There are usually two ways to look at things
Including how I feel about not having children
There are usually two ways to look at any given situation, person, phrase or occurrence. As I write, I can see the yellow flowers of a kind of tall, yellow dandelion-like plant peeking over the wall in my neighbour’s front garden. Two ways to see this. A - Urgh, why don’t they get rid of the weeds? Or B - Oh how pretty, even overgrown flowers bring a touch of brightness to my suburban street.
Or, what about this scenario: You get chucked off your tube or bus a stop early and think to yourself: A - How annoying and frustrating. Or, B - I can get some bonus exercise by walking the extra distance home.
This applies to bigger things too. Last year, I went on holiday to Vietnam by myself, and watched glorious sunsets night after night from a tropical island beach.
Before I went, my biggest fear was of being lonely, and I planned a few activities to make sure I wouldn’t be alone too much.
I’ve felt isolated on solo trips before - when I was in Kerala, India a few years ago I arrived at a hotel with a day or so kill before a trek I was joining. Naively, I’d imagined myself sunbathing on the balcony with a book, not considering that wearing a bikini and being visible to other guests might not be the best idea.
Instead, I unpacked in my room and felt overwhelmed by the thought that nobody in the whole world knew exactly where I was at that moment.
But all things must pass, and indeed the loneliness did: that evening, I was invited to join in as travellers from Gujarat danced together around a fire and practised their English with me.
But still, loneliness was a feeling I wanted to avoid in Vietnam. So, I planned a few trips and activities while there, and then surprised myself by revelling in my solo downtime.
Watching those sunsets, did I feel: A - Poor me, I have no one to share this with, or, B - Get me, I took myself on this trip and can have this special, once in a lifetime moment to myself? The answer was A, every time.
On that island, I very much had a rare and fleeting feeling of not having a care in the world, and I was grateful for that. And, I loved spending time solo so much that I bought a painting of a sunset when I got home, and now it reminds me of that sensation of freedom I had for those few days.
It’s not always easy to get into the two-ways mindset. Scrolling Instagram earlier in the summer, I found it hard not to feel envious of the beach scenes, chinking cocktails and bikini boasting.
Granted, I had been to Wales that week and posted stories featuring chickens, castles and lakes, but suddenly I wanted to be posing with my pedicure next to the Mediterranean. They don’t call it ‘doom-scrolling’ for nothing.
Recently, a friend of mine said he’d noticed how I seem to have not quite made peace with not having children, and that sometimes it seems as if I still want to. This is true. It’s a duality that will likely always be with me, as I spend time with my friends’ children, and then as my friends become grandparents.
But I can continue to look at this in two ways: A - It would have been wonderful (and hard work) to have had my own kids, and B - I choose to accept what hasn’t happened and am so grateful for all the love that I have in my life, to give and receive.
This is one where both A and B are true.
Acceptance is a lovely gift to give yourself.