Becoming a Mother, On My Own

Once I decided I wanted to be a mother, I went after it.

But the truth is... there’s nothing simple about choosing to become a single parent by choice.

Not emotionally.

Not financially.

And definitely not when you’re navigating a fertility system that often feels like it wasn’t built with you in mind.

Every decision sits with me.

There’s no one to split the weight. No one to sit across from me in appointments, catching what I might miss. No one to process with in real time when the information feels overwhelming or unclear.

It’s just me—asking questions, making decisions, and carrying the “what ifs” that come with all of it.

And the system doesn’t slow down for your emotions.

It moves in timelines, lab results, and protocols. It reduces deeply human experiences into data points and next steps. You learn quickly how to advocate for yourself, how to push for clarity, how not to get lost in a process that can easily make you feel like just another case file.

But underneath all of that... I’m still a person hoping to become someone’s mother.

And my body has had a lot to say in this journey.

Fibroids have been part of my reality. (You can read more about that in a previous blog here.)

I also had ovarian cysts that required surgery.

I was told one of my fallopian tubes is closed—and I had surgery to try to open it. After being questioned about my history with STIs, and sharing that I had no history, I still wasn’t believed— because apparently that’s the only way they see this happening. Even though my mom experienced the same issue and had surgery to open hers so she could have me.

And in the middle of trying to create life, I’ve also had to navigate a cyst in my breast, carrying the weight of a family history of endometriosis, cervical, ovarian, and breast cancer in the back of my mind.

And most recently, an autoimmune disease that treats my own body like something foreign—attacking the very cells attempting to grow in my body, making it difficult to become pregnant or leading to miscarriage.

And then there are the parts of this journey that have nothing to do with my body—but everything to do with being evaluated.

The yearly required psychological evaluations. Sitting in a room for an hour while a professional determines if I’m making a “sane” decision.

Questions about my support system.

My financial security.

My housing stability.

Who will be the child’s “father” or father figure.

Telling my future child how they were conceived.

The implications of treatment.

And many more—filling the time, measuring my readiness, trying to determine if I’m making this decision for the “right” reasons.

Another layer of being examined. Just in a different way.

This hasn’t just been a journey of hope.

It’s been a journey of medical navigation.

Self-advocacy.

Lab tests.

Evaluations.

Surgeries.

Poking and prodding.

Waiting for results that can shift everything in a single conversation.

There’s a physical toll to that, but there’s also a mental and emotional one that isn’t talked about enough.

Because every update comes with a decision.

Every decision comes with risk.

And I’m making all of them alone.

Even down to choosing a donor.

That’s not a small decision. It’s not something you move through casually.

It’s sitting with profiles, histories, genetic markers and compatibility, oh the possibilities—trying to make a choice that will shape an entire human life. Looking for peace in a decision that doesn’t come with certainty. Learning to trust myself without having someone beside me to say, “Yes, this feels right.”

That kind of decision-making is quiet, but heavy.

There are moments where I feel grounded in my choice. Clear. Certain.

And then there are moments where the weight of doing this alone hits differently.

Because even though this is my choice, it doesn’t erase the reality that it can feel isolating.

And then there’s grief.

I lost my mother right as I was beginning this journey.

There’s no clean way to explain what it feels like to step into becoming a mother while actively grieving your own.

There are so many moments when I want to call her. To ask questions. To hear her voice. To be reminded that I’m okay.

Instead, I sit with it.

With the decisions.

With the silence.

With the responsibility of building something so life-changing on my own.

I’m learning that two things can be true at the same time:

I can feel empowered in my choice and still feel the loneliness that comes with it.

I can be strong and still wish I had more support.

I can move forward and still grieve what’s missing.

This journey isn’t polished. It isn’t linear. It doesn’t always feel hopeful.

But it’s honest.

And right now, that’s what I’m holding onto the most.

Because of this journey, I’ve expanded my work as a birthworker to include fertility support and system navigation.

It matters to me that all families feel seen and supported while making such life-altering decisions, whether that means listening, holding your hand, sitting in appointments with you, or helping you navigate both the decisions and the system.

All the things I wish I had during my own journey.

You are not alone.

🩷 Alliss