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These mini stories are part of our End of the Childbearing Years series, exploring the experiences, decisions, and feelings of Mormon women around this pivotal transition. Each story is a generous and vulnerable offering. We ask that comments be sensitive and nonjudgmental toward any woman’s choices or beliefs.

Our first daughter joined us rather unexpectedly, a month early. Aside from some minor drama and unanticipated excitement surrounding her birth, everything went well. She caught up in her growth very quickly, and brought us great joy.

When our sixth child was born, our third boy, I remember feeling something I’d never felt before. Our family was complete. I’d had my last baby! Every other birth had been soon followed by a longing for the next one. This little boy might as well have been born sporting a onesie with “Caboose” printed on it! My pregnancies had not been difficult. We’d never set a number as to how many children we would have.

We purchased it within months of our wedding. I passed by the nursery door every day for years, but it wasn’t the right time to be pregnant.

I am refining myself; someday I will be a goddess. I want to be defined by my desire to progress and reach creative exaltation. My human creations, in partnership with my musician-stay-at-home-husband-father-sex-machine include five children whose names I believe you should know because they illuminate an inkling of who we believe they are becoming.

I planned on having twelve kids. My patriarchal blessing promised they would “leap from my womb.” Then I married at age 37. We tried everything including IVF. My cycle had always been like clockwork and I ovulated as expected, but the truth was, my reproductive system was on its tail end. The whole process was pretty hopeless, but we were hopeful and we wanted to do all we could. During this time my husband was called as bishop and everyone assured me miracles would follow.

If it wasn’t for the gospel, I am certain I would have lost my will to live a long time ago. I was told at a very young age that I would never be able to have children due to some medical issues, but for some reason my soul yelled, “NO” at that moment.

When I was a little girl, I dreamt of one day being a mom. I would care for my “babies” as if they were real. As I grew, many of the choices I made had motherhood in mind. From the countless hours I spent babysitting, to the classes I chose in High School and College. I was determined to be the best mother to my unborn children.

My first child was born when I was 19. Since then I’ve had twelve pregnancies—four ended in miscarriage, and one (my second child) was my premature son who died an hour after being born. I have seven living children.

My husband and I always thought four sounded like a nice even number of kids to have, and when we reached number four, I was ready to be done. I struggled with postpartum depression and anxiety that got worse with each child, and I had suffered three miscarriages and had two c-sections. I wanted to feel done. We decided we were done.

I enjoyed having babies as long as they weren’t too close together. I never had any trouble getting pregnant, being pregnant (except fatigue and backaches), or during labor. One of my babies was born slightly premature, but everything turned out okay. I never set a limit to how many I would have.

It is hard to succinctly describe the multitude of feelings I have as a never married 48-year-old female without children. The dominant feelings are probably of hidden grief and pain from unfulfilled wishes, hopes, and dreams for my life.

After we were married, I dreamed of having four children. I had their names chosen, and a blessing gown ready. My grandfather handmade me a stunning cradle. After over a decade of struggles, I finally received an answer to prayers.

While my husband was in a dental residency with the U.S. Navy in Maryland, I found juggling three children to be my almost breaking point. Since our oldest had been diagnosed with Asperger’s (high-function Autism) and ADHD, his behavior and need for my constant attention made it difficult to manage the others.

The gravel crunched beneath my tires as I pulled into the parking area. No other cars or people were around because it was so very late at night. Yet the bridge at Hoover Dam was still well-lit. On my right was the water that created Lake Mead.