connection - also helps. Oh, and the platitudes too are the same. "It will happen" turns into "get well soon" or they'll "pull through, I know."  I'm remembering too that emotional turmoil is exhausting. 

But there are differences too. And whilst I'll talk about this more in the future. There's one difference that has been startling. Friends and family are concerned, offer help, send or bring food. I've told them to pace themselves - at the moment we don't need too much. There is community support, both in health terms and in support networks. So far, no-one has really distanced themselves from us - digitally or physically. Certainly not unexpectedly. But having a particular illness that is known and understood in the community, even if it is rare and aggressive, brings connections and support that pregnancy loss and infertility did not. There isn't the shame or judgement or just silence that I experienced around infertility and pregnancy loss. 

Isn't that sad? Even though I welcome that unfamiliar level of support today, I feel sad that people going through infertility right now still feel that isolation. And just want them to know that we have been there, and understand, and send love.

 

 

 

Community and support groups

I’ve had infertility and No Kidding support groups – official and otherwise – in my life now for over 20 years. I have been enormously thankful to one group in particular which helped me through the hardest years of my life, and where I made friends who are still there if I need them (and Bamberlamb has found her way here, to the No Kidding/CNBC blogging world.) And of course, I have you, my fellow bloggers and readers, who have been part of my life, and supporting me, for 12 years now (I just passed my 12 year blogging anniversary). It has been invaluable. I’ve met – in real life and online – some wonderful women. I consider myself very lucky.

But sometimes I have wondered. Do these support groups help, or hinder? They can provide a wonderful outlet for venting, so that we can go on and live the rest of our lives calmly, or a space where we can contemplate our situations honestly, without fear of judgement, a safe place where we can grow and blossom. But sometimes I fear that some groups also provide an echo chamber of views, where those who don’t want to grow or who don’t have the resilience to do so can stay, feeling part of a group, but not really growing. I’ve certainly heard others – who maybe have never needed such support – disdainfully expressing this view. They see support groups as places where we can wallow and feel sorry for ourselves.

As a result, I used to worry about this every so often. Was I being self-indulgent in continuing to write about not having children, in focusing on what I don’t have, rather than looking forward and feeling positive? I worried that I was self-pitying, and that I didn’t want to move on. I worried that I was wallowing. After all, I have seen people struggle with this, here and in other groups, and I know what it looks like. Some people don’t seem to ever come to terms with their fate, to accept their lives, and to embrace the advantages and gifts of their life. But by far the majority do manage to move forward.

That’s the thing about balance, isn’t it? Maybe I just see some people at their lowest, when they’re feeling most vulnerable. Maybe they just need someone to listen? To understand? Maybe, by listening, we give people the chance to grow and develop and emerge back into the light at their own pace, when they are ready. That should be celebrated, not denigrated.

That’s why I love blogging, and bloggers. People are able to work through their issues on their own blogs, or in comments. I’ve often said that I don’t always know what I’m going to say until I sit down and write a post. It helps me figure out what I think. That’s a quote too, I think from Stephen King. “I write to find out what I think.” So I want to thank you for being here for me for so long, for being part of my group, for sharing your own issues and concerns that have made me feel part of a loving, wise community. Thank you for allowing me to be honest, to grow, and to figure out what I think. In doing that, you have brought me peace.