Suddenly, it hit me: I’ll never have children

It hit me hard, out of nowhere.

I’m never going to have children.

I’m 55 years old; that ship has sailed. It disappeared from my biological horizon years ago – a once fertile landscape that held so much hope, promise and seemingly endless possibility.

A horizon that, sadly, I took for granted.

Did I forget to wind my biological clock? I admit to hearing it ticking, but at some point the throes of everyday life and loss drowned out the alarm until it eventually perished in the menopausal desert. Game over. I should have switched to a digital clock at some point but I’m a proud gen-Xer – we grew up on analog: rotary phones and winding our Swatch watches.

You’d think I would have woken up at some point, but I didn’t.

I missed the baby boat, and now I’m left standing on the midlife dock with my Hokas, a sensible hat, a comfortable mattress, and an electric toothbrush with my internal Jekyll and Hyde – the menopausal dynamic duo that have commandeered my emotional remote control and can’t agree on a channel. Just pick something already, I’m exhausted!

I toggle between sadness and fury – one minute I’m weeping while watching a video of a baby elephant learning to swim with her mother, and the next I’m angry, cursing myself for not deleting Instagram and cursing Instagram for sending me the damn videos I feel compelled to watch at 2am while weeping (although at this point I’d take baby animals over wall pilates and posture-correcting bra reels any day).

I say it hit me “out of nowhere”, but that’s not entirely true. What hit me was the certainty, the finite gusto of the wallop, as if someone was hammering down the final nail in the it’s never going to happen so get over it coffin.

I’m 55; of course I’ve thought about it over the years.

But naively, I always figured it would just happen at some point.

Talk about an immaculate misconception.

I never planned to not have children, I just never planned to have them.

Herein lies my newfound remorse, and I have nobody to blame but myself.

I’ve spent so many years mourning the loss of my parents, and now I’m mourning the loss of the children I never had

Since my mom passed away, I’ve missed our relationship with an excruciating pang deep in my soul, one that usually culminates in tears whenever I see a mother and daughter duo interacting (throw a grandmother in the mix and I’m a goner). At cafes, grocery stores, parks and theaters, I find myself unabashedly staring at unsuspecting strangers (one of the few upsides of menopause is the I don’t care what people think attitude, which is both a blessing and a curse, as I often leave the house in questionable attire). I observe their dynamic with a quiet longing – watching them laugh, chat, argue or quietly exist in each other’s orbits with the tender familiarity that I so intensely miss.

I had always seen myself as the daughter in these candid scenarios, but recently the roles have been recast and I imagine myself as the mother, and if there’s a grandmother in the dynamic, I see my mother in her role (I always thought my mom would have made such a wonderful grandmother).

I’ve spent so many years mourning the loss of my parents, and now I’m mourning the loss of the children I never had, and of the grandchildren that my parents would never meet.

These interactions stir up an already bubbling caldron of menopause-infused emotions, and I can’t help but feel a touch of envy for the maternal bond I won’t get to experience. “You just have to meet a partner with kids, Shanti,” a friend suggested, as if it were that easy.

More like grandchildren at this point, but I’m open.

In these daunting days of internet dating, it’s hard enough to meet someone without piling extra condiments on to my online profile wishlist.

“Menopause is about purging,” my friend suggests. “You’ll eventually come out the other end lighter, refreshed and feeling better than ever.” “Lighter” and “refreshed”? I’d say more like plump, overheated and in need of a really long nap.

As many times as I’ve heard the spiel about how I’m going to emerge from this mythical “menopause chrysalis” like a butterfly ready to take on midlife heaven, when you’re on the hot flash seat with no eject button, it feels more like being stuck in hell.

“This too shall pass.” I hear my mom’s voice whispering words of maternal wisdom in my ear, and I realize that she never left.

Maybe my friend is right, and I am “purging”, but coming to grips with the enviable is challenging at any age, and I’m still waiting for AARP to send me a midlife roadmap.

And although I’ll never give birth, I’m forever thankful for all of those mothers who did.

Shanti Nelson is a writer and photographer