DonMama's Online Community

At 27, I carried a secret that weighed heavily on my heart—four abortions, each one a painful chapter in my life that I rarely spoke of, even to myself. The first came when I was young and caught in a relationship with a married man. When I told him about the pregnancy, instead of support, I faced threats and fear. I felt trapped and alone, forced to make a decision no woman should have to face. The other three happened later, each time because I wasn’t ready to be a mother. Life felt overwhelming, uncertain, and I kept telling myself that it wasn’t the right time. Yet, every choice left a small fracture inside me, a silent ache I buried deep.

When I met my husband, everything felt different. Our connection was real—filled with love, trust, and passion. We had a strong, intimate relationship, and our physical closeness was something…

Turning 37 without a child felt like carrying a silent burden every day—a quiet ache that no one could see but that weighed heavily on my heart. I began to isolate myself from friends, avoiding gatherings and invitations, ashamed of the empty chair at the table and the questions that inevitably followed. At one point, I even lied, telling them I was overseas just to avoid visits to our home. The shame of not having children, of feeling like I was somehow failing, made me retreat into myself.

Work became my escape. I threw myself into online projects and deadlines, spending long nights at the computer while the world outside moved on without me. Yet, in the midst of that isolation, my wife and I found a new closeness. She was younger, full of life and hope, and while she carried sadness that we hadn’t yet succeeded in starting a…

At 28, I was a mix of anger, bitterness, and defiance, wrapped up in a shell of dryness and frustration. My husband, 42, call him OB, who once had a vibrant sex drive, had slowly slipped into a frustrating world of erectile dysfunction. Week after week, his desire faded, and with it, our intimacy. That week, I was moody—aching for raw, intense sex, craving that primal connection we used to have. But every time we tried, he faltered. There was that one night, the worst of all, when he couldn’t get it up at all. I remember the cold sting of disappointment as I silently cried inside, slipping away to the bathroom just to finish myself off. Night after night, I found myself alone in bed, aching for his touch but left wanting.

I tried everything—going down on him more, teasing, seducing—but nothing seemed to ignite the fire. The frustration…