Stories
06-07-2026
"I knew it when I was four," says Eva. "Becoming a mother was simply part of my future."
As a little girl, she could already picture it all. She did not walk around with a toy buggy, but with a real pram. And when her dolls felt too light, she put stones in them so they would feel more like a real baby.
For years, Eva hardly gave it a thought. Why would she? Like so many women, she assumed that one day everything would fall into place: a partner, a family and children. That her future might look different simply never occurred to her.
Now, years later, a smile immediately appears on Eva's face when she talks about the two girls who now have an important place in her life. She talks about the little moments that many parents take for granted, but which have taken on a special meaning for her.
Eva does not call herself their mother. Nor is she. That place belongs to someone else. Still, there is a note of pride in her voice when she talks about them. As if she has a front-row seat as two young lives unfold.
When, in her mid-thirties, she met someone she could imagine a future with, that wish became concrete for the first time. No longer an idea for later, but something that felt within reach. Her partner already had a daughter from a previous relationship, and from the start a special bond developed between them. She did not just enter a relationship, but also a piece of family life.
She enjoyed their moments together. The naturalness with which a child became part of her daily life. Although Eva never regarded herself as a mother, she did feel how naturally it came to her. And precisely because of that, her longing for a child of her own grew. For the first time, she could see her future clearly.
When it became clear that her wish to have a child would not become a shared wish within the relationship, Eva faced a difficult choice. She decided to seek help.
Anyone who has never been through fertility treatment often sees mainly the treatments, the appointments and the medical side. For Eva, the impact lay precisely in everything surrounding it: the rushed drives to appointments in between work, sitting alone in the waiting room, coming to terms with disappointing results and then carrying on as if nothing had happened.
In the first years of her treatment, Eva tried to fulfil her wish to have a child with the help of a donor who was a friend. A choice that felt careful and loving, but in practice turned out to be much more complicated than she could have foreseen. Within her relationship in particular, going through this process together with another donor proved harder than expected.
"You just keep going," she says. "You think: I'll just fit this in alongside everything else."
But it was not that simple. Every attempt brought hope, and every disappointment called on her resilience again. On top of that, the treatment did not stand apart from the rest of her life. A lot was going on in her private life too, including within her family. As a result, there was sometimes hardly any room to stop and think about what it was all doing to her.
Looking back, Eva sees how lonely that sometimes was. Not because there were no people around her, but because no one felt exactly how much was at stake each time.
As if the uncertainty of treatment was not enough, Eva also experienced miscarriages during that period. She still finds it difficult to talk about. Not because the pain has gone, but because words often fall short.
Many people understand the grief of a miscarriage. What is less visible is the loss that remains afterwards. The loss of an imagined future. Of birthdays that will never be celebrated. Of a child you will never teach to ride a bike. Of a family that only ever existed in your mind.
"It's not just about a child," says Eva. "It's also about everything that comes with it."
With every disappointment, her trust in her own body also diminished. Where a twinge in her stomach used to be just a stomach ache, it now immediately took on meaning. A sign of perhaps a pregnancy, or of loss. What once felt natural became a source of uncertainty.
Involuntary childlessness does not end when fertility treatment ends. The grief changes shape, but it does not disappear. Some days remain difficult. Mother's Day, for example, or when someone close to her becomes a grandmother. At moments like these, Eva is once again confronted with the future she once took for granted.
According to Eva, this is often forgotten. People understand grief when someone dies, after a divorce or during illness, but many find it harder to grasp grieving for a future that never became reality.
Eventually, the moment came when Eva had to acknowledge that her wish to have a child would probably not come true. That process did not happen overnight. Acceptance often sounds as if a switch is flipped somewhere. As if you wake up one morning at peace with the situation. That is not how it worked.
For a long time, the grief felt completely intertwined with her. As if it was not something she carried with her, but something she had become. Only later did that slowly change.
The grief did not disappear, but it found a different place. No longer at the centre of her life, but alongside it. Something that is still there, but no longer defines everything.
That does not mean it no longer hurts. Some moments remain painful. The difference is that the pain no longer completely rules her life. There was room again. Room to look to the future once more. Room to see other possibilities. Room to ask herself who she was, apart from her wish to have a child.
Yet the space that slowly opened up also brought something unexpected. Through Buurtgezinnen, Eva came into contact with two young girls who now have an important place in her life. Eva deliberately keeps her distance from words like 'mother role'. She wants to respect the place of their own mother.
Gradually, she notices the bond growing stronger. She helps with reading. Goes along to parent-teacher meetings. Is there for big and small occasions. Comforts, motivates and encourages. Not from a role she claims for herself, but from the bond that has grown over time.
"Only once I had accepted that I would probably never become a mother could I open myself up to this."
Eva's caring nature also takes shape in other areas of her life. In her work as a Social Work lecturer at a university of applied sciences, she supports young people closely. As she does in her work for Buurtgezinnen, where she sees and talks to many young families. Although the latter can sometimes touch on what she herself wanted so much.
Her bond with the girls continues to hold a special place in all of this. At the same time, Eva is aware of its fragility. They are not her children. That realisation still affects her at times. But it takes nothing away from what they mean to each other. "They have really found a place in my heart."
Today, Eva looks at her life differently than she did a few years ago. Not because all the pain has gone. Not because she no longer feels grief. But because her outlook has changed.
For years, she mainly focused on what was missing. On what had not worked out. On what she did not have. Now she also sees what she does have. Work that energises her. People around her who understand her. The girls who came into her life. The freedom to shape her life in her own way.
"For a very long time I thought: I don't have this, I don't have that. Now I also see what has become possible because of it." Her life has turned out differently from what she once expected. Not better. Not worse. Different.
In our conversation with Eva, it was striking how honestly she looks at her own story. She does not believe in easy answers and does not say that everything happened for a reason. Nor will she claim that the grief disappears completely. But she has learned that life can turn out differently from what you hoped, without becoming any less valuable.
We asked Eva what she would like to pass on to women who are currently in the middle of fertility treatment or who have to live with involuntary childlessness. Her answer was clear: "Be kind to yourself. You don't have to carry everything alone."
What she mainly means is: you do what you can. It is no small thing. And if it does not work out, that does not mean you have fallen short or that it is your fault. Some questions simply never get an answer. Sometimes help comes from where you least expected it. It can be very beautiful if you dare to let that support in.
The girl with the pram once thought she knew exactly what her future would look like. The woman sitting across from you now knows that life cannot be planned. But it is precisely there that she has found trust again. Not in the outcome. But in the path towards it.
Would you like to watch the full documentary? You can find it here.
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