What an Empty Bed and an Empty Womb Taught Me About Positivity
When I was younger, people loved to remind me of what I didn’t have.
No husband.
No baby.
As if this was brand-new information.
As if I hadn’t noticed.
What always amazed me was how casually those reminders were delivered. They weren’t cruel exactly. They were framed as concern. As guidance. As helpful observations. But the impact was the same. Each comment quietly suggested that regardless of the success that I had achieved, it wasn't enough because I hadn’t achieved the thing that really mattered.
The truth was, I wanted those things. I wanted a family. I wanted someone to grow old with. It just wasn’t unfolding on the timeline I had, or the timeline other people had decided was appropriate for me.
Being constantly reminded of what was missing didn’t motivate me. It didn’t create clarity or spark action. It made me feel smaller. It pulled my attention away from the parts of me that was still learning and developing.
That’s what I keep coming back to now.
Why do we do that to each other?
Why do we instinctively point to what’s lacking instead of what’s been achieved?
Why does absence grab our attention faster than presence?
Why does what’s missing feel more urgent than what exists?
Here’s the irony. The opposite of what they wanted actually happened.
The constant pressure didn’t teach me how to “fix” my life or find a partner. It taught me to scan for my inadequacies. To focus on what I lacked instead of what I had to offer. As a teacher, I know this to be true. Sometimes the lesson lands, just not in the way it was intended.
Instead of feeling encouraged, I felt more hesitant. More self-conscious. Less willing to put myself out there.
Looking back I realized what contributed to years of what I now realize is learned insecurity.
I don’t think we’re wired for negativity. I think we’re wired for growth. For creativity. For improvement. But somewhere along the way, that instinct gets twisted. Instead of nurturing growth, we started pressuring it. Instead of creating space, we started applying force.
And force shuts things down.
When we obsess over what’s wrong, we often block the very part of ourselves that could offer relief, insight, or movement. We cut ourselves off from possibility.
But what really stopped me was this. As I was writing, the word positivity kept autocorrecting to possibility.
And that felt like the real insight.
Positivity doesn’t erase pain. It keeps possibility alive.
It keeps you from shrinking your future down to the size of the present moment.
When everything sucks, positivity isn’t about pretending it doesn’t. It doesn’t bypass grief or disappointment. It simply asks you not to collapse into the belief that this moment is the whole story.
That’s the difference.
Negativity narrows your field of vision. It trains you to scan for what’s missing, what’s wrong, what hasn’t happened yet. Positivity widens it. It keeps more options available. More room to grow.
And that’s where possibility lives.
You can feel grief and gratitude at the same time.
You can feel lonely and still appreciate solitude.
You can want more while honoring what is.
Genuine positivity allows for complexity. It doesn’t flatten emotion. It integrates it.
Negativity keeps us stuck in what’s missing.
Positivity invites us into what’s becoming.
And maybe that’s the quiet lesson an empty bed and an empty womb taught me. That growth can’t be bullied into existence. That life unfolds when it’s ready. That letting go doesn’t mean giving up. It means trusting the process instead of micromanaging the outcome.
So when people point out what you lack, whether kindly or not, thank them for their concern and move on. Don’t hand them the power to define your worth or your timing. And if you catch yourself doing the same thing to someone else, pause. Ask what might grow better if you offered space instead of pressure.
I don’t believe positivity guarantees the outcome you want.
But I do believe it creates the conditions for what you need.
And sometimes, that’s enough to let something finally begin.
