For most of my life, I assumed that I would be a mother, raising a wild, creative crew of young feisty children, my house filled with noise and love. Since our earliest days together, Ben and I would talk about our future kids, joking about how they'd better have musical talent, arguing over how many we’d have, and knowing that we’d have to appreciate our time together before kids came along to completely change our lives and our marriage. A decade ago we bought a large, 4-bedroom home, intending to grow into it. When pets came into our lives, Ben would poke at their noses and tug on their tails, “training” them for future little hands that may not be so gentle. And then, eight years into our marriage and eleven years into our relationship, we started trying, finally ready to take the leap into making that future a reality.

We would knowingly smile at each other when spending the afternoon with our niece and nephew, laughing at how exhausted we were after only a few hours, appreciating the ability to hand them back to their parents and go home to take a rejuvenating nap, knowing that luxury would no longer be possible with kids of our own. We dreamed of selling our house and buying a loft in downtown Minneapolis and loved that our kids would grow up in the city, in a walkable community, with the river road and city parks as their back yard. When friends and family questioned whether this was the right plan when we have a baby, we’d scoff and point out that raising children in New York City, where small living spaces and shared green space (if any), is a reality for thousands of families. If they made it work, so could we!

After the first pregnancy and miscarriage, these conversations became heavy, emotionally charged, and soon “when we have kids” began to evolve into “if we have kids,” a language shift only strengthened by the second loss and our infertility diagnosis soon after. It was no longer playful and fun to wonder if we’d have a child who looked more like me or Ben. We were faced with the reality that this dream may never be our future. It makes my heart ache even now, to remember that pain, and how hard it was to begin to accept that truth.

We made a conscious decision to embrace the life we have. Our home is filled with pets, rather than children. Ben’s “training” left us with snuggly animals who are gentle and loving with our guests, including little humans. We can dream about buying a loft without wondering where to store a stroller.  We appreciate our quiet home, where once we dreamed of the cacophony of children. We no longer talked about “when” or “if” we have kids, and began instead to discuss where we'd go for our next big vacation, activities we could do with our niece and nephews for their birthday outings, and how we'd love to give back to our communities in a greater capacity when we are out of debt. We nurtured interests, friendships, our own relationship. We starting spending more time and energy on things we loved, that fill our souls, and this was naturally accompanied by less energy spent on grief.

Yet no matter how much we embraced a childfree life after infertility, a voice in the back of my head that said “what if” could not be silenced. “A 5% chance of a natural pregnancy is not a 0% chance,” it would whisper. “Miracles happen!” Well intentioned acquaintances would tell me how they had found themselves pregnant naturally after adopting, or how their friend’s sister’s cousin got pregnant “as soon as they stopped trying!” When my cycle was longer than usual, the voice would get louder and louder, and I would cave, taking pregnancy tests only to stare again at a stark white result, irritated at myself for having taken the bait. I hated the control this voice had over me. We were finding peace, and yet this inner turmoil, the emotional roller coaster, wouldn't leave me alone.

Unless...

What if we could silence that voice? What if we could take a 5% chance and turn it into a 0% chance? What if we made the ultimate choice in accepting childfree living and eliminated any possibility of natural pregnancy? At first the idea was intriguing, feeling equally exciting and – just wrong. After so many years of trying to get pregnant, were we really considering eliminating that possibility? We had wanted a child so badly – was this really how that journey was going to end?

We considered our options, reminding ourselves of our odds, and that the likelihood of another miscarriage or birth defects was high, given my diagnosis and history. The more we discussed, the more this choice began to feel viable. We could make a choice that would take away that final bit of control infertility still had over us. We could choose to close the door to this part of our lives, and move forward into a new future, filled with possibility. It felt – empowering. Freeing. And it felt like the right choice for us.

We talked about the various options. Birth control? No - no hormones, and nothing so temporary. We wanted to make a more permanent choice, not one that we'd have to revisit every few months or years. Vasectomy? Tempting, but should we ever change our minds and decide to try donor egg IVF in the future, that would mean a vasectomy reversal, or using donor embryos with no biological connection to either of us. What about having my tubes tied? I began to dig into this option, and learned that most ovarian cancer starts in the fallopian tubes, and that having a full bilateral salpingectomy (removing both tubes) has been shown to significantly decrease the risk of ovarian cancer. As a woman who has not given birth, I am at a higher risk of ovarian, breast, and cervical cancer. Reducing my risk of one of those three became very appealing. And given that it was my body that was the cause of our infertility, it felt appropriate that I be the one to undergo a procedure. We had found our answer.

A few days before Christmas, we drove to a nearby hospital where I would have my tubes removed. Though while I was being prepped no less than 5 nurses and doctors asked me what procedure I was having done and I would answer each time "I'm having my tubes removed", I never felt regret or sadness, never questioned the choice. This was the right decision, and I felt nothing but relief. The final weight was being lifted, that voice silenced, and our lives will be completely our own, to shape in any way we wish. We were ending the year on our own terms, and would start the New Year with a new sense of closure.

After years of planning for children, we have finally closed the door to that future. We ended 2017 feeling empowered, and entered 2018 with a newfound freedom. Now we choose which of the new doors in front of us we’d like to open. And we are loving the power of that choice.