‘I’M NOT THE MOTHER I THOUGHT I’D BE AND I TRIED SO HARD TO BECOME ONE’

By Nicole Fuge

I used to think starting a family was simple. You decide you’re ready, you try, you fall pregnant. At least that’s how it looked for everyone around me, friends falling pregnant with ease, baby showers back-to-back, bumps growing in perfect sequence.

And then there was me.

Staring at the ultrasound monitor as the sonographer searched for something that wasn’t there, then hearing her softly spoken, “I’m sorry.” Being wheeled into a sterile operating theatre because my body had quietly let go of the baby I’d already imagined holding.

All those months—and years—of trying. Hoping. Waiting. Wondering if motherhood would ever come for me.

It felt like I was the only one left behind.

No one talks about how heavy it is to grieve something so invisible. Or how isolating it feels when everyone else is moving forward with the life you’re aching for. The world kept turning, baby announcements, first birthdays, more bumps, and I kept pretending I was fine. The number of times I was asked at baby showers and birthdays, “So, when is it your turn?” I’d just smile and shrug. Pretend it didn’t sting.

But what followed—even after motherhood did finally arrive for me, twice—wasn’t the relief I expected. It was something else entirely. Motherhood didn’t fix what had been broken. It cracked me open in new places. I felt joy, yes. But I also felt overwhelmed, angry, bone-deep tired. And guilty. Always guilty.

I kept thinking: I’m not the mother I thought I’d be. And I tried so hard to become one.

That thought haunts me more than I ever admit out loud. I thought the hard part was getting here. But no one warns you how lonely motherhood can feel, even when you’re literally never alone. How relentless the mental load is. How loud the self-doubt becomes. How easy it is to lose sight of yourself completely.

And yet, through all of it, the loss, the longing, the unexpected shadows, I’ve found something I never would’ve known otherwise.

I’ve found depth. A tenderness I carry into every conversation with another woman who feels unseen. I wouldn’t have predicted this path, but it’s shaped the kind of mother, and woman, I’ve become.

And one day, if my daughter walks through grief or uncertainty in the hope of becoming a mother, if she ever doubts her own capacity or feels like she’s failing, I’ll be able to sit beside her and say, “I’ve felt that too. And you will be okay.”

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ISSUE 04