"Content warning: This story details a couple’s heartbreaking fertility struggles.
I sobbed on the carpet of an empty room in the house my husband and I had just moved into. These cries were guttural, primal sobs, the kind that made it hard to breathe, the kind that left me choking. I had avoided this room for weeks, only walking in briefly to grab work supplies from the closet. But today, I finally confronted the truth: This room would never become the nursery we had once dreamed of. The emptiness of the space felt like it was mocking me—as if it were screaming our unfulfilled dreams back at me. Our hopes had turned into a cruel joke, and now this vacant room was all we had to remind us that we would never fill it with a child. So I cried, and cried, and cried. I cried until I threw up, then cried some more.
My husband, feeling the weight of the empty room, too, suggested I turn it into an office. But to make it my office would mean admitting that it would never become a nursery. And that was a reality I couldn’t bring myself to face yet.
Almost every decision I made in my late 20s was for a child I desperately wanted. I turned down incredible job opportunities because they would have required a big move, and I wanted my child to grow up near their grandparents. My husband and I bought a home in a top-tier school district so they could have the best education. I left my corporate job to start a freelance writing business, hoping for more flexibility to spend time with them.
Then, in February 2024, the future we built came crashing down. My husband received an infertility diagnosis that complicated our path to parenthood and ultimately led us to decide to remain child-free. The decision wasn’t easy. It came with pain, confusion, and the most challenging year of our lives. But as I reflect on the past year, I know we made the right choice.
The exhaustion of trying and failing led us to a painful decision
Trying to have a baby was fun until it wasn’t. What started as lots of sex turned into avoiding plans more than nine months out, just in case. We found ourselves in a “trying to conceive” purgatory, where we stopped planning trips because I didn’t want to travel pregnant, and I put my lifelong dream of marathon training on hold because I didn’t want to race in the thick of pregnancy.
As Harry Baker says in his poem Trying, “At some point, trying becomes aching, becomes longing, becomes praying.” What began as an exciting journey morphed into an all-consuming obsession, leaving us devastated each month when I got my period. Discovering that our journey to parenthood would require more waiting, complications, and likely heartache felt like a devastating blow. How much more disappointment could we take?
“What began as an exciting journey morphed into an all-consuming obsession, leaving us devastated each month when I got my period.”
Our options were limited. To have biological children together, my husband would need an expensive surgery, and I would need to undergo IVF. Both were physically and emotionally demanding processes with no guarantee of success. Even after all of that, our chances of conceiving would still be slim. We could use a sperm donor or pursue adoption, but these paths came with their own emotional and financial challenges we hadn’t fully prepared for.
After a year of trying to conceive followed by months of researching alternative options, we were exhausted. Our stress had begun to manifest in unhealthy ways. I developed chronic back pain and completely lost my appetite. My husband and I became short with each other and would pick fights over seemingly unimportant things. Neither of us wanted to pursue alternative paths toward parenthood, but admitting that aloud meant admitting we were giving up. So, we kept the conversation open.
There wasn’t a single event that made us decide not to have children. We were just exhausted. We were tired of living in limbo. We were tired of constantly bickering because of stress. We were tired of saving space in our life for a child that would never be there. After feeling so tired for so long, we wanted our lives back, so we decided to stop trying to have a baby.
We had to grieve a child that wasn’t real to anyone but us
While we knew our decision was the right one for us, neither of us were prepared for the grief that followed. This was the first time in my adult life I had experienced such an intense loss. It felt like someone had died, but no one really knew this person but my husband and me. The child we had loved so deeply had never existed beyond our hopes and dreams. No one else had known them, but to us, they had been real.
I sat with this mourning for a year, not eager to let it go because if I did, it felt like I was letting go of our child. I phased in and out of complete numbness, followed by spurts of intense devastation that left me weeping in the empty nursery.
“The child we had loved so deeply had never existed beyond our hopes and dreams. No one else had known them, but to us, they had been real.”
Looking back, I realize that allowing myself to move through the cycles of grief repeatedly gave me the space to acknowledge what I had lost. And while that space was filled with sadness, embracing those emotions fully ultimately helped me heal and move forward with my life.
Then, slowly, I started taking small steps toward discovering what my life might look like without becoming a mother. It began with finding joy in Saturday mornings with my husband. We would slowly sip coffee, listen to music, and take our dog on long walks. With a child, mornings like these would have been few and far between, so I let myself savor those little moments. If I couldn’t have a baby, I could still enjoy slow, peaceful Saturdays.
What started as an appreciation for our quiet weekends gradually expanded to other aspects of our child-free life: impromptu vacations, the financial stability to pursue hobbies, and the extra time and energy to be there for our loved ones. Little by little, I began to see the beauty in the life we were building, even if it wasn’t the one we had initially imagined.
Our lives had been on pause, now we’re moving forward
Today, my life no longer feels on pause. While there are still moments I grieve the child my husband and I had hoped to have, we’re moving forward and discovering what our lives look like child-free.
“Little by little, I began to see the beauty in the life we were building, even if it wasn’t the one we had initially imagined.”
We added a second dog to our home, filling our space with even more love. The money we once set aside for childcare and family experiences, we’re now investing in our home, creating a place where we can entertain, celebrate, and surround ourselves with the people we love. I’ve also spent more time with my sisters, showering their children with affection and fully embracing my role as the cool aunt. My life has expanded again. And for the first time in a long time, I feel at peace.
I’m not quite ready to fully decorate the empty spare room in our home, and that’s OK. But we’ve painted it a soft blue, and my husband surprised me with a beautiful wool rug that fits the space perfectly. It feels like a step in the right direction—a small but meaningful move toward embracing this new chapter.
Michelle King, Contributing Wellness Writer
Michelle King is a midwest-based writer, content strategist, and yoga instructor. She received her BA in English from the University of Missouri and works as the Content Marketing Manager at Booyah Advertising.
Featured graphic images credited to: Jessica Ticozzelli | Pexels, Adobe Stock, and Adobe Stock