By 55, I thought I’d be cradling a grandchild — not sitting alone in the room that once held a crib for the children I hoped to have. But life had other plans. Despite years of trying — naturally, through IVF, adoption, and even fostering — my husband, Michel, and I were never able to have children together.
Michel and I met when I was 40. It was six years after I moved to France, having fled my ex-husband, who had decided that he no longer wanted to have children. We had been together for 13 years, and in the last two years of the relationship, I fought hard for the “opportunity” to have a child. We went to couples therapy for a year to explore why he changed his mind, to figure out under what circumstances we could be parents (or at least me), and determine how we could still be married if he did not want to raise a child. Therapy didn’t shift anything; he didn’t change his mind, and I didn’t change mine. So I left him.
Michel was different. Already a father of two daughters, he wanted more children. After trying naturally for one year, we did several rounds of IVF in France. We traveled to Greece because France did not allow the use of donor eggs for IVF. We spent our earnings to pay for four rounds of IVF cycles using donor eggs. We hired lawyers in Lebanon and an adoption agency in Florida to assist us with the international adoption process. Ten years in, nothing had worked.
A few years after moving to the U.S., we started fostering children, but the bureaucracy and the unpredictability of the families took a toll on us. In the meantime, we kept getting older. Before we knew it, we were in midlife.
Letting go of the life I planned
I was forever defined by my high school biology teacher’s encouraging comment about me: “Stephanie perseveres when times are difficult.” After 20 years of trying to become a parent, I stopped when I was 54.
My desire for having children did not wane at that moment, but my disinterest in raising a child under these circumstances surfaced.
In February 2024, I spent four weeks in Europe for work. I stayed in Lake Como with one of my closest friends and her daughter, Emily.
Emily is 15. She texts nonstop, hangs out with friends, forgets to shower, and must be reminded to go to bed before midnight. She wasn’t my responsibility, but I was exhausted just being in her presence. She’s a teenager, and I’m middle-aged.
One night, while walking to buy chicken for dinner, it hit me. I didn’t want to raise a teenager when I was 65. I didn’t want to raise one now. I didn’t want to worry about late-night curfews or college applications at this point in life. I also didn’t want to stay up all night with a newborn. That moment — alone, chicken in hand, on a tiny Italian street — I knew it was over. My desire for having children did not wane at that moment, but my disinterest in raising a child under these circumstances surfaced.
I had spent so much time determined to expand my family, I didn’t even notice that my dreams had shifted. What I was envisioning now was what retirement would look like for us in 10 to 15 years. Sandy beaches, sitting on the terrace of our apartment in the Algarve, sipping Portuguese wine, reading books, and learning to sail. In my fantasy, we would live in Paris from September to January, and we would spend the rest of the year in Portugal. We would discover different parts of Portugal with our new Portuguese friends. Raising a 10-year-old child did not fit into those plans.
When the dream of parenthood finally came to an end, I was left wondering what my purpose would be now.
Seeking healing, I connected with a CBT therapist. First, she encouraged me to follow the Miracle Morning routine by Hal Elrod. In this daily practice, you complete the SAVERS protocol each day: Silence, Affirmations, Visualizations, Exercise, Reading, and Scribing (journaling). The goal, she told me, was to calm my anxiety and learn to be present in the moment.
Always skeptical, I wondered, What will this do for me? How will this answer my “what now” question? But left with few options, I did it anyway. What else was I going to do? Keep crying about how my life didn’t go as planned?
Will I continue to dwell on my failed attempt at parenthood even though I willingly gave it up last year? Or will I make the most of what is in front of me now?
When visualizing, I got frustrated. I used to be able to visualize my dream scenario — happy, frolicking kids were always in the picture — but for the first time, I simply couldn’t see anything. My therapist suggested that I visualize the current day, week, or month. That made it digestible for me. “Today, I am working, exercising, making dinner.” “Next week, I will read a book.” “In one month, we will be at the beach.” These were simple steps that eventually strengthened this visualization muscle, but I still had more healing to do.
Redefining my purpose in my pivot year
Recently, I was scrolling on Instagram and came across a reel of Hoda Kotb discussing a book she was reading: The Pivot Year by Brianna Wiest. She read, “Everything is yours for a time, and then it isn’t. Everything is borrowed, and everything is temporary when you are here. Yet, you approach your life as though you have forever to live it.” This deeply resonated with me — and I was in my pivot year, so I bought the book immediately.
On Day 1 of this calendar book of reflection, Wiest writes, “Will you continue to replay the memories of yesterday, or will you meet the moment and make the most of what is in front of you now?” That hit hard. Will I continue to dwell on my failed attempt at parenthood even though I willingly gave it up last year? Or will I make the most of what is in front of me now? That sounds simple enough — move on. But to what?
On Day 2, Wiest writes, “When you finally admit that you don’t know what’s next, you enter the golden vortex — the space between everything you know you’re meant for and anything you had previously imagined to be.” For the first time, letting go of what I thought was possible didn’t sound so bad after all. This golden vortex of everything else that is possible was on the horizon.
Finding meaning in a different midlife than you expected
I recently turned the baby’s room into my Miracle Morning room. I removed the crib and installed a small white writing desk in front of a window so I could see into the garden. I replaced the rocking chair with a comfy swivel chair and ottoman for my feet. I got a desk lamp so bright it could power the Eiffel Tower — Michel hates it.
Every day, I work on the SAVERS. With silence, I listen to sound bowls to relax. Journaling turned into writing a blog. I started reading more — so much more that I need to buy a new bookshelf. Repeating affirmations has helped me maintain emotional balance and stay grounded in the present moment. And visualizations have turned from “what does today look like” to “what could my future look like.” This is where the golden vortex comes in: I could finally feel myself opening up to all the possibilities, not just one unattainable goal. So I started exploring them.
I took a Broadway dance class — and learned that my speed is more “Introduction to Ballet.” I also tried puzzling, but realized I’m not patient enough to spend all that time trying to get the right pieces to fit together. In March, I traveled to Rome solo.
This version of midlife is different from the one I expected; it’s more trial and error, more exploration and unknowns, but I’m learning to live it fully — and I’m uncovering interests and dreams I never knew existed as I go. I’m excited to see what awaits. I’m no longer chasing the life I thought I was supposed to have; I’m focusing on the one I have right now.
