After The Last Embrace

There is no date. No name. No grave. But there is absence.

An absence that can’t be seen, but weighs heavy. That isn’t spoken, but lives in every corner. That isn’t cried out loud, but is carried deep within. Because not having become a mother by circumstance is not just a choice unmade — it’s a life unlived, a love unshared, a dream unfulfilled.

People don’t understand. They tell you, “You still can,” “Not everyone wants kids,” “There are many ways to be happy.” And you smile. You nod. You pretend you’re fine. But inside, there’s an empty room. A name you never said. A cradle you never bought. A hug you never gave.

It wasn’t for lack of love. It was for lack of time, of health, of a partner, of stability, of luck. Because life didn’t align. Because the moment was never right. Because the body didn’t respond. Because the other didn’t want to. Because you waited. And waited. And waited — until the ticking clock grew louder than the desire.

And then grief arrived. Not the kind with flowers and embraces — a silent one, one no one validates, one that makes you feel guilty for crying over something that “never existed.” But you know it did. In your mind. In your heart. In your plans. In your dreams. In your quiet conversations with yourself.

Every time you see a mother with her child, something stirs inside you. It isn’t envy. It isn’t anger. It’s sadness. It’s nostalgia for what never was. It’s tenderness for what you once imagined. It’s pain for what you never got to live.

And though you’ve learned to live with it, there are days when it weighs more. Days when you wonder what it would have been like. Days when you ask if you failed. Days when you ask if there’s still time. Days when you simply cry. No explanation. No words. Just tears.

This grief deserves space too. Because it isn’t smaller. It isn’t imaginary. It isn’t selfish. It’s human. It’s deep. It’s real.

And if you’ve felt that emptiness too, if you’ve loved someone who never arrived, if you’ve cried for what never was — this piece is for you. So you know you’re not alone. So you know your pain matters. So you know your story deserves to be told.

🌿 Another Perspective: How to See This Loss

Not becoming a mother doesn’t make you less of a woman. It doesn’t make you less loving. It doesn’t make you incomplete.

Your ability to love doesn’t depend on giving life. Your worth doesn’t depend on raising someone. Your story doesn’t need justification.

Your grief is valid — even without a body, without a birth, without a name. What you dreamed, desired, and hoped for deserves to be mourned too.

You’re not failing. You’re not broken. You’re not alone. You’re grieving — and that grief can also transform. Into art. Into words. Into connection. Into love for yourself.

And though the child never came, you’re still here — alive, sensitive, strong, capable of loving in a thousand different ways.

🤍 From Me to You

If you’re reading this with your heart clenched tight, if you’ve felt motherhood slip through your fingers, if you’ve loved without being able to hold, I want you to know — I’m with you.

Here I am, writing for you — so you don’t have to hide your grief. So you know your story matters. That your pain has a place.

You’re not alone. You’re not broken. You’re grieving.

And here, your grief is embraced.

I embrace you from here,

— Luz 🤍