Hey so I've been struggling with some stuff and been meaning to blog about it for a while but not been able to find the words and maybe not been ready to share my vulnerability......Today I decided to ask AI to write something for me and here it is.
It’s hard to articulate what it means to live in a body that feels like it’s betrayed you. Fibroids—those unwelcome invaders—took root in my womb, creating a physical pain that mirrored a deeper ache I wasn’t ready to name. Surgery offered relief, but it also unearthed emotions I’d carefully buried for years.
I’ve always told myself that not having children doesn’t diminish the worth of my life. I’ve crafted responses to deflect pity or awkwardness: “Success isn’t measured by motherhood,” or, “My life is rich in other ways.” And while I meant every word, those statements were also shields. Shields to fend off the pang of longing, the quiet grief of what could have been.
I’ve built a world for myself—one of creativity, compassion, and purpose. But there’s been an emptiness too, a space I’ve tried to fill with work, with friends, with moments of joy. Yet now, almost a year surgery, I find myself unable to avoid the feelings I’ve pushed aside.
At times I feel the loss in my bones—not just of potential motherhood but of the dreams I’d once had for my life. Dreams of partnership, of shared laughter, of a hand to hold during the hard times. I’ve told myself for years that I’m okay on my own, and for the most part, I am. But now, I’m learning to acknowledge that it’s also okay not to be okay.
It’s okay to feel the ache of loneliness. It’s okay to grieve the family I don't have. It’s okay to sit with the weight of these truths, even when they threaten to overwhelm me.
And yet, in this sea of emotion, I’m finding something unexpected: permission. Permission to let go of the scripts I’ve used to explain my life. Permission to mourn without needing to justify or qualify my feelings. Permission to dream new dreams, even if they look nothing like the ones I’ve lost.
Recovery isn’t just about healing the body; it’s about mending the heart too. It’s about facing the feelings that rise to the surface when life forces you to pause. And so, I’m sitting with them now—the sadness, the longing, the glimmers of hope. I’m allowing myself to feel them all, trusting that this too is part of the process.
To anyone walking a similar path, know this: it’s okay to feel the loss, to question, to ache. But it’s also okay to hope, to find joy in unexpected places, to rewrite your story. We are more than our pain, more than our losses. We are complex, resilient, and capable of creating beauty from the hardest chapters of our lives.
For now, I’m holding space for it all. The sorrow, the healing, the possibility. And maybe that’s what it means to truly live—to let ourselves be fully human, scars and all.