How embracing being ‘childless not by choice’ is helping me move from hidden grief to gratitude, freedom, and meaning.
There’s a kind of grief that slips by silently unnoticed by most. Hidden under an Invisibility Cloak.
It’s not the kind that gets sympathy cards, casseroles, or time off work. It’s the kind that lives quietly in the background of an otherwise “normal” life. It resurfaces at Christmas, weddings, baby showers, family gatherings, even on social media scrolls filled with milestones and announcements.
It’s the grief of those of us who are Childless Not By Choice (CNBC). People who always thought we’d be parents one day, but for one reason or another, life had other plans.
A grief that society doesn’t see
When people hear the word grief, they think of losing someone tangible: a person, a pet, a home. But the grief of childlessness is often invisible. It’s a grief for what never came to be: the children we imagined, the first wobbly steps we never filmed, the late night cuddles we never got to enjoy, the birthday cake candles never blown out, Christmases devoid of the magic of belief… the legacy that will never be passed on.
I just discovered there’s a term for this: disenfranchised grief. It’s grief that isn’t publicly acknowledged or socially validated. Because there’s no physical loss, people often don’t know how to respond… or worse, they don’t see anything to grieve at all.
Then there’s also timeline grief. It’s the ache that reawakens each time life moves you past another invisible milestone. When your friends become parents. When they become grandparents. When menopause arrives. When Mother’s Day rolls around yet again. The reminders keep coming, and so does the grief.
Why we sometimes disappear
If you’ve ever noticed a friend quietly withdrawing – skipping baby showers, leaving group chats, or avoiding family gatherings – please don’t assume they’re being antisocial or bitter. Often, it’s because those moments can sting in ways that are hard to explain.
It’s not jealousy. It’s pain.
It’s the ache of standing on the outside of something you always hoped to experience. It’s sitting through a christening or a birthday party while pretending not to notice the lump in your throat. It’s hearing “you’re so lucky, you get to sleep in!” when you’d trade every lie-in in the world for a chance to hold your own child.
For many of us, withdrawal is not rejection, it’s self-preservation. It’s a way of catching our breath in a world that constantly reminds us of what we don’t have.
My story
I’ve wanted to be a mum for as long as I can remember. I’m 45 now, single, and after years of trying to find “Mr Right” and doing everything I could to make motherhood happen, I’ve had to accept that it’s probably not going to happen for me, in the way I imagined.
From my teens through my forties, my life was a series of hopeful chapters: new homes, new jobs, new hobbies, new love stories (and heartbreaks). I even worked on cruise ships for a few years, chasing adventure… and, if I’m honest, still chasing love. At 40, after years of disappointment, I knew I had to let go of that dream.
It broke me open.
My 40th birthday passed in a blur. Surrounded by my nearest and dearest, I tried so hard to smile… but inside, my heart was shattering. And the worst thing? Nobody knew. I went to bed that night and silently sobbed myself to sleep. I felt devastated and so incredibly alone.
In that breaking, I began to rebuild. I started to make peace with the idea that my time might have passed. I knew I had to focus on living…
Until one day a year or so later, a neighbour who’d conceived at 46 reignited my hope. Maybe it wasn’t over yet! I started avidly researching IVF and explored becoming a ‘SMOC’ (Solo Mother of Choice). I threw myself into health changes and lost 35kg (5.5 stone), motivated to be in the best shape I could be to conceive a child and raise it on my own.
But somewhere along the way, I realised what I truly longed for wasn’t just a baby… it was the family I’d always dreamed of. The shared Sunday mornings, the laughter in the kitchen, the sense of belonging.
Now, it was my choice to stop trying. And that’s where I began to find acceptance.
I poured my energy into creating a business and a life that would give me freedom, purpose, and joy. I bought a campervan (he’s called Reggie 🚐) and took off to explore Europe. I learned how to travel in a van alone (I’m now an expert in van electrics! 🙈). I learned to find beauty in solitude, to fill my life with adventure and gratitude instead of longing and loss.
People often tell me how “brave” I am, or how they “live vicariously” through my adventures. And yes, my life is full in many ways. But very few people see the pain behind my smile, or the effort it takes to stay focused on gratitude rather than grief.
Finding community and understanding
For a long time, I thought I was alone in these feelings. Then recently I found an online support group for people who are ‘CNBC’ (Childless Not By Choice). A Facebook community that’s been an anchor for me.
It’s where I first learned that what I’ve been experiencing has a name, and that others feel it too. Reading their stories reopened my own grief, yes, But it has also brought comfort, relief, and connection. I’m not broken. I’m not alone. I’ve simply been grieving something society doesn’t recognise.
That group reminded me that it’s okay to have both: deep sadness and deep gratitude. That I can still build a meaningful, joyful, adventurous life, even while carrying this invisible ache.
Moving forward with compassion
I’m sharing this not for sympathy, but for awareness. Because so many people like me walk through the world smiling, succeeding, and showing up, all while carrying a quiet sorrow that few ever see.
So if you know someone who is childless not by choice – please, be gentle. Don’t offer quick fixes like “You can always adopt!” or “You’re so lucky to have freedom!” Instead, offer empathy. Ask how they’re doing. Give them space to feel whatever they need to feel. Sometimes, the kindest thing you can say is simply: “That must be really hard. I see you.”
And if you’re reading this and it’s you who’s living with this kind of grief, please know you are not alone. There is a whole community out there who understand exactly how you feel. You deserve compassion, connection, and joy just as much as anyone else.
Gratitude and growth
These days, I’m learning to let both truths exist side by side: the grief for what never was, and the gratitude for what is. Some days, I wake up feeling strong and purposeful. Other days, I struggle to get out of bed, still finding my footing. But I no longer measure my worth by whether or not I became a mother.
Instead, I’m choosing to live fully. To adventure, to create, to love, to keep becoming.
Because even if life didn’t unfold the way I imagined, it’s still mine to shape. And that, I’ve realised, is something worth celebrating.
If this resonates
If any part of this story feels familiar, please know there’s a whole sisterhood (and brotherhood) of others walking this path too. You might find comfort, as I did, in joining online communities such as the Childless Not By Choice – Support group on Facebook. It’s a space filled with empathy, understanding, and shared strength.
You are seen. You are not alone.
And your story still matters. Deeply.
