For a long time, this idea may have lived in the background of your life.
Maybe as a joke.
Maybe as a backup plan.
Maybe as something you didn’t want to look at too closely.
For me, that shift happened when I turned 33.
I was in another long-term relationship — one of several — with someone who struggled with commitment and confidence. I was dating, waiting, hoping clarity would come. I joked about using a donor while privately grieving the possibility that the traditional timeline I imagined might not happen for me.
What I didn’t expect was how heavy that grief would feel — or how lonely it could be to carry it while still functioning.
The Part People Rarely See
Considering becoming a single mother by choice isn’t just a decision.
It’s months — sometimes years — of quiet mental and emotional work.
The constant thinking ahead.
The weighing of timelines.
The internal conversations you don’t know who it’s safe to have.
For me, there was grief layered on top of grief. Grieving the relationship that ended. Grieving the version of life where a partner would be in the picture. Grieving what once felt “normal.”
There was also embarrassment I didn’t expect.
Writing it down — “I may not have a husband” — felt exposing. As if putting it on paper confirmed a fear I already carried: that I wasn’t good enough to find one. That maybe I was capable enough to have a child on my own — but lacking in a way that mattered.
Even with insight, those thoughts were loud.
The Noise — Mostly Internal
One of the hardest parts wasn’t what people actually said.
It was what I feared they might think.
Where is your boyfriend in the picture?
Where is the father?
Do you really think one parent is enough?
Are you doing this because you couldn’t find someone?
I worried people would assume this choice meant failure — not intention. That doing it alone meant something was wrong with me.
In reality, judgment was mostly imagined — but it felt real enough to carry.
The Need for Reassurance — and the Fear Beneath It
What I wanted most was certainty.
Not encouragement or cheerleading — certainty.
A guarantee that it would work.
That the risk would be worth it.
That I wouldn’t end up alone, regretful, or depleted.
Timeline pressure was intense. So was the fear of getting to the other side — older, without a partner, without a baby — and wondering if I had waited too long.
I worried about my mental health. I worried about finances. I was willing to do whatever it took to make the possibility real — even working early mornings at (Starbucks) or a second job.
This kind of decision carries a weight that’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived it.
When Support Shifted
Something changed once the process became real.
After fertility appointments — after action replaced hypotheticals — the noise quieted.
People stopped telling me to “just wait.”
Support became steadier and less theoretical.
My parents moved from reassurance to presence.
What I needed wasn’t advice anymore.
It was people willing to walk alongside me without trying to fix or rush the process.
Two Things Can Be True
This is something I now help other women hold.
You can feel grief and relief at the same time.
You can be sad about what you’re letting go of and still feel clear about your choice.
You can feel jealous of pregnancy announcements and still want this deeply for yourself.
You can protect your emotional space without being unkind.
It is hard to attend appointments alone.
It is painful to hear “everything happens for a reason” when you’re navigating real uncertainty.
What most of us want in this space isn’t positivity — it’s steadiness.
How Being a Therapist Helped — and Where It Fell Short
My therapist brain helped me recognize unhelpful thought patterns and understand emotional reactions. I knew the importance of support and leaned into the people who showed up — including my dad, who was there for countless phone calls after appointments.
But awareness didn’t remove the fear.
In some ways, knowing the process might not work made it heavier. I understood probabilities. I knew there were no guarantees. I couldn’t rely on blind optimism — and that made the emotional load harder to carry.
What I wish I had then was connection with others walking this same path — women who didn’t minimize it, rush it, or try to make it sound easier than it was.
The Relief — and the Truth
The relief came when my baby was born.
Not because everything suddenly became easy — but because I knew, without hesitation, that this was the right decision for me.
That clarity didn’t erase the grief that came before it.
It didn’t mean the journey wasn’t hard.
It meant both things could exist — and did.
Who I Work With
I work with women in North Carolina navigating Single Motherhood by Choice — at different stages of the process.
You don’t need certainty to begin.
You don’t need to be fearless.
You don’t need to justify your path.
Therapy That Honors the Complexity
This work isn’t about pushing you toward a decision.
It’s about creating space to:
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Separate fear from intuition
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Grieve what you’re releasing without shame
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Hold sadness and hope at the same time
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Make decisions from clarity instead of panic
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Feel less alone in a process that can feel isolating
You won’t be rushed.
You won’t be minimized.
You won’t be promised outcomes.
You will be supported — honestly and steadily — by someone who understands both professionally and personally what this path can carry.
