When the Firsts Are Also the Lasts

I never imagined I’d be here—grateful for my beautiful child, but mourning the dream of another.

Our journey to parenthood was long and hard. Infertility changed me in ways I’m still uncovering. And now, years later, I find myself in this strange in-between space: a mom to one incredible child and also a mom whose arms ache for the babies who never came, for the future that never fully unfolded.

This was never the plan. I always pictured at least two. I thought there’d be another pregnancy test, another name to choose, another round of sleepless nights and soft baby sighs. I thought I’d get to do it again—this time with more confidence, less fear. This time knowing how fast it goes. I thought the “firsts” wouldn’t be the “lasts.”

But that’s not how our story is going.

We’ve tried. For years. Medications, procedures, tears, appointments, prayers. Our hope stretched thin and wore out at the edges. And now we’re standing at what feels like the end of the road. Other options are technically still on the table—but emotionally, financially, physically? It’s all starting to feel… less likely. Less alive. Less ours.

And so, I’m trying to reckon with this reality: that my one and only might be it. That the baby clothes packed away in bins may never get used again. That the crib we disassembled might never be rebuilt. That the tiny shoes will never carry a second pair of feet.

Don’t get me wrong—I am deeply grateful for the child we do have. I know how lucky we are. And yet, gratitude doesn’t cancel out grief. They coexist. I can cherish every milestone my child hits while still grieving the moments I’ll never experience again.

The questions from others don’t help.
“Will you have another?”
“Just the one?”
“You’re not done, are you?”

I smile politely. Sometimes I give a vague answer. Sometimes I change the subject. Sometimes, if the day’s been particularly raw, I excuse myself and cry in the bathroom. I wish people understood the weight behind those simple questions. I wish they knew how much I’ve given—my body, my time, my hope—in pursuit of that very thing.

I’m not sure. Maybe you don’t “recover” in the traditional sense. Maybe you slowly learn to live beside the longing. Maybe the ache becomes part of the landscape—something familiar, if not entirely comfortable.

And the triggers—baby showers, announcements, sibling photos—they still sting. Not like a fresh wound, but like a bruise that hasn’t fully faded. I’m told they’ll soften with time. I hope that’s true. Right now, I still flinch.

I think what I need most right now is a gentle nudge toward acceptance. Not forced cheerfulness. Not silver linings. Just a quiet hand on my shoulder saying: It’s okay to let go of the dream you held for so long. It doesn’t mean you failed. It doesn’t mean your story is less beautiful. It just means it’s different than you thought it would be.

So maybe this is me starting that letting go. Writing it down. Admitting the truth. Opening the bins and baskets. Holding each item for what it is—not just a onesie or a swaddle, but a symbol of what could’ve been. And then, maybe, slowly, letting it go.

Not because I don’t love the child I have. But because I do. And because it’s time to start living fully in this chapter, even if the next one I imagined never comes.

If you’re here too—in this quiet, complicated grief—know that you’re not alone. I see you. And I’m standing with you, somewhere under the weight of all this love.

AND I keep wondering. Do you ever recover from not getting your rainbow baby?