Almost Letting Go

There’s a part of me I’ve been holding onto. Carefully, tenderly. A future version of myself that never came to be—a mother again. A new baby. A sibling for the ones I already hold close.

I’ve been thinking about saying goodbye to my embryos. For six months, it’s circled my mind like a soft whisper and a heavy echo. I used to feel like I had time. Now, I just feel... more like myself again. The person I was before kids. The one who could breathe without thinking about fertility calendars, genetic risks, or insurance battles. I almost feel free.

But freedom has a price.

Even now, when I see friends announce pregnancies—joyful, glowing, hopeful—I smile for them. And then I cry for me. Not every time. But enough to know it’s not over. The longing has just changed shape.

I’m not trying anymore. But I still grieve.

This weekend, I’ve been everywhere but home. Friday, I sat with my sister. That kind of closeness is complicated—she’s left before. And when someone leaves enough times, you learn to brace yourself for the next time. Saturday, I was with a friend who’s going through a divorce. Her son was with his dad. We shared wine and truth. I showed up. For her. For both of us.

And I realized—I am showing up again. Not just to survive. But to support. To live. To laugh. To get dressed and go out and be present. That’s new. That’s big.

But letting go of the embryos means saying goodbye to a maybe. To the smallest, quietest hope. The backup plan I never wanted to admit I was still carrying.

I’m not quite there yet. But I’m closer than I’ve ever been.

And that counts for something...

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