the river connection.

For the majority of my adult life, I didn’t want children.

That may sound surprising coming from someone campaigning for visibility for mothers of babies lost in pregnancy, but it’s true.

It wasn’t until I was 29 that I decided I wanted children, but until then I was very adamant in my decision to not have children for a variety of reasons. The earliest reason was a classic “the world is on fire, so why bring another life into it?” As I fought through anxiety and depression, feeling like I was falling to the depths of my mind and heart, the next reason became “how could I possibly care for another human if I can barely keep myself together?” After finding the beginning of balance in my mental health through therapy, climbing, and yoga, my final reason for not wanting children was that I didn’t have a partner I could count on to be in the trenches of parenting with me. At that time, I was living a solo life while still partnered, caring for three pets, taking care of what I could around our home, and giving everything I had to my job as a school SLP.

After years of working up the courage and means to leave that home and that relationship, I found stability on my own. I realized that I didn’t have to fight with the chemicals in my brain on my own. Medication allowed me to live life with smaller fluctuations between the highs and lows of life with mental illness, but I had no real desire for partnership or children.

It turns out that it’s true that you often find things when you’re not looking for them in the least.

I had known Jonah for years, as the guy at the gym who had taught the intro to climbing class I had taken when I first started climbing. The guy at the gym who seemed to know everyone, but still came to say hello to my friends and I as we climbed. The guy at the gym I wanted to know more about but was afraid to follow on social media for fear of being a creepy acquaintance.

I was so focused on living life on my own, with my pups and my friends for support that I didn’t even realize that he was pursuing me, and blew him off multiple times as a result. But once we were on the same page (i.e., I realized that he liked me as much as I was learning that I liked him) everything began to fall into place. We were very much committed to one another from the very beginning, despite one difference. Jonah had always wanted to be a father, but I was still committed to childlessness.

People always asked how I could not want children when I worked with children; when I was so good with children. But for me, the two had always been entirely separate passions. Different desires. I believed I would always love other people’s children but never my own.

But slowly, and then all at once, my resolution thawed.

And so our partnership was solidified. Cohabitation during the pandemic pushed our relationship forward faster than either of us intended, but looking back I don’t know if we would have it any other way. We got married less than a year after we started dating. We left the future of our family open; not trying for children but also not preventing pregnancy. We got pregnant less than a year after we got married. A beloved surprise.

A devastating loss.

I’ve learned that the depth of desire for motherhood (or lack thereof) doesn’t define the depth of grief after loss. “But I thought you didn’t want kids?” feels like an irrelevant question when you’ve been punched in the gut by pregnancy loss.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that my desires and grief are no one’s but my own. There’s no guilt or shame in desires changing over time.

Your grief matters, no matter what.