My life revolved around one singular dream for 20 years: becoming a parent. It wasn’t just a hope — it was a goal I poured my heart, soul, time and savings into achieving. I did everything you could imagine — divorced my ex-husband when he decided he no longer wanted children, met my new husband, Michel, after five years, went through fertility treatments with my eggs, then donor eggs, faced implantation failure, a miscarriage and a chemical pregnancy. We tried adopting internationally and then fostering. Every attempt failed. My days were filled with anxiety, and my nights were plagued by questions about why it wasn’t happening for me.
Parenthood wasn’t just something I wanted — it became the definition of who I thought I was supposed to be. And yet, year after year, the dream slipped further and further away, forcing me to face a painful question I never thought I’d have to answer: What if this never happens for me?
At the end of last year, I finally stopped chasing the dream of becoming a parent. Letting go was the hardest — and, ultimately, the most healing — decision of my life.
If you’ve ever struggled with infertility or adoption, you know the routine: hope, heartbreak, repeat. For me, this cycle spanned two decades.
At first, I thought it was just a matter of time. I was open about my IVF journey with friends and family. I was convinced it was going to work for me. Why wouldn’t it? It seemed like all the celebrities in my age group were successful with IVF. They all got the miracle baby, and they all said, “Don’t give up.” No one talked about what happened when it didn’t work, so I assumed that as long as I kept trying, it would eventually happen for me too.
But months turned into years. After countless failed treatments and adoption or fostering attempts, I realized that optimism had morphed into desperation. I was losing myself to the process. My friends stopped asking what was happening because they saw that nothing was. I felt isolated and alone.
The worst part was the shame. Every failure felt personal, as if I were somehow not enough. Society didn’t help. People asked well-meaning but invasive questions like:
“When are you going to have kids?”
“Have you tried just relaxing?”
“Why don’t you just adopt?”
Or, when I was bloated from IVF treatments: “Are you pregnant?”
I carried the shame silently, wearing a mask of resilience while crumbling inside.
Courtesy of Stephanie Schantz
Letting go wasn’t a single decision; it was a process.
By the end of 2023, something inside me shifted. My husband and I had started fostering children in 2020. Over the course of two years, we fostered two different sets of siblings for a total of five months. After each set left, I grieved tremendously. When custody of the first set was transferred to their aunt, my heart broke — I grieved for a year.
For some reason, the county didn’t place any children with us for almost a year. So, we decided to switch to another county, where headlines frequently reported a shortage of foster parents and children sleeping in county offices because there were no available homes.
The process to change counties was gruesome. Every month, we were told it would happen next month. Six months later, we were still waiting. Then, we were told to let our license expire and reapply in the new county.
By January 2024, I was exhausted. A quiet voice whispered, You can’t keep living like this.
I started asking myself hard questions: What was I really holding onto? Was it the dream of being a parent, or was it the fear of what my life would mean without it? Would letting go make me a failure? Would I die alone?
My husband, Michel, who has two children, supported whatever decision I wanted to make. These were terrifying questions, but I couldn’t ignore them anymore. Still, I wasn’t ready to give up.
I started confiding in my sister. She understood — she was a county foster care social worker and knew the system’s frustrations. She encouraged us to move to a private fostering agency, which could offer more opportunities with less bureaucracy. Michel and I began inquiring.
In February 2024, I traveled to Europe for work. In Italy, I stayed with one of my best friends and her teenage daughter, Emily. They live in Lake Como.
Emily is a typical 15-year-old. She wants to hang out with friends after school, she dates, and her mother has to remind her to study, shower and go to bed before midnight. I’ve always enjoyed being an aunt-type figure — not just to Emily, but to many children, including my stepdaughters.
While in Europe, Matthew, an old friend from my junior year study-abroad trip in Paris, invited me to meet him in Rome. Without hesitation, I booked a train and a hotel for one night. We had only enough time for dinner before I had to return to Milan.
Matthew is gay. Like me, he always wanted children. His long-term partner changed his mind about parenthood, so Matthew ended the relationship. Later, he found a new partner who did want children, and they began the surrogacy process. Their first attempt failed, and so did their relationship.
Over dinner near the Pantheon, I asked my “twin flame” where he was on his journey. We were both in our 50s, and we felt our window of opportunity was closing.
I told Matthew I was thinking about giving up. He reassured me that I had done everything possible.
“You should have no regrets,” he said. “You did everything you could. I admire you for that.”
A few days later, back in Como, I was walking to buy chicken for dinner when something hit me like a flash of lightning.
I didn’t want to be 65 years old and raising a teenager. I didn’t want to foster. I didn’t want to adopt. It was over.
When I returned home after four weeks of traveling, I told Michel what I had decided. I cried, and he cried. He understood. He had wanted a child too, but he was exhausted. We had been trying for 14 years together. He agreed it was time to let go.
A month later, I was still hurting. I asked Michel if he had changed his mind. Should we foster again? We still had time to submit the paperwork.
“How do you feel? Do you want to foster again?” he asked me.
I didn’t. My answer hadn’t changed — but my attitude had. I was relieved.

Courtesy of Stephanie Schantz
It’s been a little over nine months since I made my decision. Letting go wasn’t giving up — it was choosing to live again.
My next hurdle is telling the people in my life about my choice. We’ve been in a “don’t ask, don’t tell” phase for years with friends and family, and they don’t know that I’ve ended my parenthood journey — until they read this piece.
I decided to tell them — and everyone else — in this way because I no longer want to stay silent about what I’ve been through. These experiences are incredibly intimate and can be unbelievably difficult, but they’re often even harder because of the silence.
I now believe we need to talk more about this topic — the good, the bad, the triumphs, the challenges, the sorrow — so it will be easier for people like me, and the people who love us.
In the meantime, I am overcoming my shame. I am accepting that I am not a failure because I do not have children. My heart is lighter, even though I still have moments of grief. The desire for a child is still there, but the pursuit isn’t.
Today, I experience moments of liberty, joy and hope. I am discovering what’s next. It’s a slow process. I can’t say I’m 100% healed, but I do feel like something new is beginning — a fresh start.
Stephanie Schantz is the voice behind Not-Less.com, a space for individuals who are navigating life without children after infertility, fostering or adoption challenges. She talks about the struggles of letting go and finding peace in a life that didn’t go as planned. She reminds us that women are not less without children. Looking for stories, support and inspiration? Discover more at Not-Less.com.
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