To The Childless Woman: A Path of Deep Abiding Trust

The flowers will soon be everywhere. Carnations, roses, lilies, irises, and daisies in vases or bouquets tied with ribbons that say, “Happy Mother’s Day” or “World’s Best Mom.” They will sit on a table in the lobby, and on every table in the dining room. A Mother’s Day Brunch is being planned with all sorts of delicious things: crepes, eggs benedict, omelets, bagels and cream cheese, to name a few. Families are invited and everyone is excited… well, almost everyone.

I live in an independent living seniors’ residence. I am 58 years old, and have Cerebral Palsy (CP). As you may guess, I am the youngest resident, and I have no children. I’m a bit of an enigma, and it’s during holidays that it seems to be most glaring. 

Every Mother’s Day, I am usually handed a single, token flower. A polite, perfunctory gesture meant to include all women, whether they have children or not. It feels less like inclusion and more like a quiet signal that reinforces the fact that I, and many others, do not or never will have grandchildren. While this article focuses on my experiences, I have to acknowledge the women who are barren, those who have miscarried, those who, and those who long to adopt but are unable to meet criteria or have the means to pay the fees. Whatever the reason, this particular holiday is very hard on many women who can only watch and do their best to be happy for those who are mothers.

So we take the token flower. Some of us smile, some nod, and some silently put it to the side. Deep beneath the surface facade, lies an ocean of tears we may or may not allow to surface, away from everyone, where only God sees.

Watching As An Outsider

I am used to being invisible. Living with CP means the world often looks at my body and sees something broken, and not worth noticing. Then add in my wheelchair, and other aids, well, they make people very uncomfortable. In some ways, Mother’s Day turns that invisibility into a window, perhaps, because I can see everything from the outside…as an observer.

I watch the mothers. I watch the way they lean into their adult children’s hugs. I watch the way they share stories of their grandchildren, and their great-grandchildren. If those younger generations are present, I see the pride with which they introduce them to anyone and everyone around them. I see the lineage and the legacy. 

My future will be lacking that joy and laughter. Instead, should the Lord tarry, my lineage will be passed on through my brother’s sons and grandchildren. My branch of  the family tree ends with me and that is a truth that stirs up melancholy moments as I think back over my life. I was 44 when I married. I was too old and it was too risky for me to try and carry a child. My doctor’s words were clinical, and final. There was no debate and no alternative as even local adoption took many years and thousands of dollars. 

Now, at 58, I watch the multigenerational ebb and flow of life in this seniors complex. I see the great-grandmothers and great-grandfathers, the grandmothers and grandfathers. I also see the mothers and fathers they still are to their adult children who are older than I am. I feel the resonant echo of lives so rich and so precious, though life is but a vapor, and many have passed on in the two years I have lived here. That’s a different kind of bittersweet, but even so, their families carry their memories and the younger generations pick up the baton and carry on.

Grieving Shattered Dreams 

I have been a Christian for 44 years and counting. I have read the entire Bible and I am very familiar with both the Old and New Testament. It’s a book I read every single day.

I know about Hannah. I know about Sarah. I know about the women in the Bible who were barren and then blessed. And I know the pain of being the one who wasn’t, even though God mercifully removed my biological clock. I never longed for a baby and was the last one to hold them at baby showers. I love children, don’t get me wrong, but there was no driving need to have one of my own. As I get older, I now know that not having children does have consequences that blind side when you least expect it.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” (Jeremiah 29:11)

Sometimes, that future looks different than we expected. It looks like a quiet room, a view of a yard without a child running through it, and a deep, abiding trust that God is still with me. His ways are not my ways and His thoughts are not my thoughts (Isaiah 55:8-9).

I am not seeking sympathy. I am not asking for pity. I am asking to be acknowledged. To be seen as a woman who is childless, not by choice, but by circumstance. To be seen as a woman who is grieving, not for a loss of “choice,” but for the loss of a life that was never mine but always others.

As a young child, I was told I would never amount to anything. I was cautioned not to dream about marriage, family or children because that simply wouldn’t happen—they were negated by society’s biases and fears. I watched able-bodied children do things I couldn’t and be accepted in ways that I never was. Grief comes in many facets and I have dealt with them all and will continue to until God calls me home. 

That being said, the Mother’s Day token flower doesn’t make me feel included. It makes me feel like a third wheel in someone else’s story. It makes me feel like an afterthought that is so brief people forget an instant after I accept it. I am not really seen nor is the struggle of being childless acknowledged as loss. It’s expected because I am disabled and that is wrong.

The Impact

The impact on my heart, and soul is profound. It is not just about the day. It is about the social biases that seek to force me into a mold I refuse to conform to. It is about the way I navigate the world as a woman who has no legacy to point to. It is about the way I am treated in the church, in the community, and in the family. I am not treasured, I am seen as a burden or something that has to be tolerated or ostracized.

I am not broken. I am not less. I am just living a different story. I am on a different path than most. A path without children. Mother’s Day celebrates motherhood and that is honorable, and should be done. 

To the Christian women who are childless: You are not alone. You are not forgotten. You are not a mistake. You are a woman who is living out a different story, one that is as valid, and as important, and you are loved by God who sees and knows you better than you know yourself.

To the mothers: Your love is a nurturing safe haven your children need to grow and become who God created them to be. I honor you. I can do that even though I haven’t experienced that myself.  Children are a blessing from the Lord (Psalm 127:3-5).

Final Thoughts

This article does not offer easy answers. It does not suggest that God “has a plan” that includes children for everyone. It does not suggest that childlessness is a “curse” either. There is no shame in not having children.

Instead, it takes a raw, honest look at the pain of being childless, the grief of being overlooked, and the reality of living a life without descendants. It looks deeply into the celebration of Mother’s Day, and acknowledges the pain of the “token flower” gesture and the deep, abiding need for inclusion, not as a third wheel, but as a person who is valued and has worth.

It is a call to the church to see the women who are not mothers, to recognize their grief and be present with them, and to validate their stories as important, and their paths as ordered by God even though it may be a challenge to human understanding. These precious daughters are loved by God, and He has not abandoned them. The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit (Psalm 34:18).