Wendy Mann shares her grief of never becoming a biological mother and the spiritual wrestle that followed the loss of that dream. With honesty, vulnerability and hope, she explores how Jesus meets women in unanswered prayers and gently redeems even the deepest heartbreak.
It was never my dream to be single and without children in my late forties. Like many girls when they’re young, I imagined myself marrying the man of my dreams and building a family with him. I assumed my life would look like that of the vast majority of people around me, but that’s not how things have turned out.
On one occasion, when I was processing my grief, I remember understanding why some women might rush into marriage or feel tempted to have a one-night stand in order to get pregnant. The maternal pull is deep and strong. When I was told in 2019 that I needed a hysterectomy, any hint of hope still ajar in my heart was firmly slammed shut. A medical decision was made, and my dream of being a mum died with it.
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It’s the deepest pain I’ve ever experienced: the intense grief of not having children, of never becoming a biological mum. Sometimes the tears I cry come out more like a guttural groan. The profound maternal longing that seems to have been hardwired into my DNA will never be fully satisfied. It’s a heavy cross to bear.
In so many ways, I feel like I was made to be a mum, and not being one can make me feel as though I’m not fulfilling what I was put on this earth to do.
In so many ways, I feel like I was made to be a mum, and not being one can make me feel as though I’m not fulfilling what I was put on this earth to do. And yet, the truth is that nothing is wasted with Jesus. He has a wonderful way of resurrecting hope, working all things together for our good, and redeeming what’s been lost.
A few weeks before my hysterectomy, a friend sent me a passage of scripture that comforted me then and continues to comfort me now. It’s a profound promise from Jesus for those who aren’t able to have children:
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Isaiah 56:3–5
And don’t let the eunuchs say,
“I’m a dried-up tree
with no children and no future.”
For this is what the Lord says:
“I will bless those eunuchs
who keep my Sabbath days holy
and who choose to do what pleases me
and commit their lives to me.
I will give them — within the walls of my house
a memorial and a name
far greater than sons and daughters could give.
For the name I give them is an everlasting one.
It will never disappear!”
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The reality is that our greatest area of pain can become our greatest area of breakthrough if we don’t become offended with God and if we learn to grieve well.
The reality is that our greatest area of pain can become our greatest area of breakthrough if we don’t become offended with God and if we learn to grieve well. I have done so much grieving over the years. I’ve made countless choices to sit with God, let my tears flow, ask the difficult questions, and surrender afresh when there are no easy answers. Grieving has helped to keep my heart soft. It has also convinced me that although I’ll never be a biological mum, I am called to be a spiritual mum to many.
I will never birth life in the physical, but I know that I’m called to birth so much life in the spiritual. To be honest, the loss of my dream of being a biological mum has fuelled my determination to bring as much life as I possibly can as a spiritual mum. The enemy comes to kill, steal, and destroy, but he is not going to win when it comes to my story. I am going to lean hard into my calling to be a mum in the church, speaking and releasing life wherever I go. Jesus came to give us life in abundance, and I’m going to hold onto that promise with both hands and become the mum He always intended me to be. I want to encourage you to do the same.
I recently wrote this poem after doing some more grieving. It’s the closest I’ve been able to come to describing what I feel in my heart. I truly pray it helps you and inspires you to find your own way of articulating loss, so that you too can return to a place of peace and hope.
Sometimes it just hits hard, and I can only explain in part.
It’s like a punch to my gut and a sword through my heart.
The indescribable pain of having never carried life,
A much harsher wound than having never been a wife.
I will never lock eyes with a little one who’s mine,
Never watch them become a mini me as they develop over time.
There’ll be no bone of my bone or flesh of my flesh.
That dream has now died; there is zero hope left.
Robbed of the milestones, of so many firsts:
The first scan, the first kick, the first cry after birth,
The first skin-on-skin, the first eye-to-eye,
The first snuggle, smile, laugh, and bedtime lullaby.
No one chooses me for comfort, to be soothed when there are tears.
No one runs to me for safety, to hear truth to calm their fears.
I have so much fierce and tender love in my heart I want to share,
A mother’s love with nowhere to go. It’s a heavy cross to bear.
There are many questions in my heart, but the answers all seem hindered.
I’ve cried so many tears, felt so much pain, yet the grief always lingers.
Often dulled and ignorable, life still goes on around it.
But at times it’s just as sharp and raw as the first time that I found it.
In these moments of deep grief, I have no other choice.
I have to turn to Jesus and listen for His voice.
I have to meet the Father and receive comfort in His arms.
I have to hear the Holy Spirit speak clearly through the Psalms.
In the midst of such mystery, the truth remains the same.
This wound is only temporary, and so is all the pain.
My God’s a God of redemption and a Father who restores.
He’s working all things for our good, in my life and in yours.
How He does it in this life still seems so unclear,
But when I meet Him face to face, all pain will disappear.
That day He’ll wipe my tears away, take the sword out of my chest.
And I will be complete and whole as I joyfully enter His rest.
Until I meet with Jesus, see Him smiling ear to ear,
I’ll cry the tears I need to cry and not give in to fear.
I’ll pour my fierce and tender love on those who aren’t my own,
Being the mother God always intended me to be, until He calls me home.
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