SlowlyWeGrow

When you’re trying to conceive, life can begin to feel like one long pause.

Everything becomes a countdown — to ovulation, to test day, to the next appointment, to the next cycle. It is easy to slip into the feeling that life hasn’t really begun yet, that you are waiting for permission to start living.

I didn’t grow up imagining myself as a mother.

I didn’t grow up imagining myself as a mother.

Coming from a poorer single-parent family, and having felt the weight of a broken home as a child, I wasn’t sure I could ever offer the stability I wanted a child to have. My childhood wasn’t bad — far from it — but I understood early what strain felt like, what uncertainty felt like, what it meant to watch a parent carry everything alone.

What I did imagine, though, was a different kind of life.

As a child, I dreamed of having a little patch of land somewhere. In my mind’s eye, there was a home hidden amongst the trees — a treehouse tucked into a tangle of rainforest. There were animals to care for, things growing in the garden, and a sense of freedom that felt a long way from the world I knew.

Looking back, the details were fanciful, but the feeling was always the same.

I wanted nature.

I wanted animals.

I wanted space to breathe.

I wanted nature.
I wanted animals.
I wanted space to breathe.

I wanted a life that felt quieter, slower and more connected to the world around me.

Long before I knew whether I wanted children, I knew I wanted that.

As a young adult, working in the charity sector on not-very-much money, I didn’t feel ready. I didn’t feel secure. I didn’t feel like I could give a child the life they deserved. So motherhood became something I quietly placed on a high shelf — not a “no,” but a “not yet.”

Then I met my partner.

Nine years, a career change, and a more stable life later, we finally reached a point where we looked at each other and thought:

“Yes. We’re ready now.”

A little later than many, but not too late.

We decided it was time to start trying for a family and hoped nature would take its course.

Three years passed without a single pregnancy. I rarely caught ovulation, despite sticks and thermometers, but assumed I was doing it wrong. We booked a doctor’s appointment to start investigating.

A few weeks before that appointment, we found out we were pregnant.

In those three years, life hadn’t stopped.

We’d moved to a big house in the countryside.

We’d brought home chickens.

We’d bought “the car” — the one that made us feel like proper grown-ups.

We’d collected two more dogs — four in total.

We were building a life, even though we didn’t yet know how much lay ahead.

We had almost made peace with letting fate decide about children.

But when we saw that first positive test, everything changed.

The Future We Finally Allowed Ourselves to Imagine

For the first time, we allowed ourselves to imagine what came next.

It was as if a door we didn’t realise we’d been pressing against suddenly swung open. The future stretched out in front of us — giggles, toddling chaos, first steps, first words, scraped knees, school gates, teenage heartbreaks, first loves, watching them find their person, watching them build a life of their own.

For the first time, we allowed ourselves to picture it all.

Not in a vague, distant way — but vividly. Tangibly.

A whole life, unfolding.

And when we lost that pregnancy — that baby, that child, that teenager, that future — it didn’t disappear.

It stayed with us, heavy and bright and unbearably painful.

We didn’t just mourn the loss of a baby.

We mourned the life we had finally dared to imagine.

Learning to Slow Down

We refused to give in to despair, but we also needed to protect ourselves.

We talked about what life might look like if it didn’t happen — early retirement, distant adventures, lazy weekends, spontaneous trips, and a life built around freedom rather than family.

Not because we were giving up, but because we needed to believe that a good life was still possible, whatever the future held.

In reality, life didn’t stop.

The shape of a child didn’t disappear.

It simply travelled alongside us.

Infertility forces you into a strange kind of stillness.

You can’t rush it.

You can’t control it.

You can’t simply work harder and make it happen.

All you can do is wait.

And somewhere in that waiting, we learned to slow down.

We found comfort in small routines. Feeding the animals before bed. Walking the dogs through muddy fields.  Sitting with the chickens on a lazy Saturday morning. Planting a garden. Watching the seasons move across the landscape around us.

When so much felt uncertain, nature carried on regardless.

Seeds were planted.

Trees blossomed.

Leaves fell.

Life continued.

The things that hurt were never far away, but we learned to anchor ourselves in the things that remained.

Over time, that slowness became more than a coping mechanism.

It became a way of life.

And now, it is the rhythm of our home.

Building a Home That Felt Like a Sanctuary

While we were waiting, we poured ourselves into creating a life that felt grounding.

We collected chickens.

We welcomed dogs into our lives.

Later came the goats, adding their own particular brand of chaos and joy.

We planted things and watched them grow.

We took up running, not just as a way to keep fit, but also a way to regain control.

We built routines that made us feel safe when the future felt anything but.

At the time, it felt like survival.

Looking back, I can see it was something more.

Without realising it, we were creating the environment our daughter would one day grow up in — a childhood filled with animals, muddy boots, fresh air, curiosity and space to breathe.

Finding Joy in the Ordinary

Infertility can make joy feel dangerous.

Like something that might be taken away.

But slowly, we learned to find joy in ordinary things again.

Seeing the first seedlings push through the soil.

The chickens racing towards us when they thought food might be involved.

The dogs snuffling muddy paws across the kitchen floor.

A cup of tea on the doorstep after a difficult day.

A quiet walk at dusk.

The first signs of spring after a long winter.

These small things became anchors.

They reminded us that life was still happening, even when our hearts were breaking.

And now, they are the same things our daughter experiences every day.

The things that once helped carry us through are now part of the childhood we are giving her.

Choosing Intention Over Perfection

When you live with uncertainty for long enough, you begin to question the timelines and expectations you once took for granted.

We stopped worrying so much about what life should look like.

Instead, we focused on what felt right for us.

That intentionality now runs through our parenting.

The slow mornings.

The muddy adventures.

The books scattered across the floor.

The gentle boundaries.

The deep breaths through big feelings.

The belief that children deserve respect, patience and the freedom to grow at their own pace.

The life we built while we were waiting became the blueprint for the life we are building with her.

Holding Space for Hope

Even in the hardest moments — the miscarriage, the diagnosis, the failed cycles — we kept living.

Not because we were particularly strong.

But because life kept moving, and somehow we moved with it.

Hope wasn’t always loud.

Sometimes it was simply feeding the animals.

Making breakfast.

Walking the dogs.

Stepping outside.

Planting something for a future we weren’t sure would arrive.

Sometimes hope looked very ordinary indeed.

But it carried us through.

The Life We Live Now

Sometimes I think about that child dreaming of a treehouse hidden in the rainforest. The details were different, but she wasn’t entirely wrong. There are animals here. Things growing in the garden. Muddy boots by the door. A slower life than I once thought possible.

And when I watch our daughter toddle across the grass, giggle at the goats, chatter to the chickens or fall asleep against my chest after a long day, I realise something.

She didn’t just arrive into our lives.

She arrived into a life we had already built for her.

A life shaped by waiting.

A life softened by grief.

A life strengthened by hope.

A life rooted in nature, gentleness and intention.

For years, I thought we were waiting for life to begin.

Looking back, I can see that it already had.

We just hadn’t met our daughter yet.