A letter to the daughter I’ll never have

My love,

Ever since I was a little girl, I always knew I would become a mom to you one day. I loved children in a way that most of my friends didn’t—they found them annoying, but I always admired their energy and curiosity. When I was twelve, I started volunteering at the preschool I’d gone to as a toddler, and I went back every summer until I was seventeen. I always imagined having two kids: a boy first, then you, a girl. I thought you’d have a big brother who would look out for you, someone you could count on, even if he got annoyed when you followed him around. I pictured the two of you being close, best friends, even when you fought or when he pretended not to care as much as he really did.

I had so many ideas about what life with you would look like. I thought about the kind of parent I wanted to be—someone who treated you with respect, as an equal, just like my parents did with me. I wanted to teach you, by example, how to be kind and empathetic. I imagined supporting you in whatever interests you might have had, making sure you had everything you needed to explore your talents and dreams. I saw us in a beautiful house with a kitchen that opened into a garden, your playroom filled with light. Your bedroom would have had wooden furniture with tiny flowers painted all over it, just like my mom did for me, and a canopy over your bed because I’ve always thought there was something magical about them.

I was going to buy you pretty clothes, hoping you’d get them dirty anyway—jeans with grass stains, dresses with paint splatters. I imagined us climbing trees together, and you swinging high on the homemade swing in our garden. I saw you growing up funny, brave, sweet, and thoughtful. Whenever I pictured you and us the image was always quite clear and unchanging throughout the years. So much so that I got attached to it. I always knew I was going to meet you one day, it was just a matter of time. But time passed, and things changed.

I can still see you if I close my eyes and focus, but that’s the only place you exist now. You’re a dream I had to let go of, even though I didn’t want to. Because more than anything, I wanted you to be safe and happy—and I can’t promise you that.

There are so many things in this world that are out of our control, and I can’t ignore them as they do not allow me to give you life with a clear conscience. The climate crisis is only getting worse, and every year it feels more certain that the future will be harder and harsher for the generations to come. I can’t bring you into a world where you might have to fight just to survive, to have access to clean water, to live a comfortable life. The political climate is no better—with wars raging, and countries being led by men who are pulling the world apart. The cost of living is ever-increasing and even though a market crash is bound to happen someday, natural resources will continue to become more and more scarce and the cost of living will continue to grow, with the population expanding like never before, things such as housing problems will continue to spiral. Supporting myself is hard enough right now; I don’t know how I’d provide for another person or two, and I’m sorry baby but that means you.

And then there’s this: your being born a girl, would have made me overjoyed. But I also would have been scared for you from the moment you left my body and I could no longer shield you with my own flesh. I would have worried constantly about your safety, being in this world as a girl or woman is, unfortunately, a hazard. I won’t always be there next to you, to protect you and even if I was, there is no guarantee that I would manage to do so. Surely I am tainted by my own experiences but that does not change the fact that your gender in itself would have placed you in a disadvantaged position in many matters. You would be thrown into roles that are not of your choosing, you’d be expected to walk, talk, think and act in ways that others feel fit. Protest as you might, those protests would not always be heard and what’s more dangerous they’d sometimes be acted against. Obedience would be hoped for and if it were not given it might have been taken by force. Perhaps, you would be lucky and you would never have to personally endure such things, but you would be aware of that risk at all times, and you’d know that just around the corner you might meet that fate—odds show that you most likely would. There’s no escaping.

Then, my sweet, there is me to consider. I could never let myself be consumed entirely by motherhood—not for you, not for anyone. I wouldn’t want to lose myself, to see my identity dissolve into being just “your mom.” It wouldn’t be fair to you, nor to me. There are parts of the journey that I know I wouldn’t have the capacity—or the will—to endure. I know that there are women who have found a balance between motherhood and self and I am in awe of them, but I don’t know if I’d be one of them and I don’t think I want to take that risk.

Then there’s my relationship with my body. I’ve struggled with body dysmorphia since I was a tween, and I know how draining it would be to face the changes pregnancy would bring. I admire the power of the human body to create life—it’s beautiful, astounding, miraculous even—but I can’t pretend I wouldn’t feel discomfort, or even resentment, at the way my body would evolve. The loss of control and the unfamiliarity with myself would weigh heavily on me.

And then the early years, those sleepless nights and long days, the relentless demands of raising you. People always say how rewarding it is, and maybe it would be, but I can’t ignore the exhaustion, the loss of autonomy. I know myself—I’d feel overwhelmed by the total devotion you’d require, the way you’d consume every corner of my life. I’d want to fight to keep a piece of myself, but that struggle would be unfair to you. We’d both feel it, the tension, the push and pull, and neither of us would be happy.

Even later, when you’d be older, what if we didn’t get along? I don’t mean little arguments or the occasional clash—I mean something deeper, more lasting. What if we stopped liking each other, stopped being friends? What if we were forced to live together in a house filled with silence, resentment building between us over the years? We’d both be miserable and sure, maybe down the line we would rebuild our relationship and be best of pals, but maybe we wouldn’t. In either case that would be bad. Bad for me and for you. It would hurt too much.

I can imagine, of course, that I’d be a great parent to you. I can daydream about being patient, supportive, and never hurting you. But nobody gets it all right. Everyone messes up somehow. Why would I want to risk putting any kind of burden or pain on you? What if I had expectations for you that you didn’t want to meet—expectations you didn’t even ask for? I already see how I do that with the people in my life, how I project what I want onto them, even when I try to stop myself. I don’t want to put that kind of pressure on you, to risk straining our bond. I like having control over my life, and bringing someone as important as you into it—someone I couldn’t, and wouldn’t want to, control—might be too much for me to handle.

And then there’s your dad, whoever he would have been. What if we broke up? Me and so many of my friends grew up with divorced parents, and I’ve seen the ways it shaped them. They’re fine, functioning adults, sure—but I know the hurt is still there. I’d worry about how something like that might have affected you, how it might’ve shaped the way you saw relationships, the world, or even yourself.

My darling, you would have been a lifelong commitment—not just twenty or so years, but forever. I would have wanted to stay close to you even after you found your independence, but what if you didn’t want that? What if something happened between us, something we couldn’t fix? I know I’d carry anger, sadness, hurt, or resentment, and I wouldn’t want either of us to live with that.

The truth is, beyond my daydreams, you never existed. My choice not to bring you into this world doesn’t affect you at all, because you were only ever an idea. So, my love, thank me or forgive me, though you can’t do either. Just know that for me, this is the right choice—the responsible choice. It wouldn’t have been fair to you, and it wouldn’t have been fair to me.

I really did want you, though. I have been saving a few special clothes that I found that I was going to give you. I knew which books I wanted to pass down to you and which rituals my parents did with me that I remember fondly I wanted to continue. I even have a note on my phone, years old now, where I’ve been writing down all the possible names I might have given you. I hoped that one day when the time came I would go back to it and see if one of them just felt right for you.

But that day isn’t coming, my darling. And so, I carry you with me in my thoughts, in the life we might have had, and in the affection I’ll always feel for you, even though you were never here.

So, my love—Lotta, Luca, Lilly, Lola, Luna, Celeste, Celine, Vivian (Vi for short), Camille, Genevieve (also Vi for short), Suki, Stella, Kaia, Alma, Mathilda (Tilly), Hyacinth (after the origin of your Granddad’s name), Jamie, Gaia, Olive, Harlow, Darcy—maybe in another world, under better circumstances, I am your mom. Maybe I’m reading you bedtime stories, listening to your dreams, and laughing with you about the little things that only we understand. Maybe I’m watching you grow into a remarkable woman, knowing that you’re safe and that your future is bright. But in this world, all I can do is hold onto the idea of you and hope that somewhere, somehow, you feel the love I always had for you.

Love,

mom