‘A baby-shaped hole’: When creativity clashes with the call of motherhood
Contemplating whether to have a child, a 30-something woman faces her fears.
By Loribelle Spirovski
Credit: Paolo Lim/illustrationroom.com.au
Summer. A group of us trudges down the steep, narrow path to Wattamolla Beach in Sydney’s Royal National Park – a haunt we loved in our 20s. Those of us without kids arrive early, claiming a patch of shade. Eventually, we spot the new parents making their way down, laden with bags like Bedouins, a grandparent trailing behind.
The new mum – whose husband I’ve known since we were 13 – has that post-pregnancy glow. Her limbs are soft, supple. Beneath a pink sunflower hat, the baby is perfection. A miniature of her father. The grandmother asks when I’m planning to start a family. As a married woman in my mid-30s, it’s a frequently asked question. I hedge, joking (though not really) that we already have a cat. She sighs, taps an imaginary watch, and retreats to the shade.
Motherhood has been on my mind for a long time. Partly because of my age. My mother gave birth to me at 33, and when I crossed that line two years ago, something in me started ticking. Audibly. I find myself drawn to fictional women like Janina Duszejko in Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead, Aunt March in Little Women and Lily Briscoe in To The Lighthouse: childless, older (or old souls), and unapologetically themselves. Women who no longer care what people think. My Instagram feed is filled with #childfree women celebrating their choice.
These days, my mum raises the topic only after we’ve settled into a good rhythm. Over coffee once, I told my husband, “It feels like I have a baby-shaped hole inside me, and the only thing I can do is either have a child or make something child-sized.” And I meant it.
He reassured me it’s my choice whether or not we have kids. But what I heard was: “It’s your choice whether or not I get to be a father.” He’s the kind of person who, without blinking, can say, “We’re too selfish to have children,” if his dad brings it up.
As an artist, I tap into something maternal when I paint. I’ve even joked that I go through labour – metaphorically – bringing a work to term. But I’m not deluded. I know that raising a child is different. And the fear sits heavy: that I can’t be both a mother and an artist.
One American artist told me she had to put her art aside when her kids were little. She didn’t have the energy. But eventually, she returned to her work: smaller pieces, baby steps. An Australian artist said the same. One friend only started making art after having children. I admire these women deeply. But I’m not sure I’m cut from the same cloth.
When I developed thoracic outlet syndrome, and experienced a pain that felt like being burned or electrocuted down my arm and the right side of my face, I had to stop painting altogether. I thought I was going to lose my mind. I did, for a bit. And through it all, that baby-shaped hole made itself known. It whispered: maybe this is a sign. Maybe I should stop this (hard, unstable, unforgiving) art thing and do what I’m “meant” to be doing. The thing the world expects of me.
At a recent pap smear, the doctor asked questions. Were my periods regular? Did I get pain? How often did I check my breasts? (Never – I still took them for granted.) Did I plan to have children? I felt a twinge, low in my belly. Something like guilt. “I’m not sure,” I said quietly. The doctor didn’t flinch. “Well, if you do want to, you’d better get onto it soon.” Like she was reminding me to take the bins out.
I told her that my fears run deeper than biology. That many of my generation feel overwhelmed – not just by the physical demands of parenthood, but by the world we’d be bringing a child into. A world that feels like it’s accelerating toward something brittle and irreversible. Where climate change is no longer theoretical, and the window for action is closing. Where decency is eroding, and nuance is flattened by false binaries and the pace of technology. Where everything is louder, faster, but somehow less meaningful. My friends feel it, too: the dread, the paralysis. The question: Will the world even be hospitable by the time our kids are grown? Ultimately, I feared the world didn’t think I was enough on my own – that I needed a child in order to be whole and worthwhile.
The doctor nods. She says more young women are choosing not to have children at all.
Back at the beach, the new mother tells me about postpartum depression. How real it is. How, sometimes, she fantasises about returning to work just to escape this version of her life. But she adores her daughter. As she says it, her face softens.
Later, I watch her partner crouch beside his daughter on the picnic blanket, offering her morsels of the foods his mother has made. He grins as he narrates each of his favourites, hoping she’ll share his tastes. Instead, she scrunches her nose and reaches for something else. He bursts into laughter, mock-offended, then kisses the top of her head.
On the car ride home, I have a very clear thought: I do not want a child. I follow it up – my reflex, my loophole. For now.
Loribelle Spirovski is a visual artist and author of the memoir White Hibiscus.
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