When You Know That It Is Enough?

A love letter to the soul I never met

There is a story we tell in our family.

That before we are born, we’re stars—twinkling in the vast, dark sky—searching for the place where we belong. It might have started with a question from my niece, or maybe it was something my daughter once dreamt. But over time, the story became ours. A memory of sorts, passed between my children like a lullaby:

“I was a star,” my eldest said, “and I saw you. I chose you. My soul traveled into your body, into that embryo where I began.”

And the others, they believed it too. That we come from the stars, and when we leave this earthly side, we go back—until we find a new family to join again. I believe this. That our souls recognize one another. That the love we feel here is older than this life.

There was once a young girl who dreamt of a big family. Many children. Laughter echoing through the hallways. A warm chaos of love. She didn’t yet know that life would present her with challenges that would test her deeply, but never break her.

I was that girl.

And the road my husband and I walked to become parents was long and uncertain. Fertility treatments, appointments, needles, questions, trust. Hope swelling, crashing, rising again. Then finally—pregnancy. Life. Miracles.

And for a long time, an open question remained in our hearts:

Should we try for one more?

For years, I felt a soul calling me from the stars. A whisper I couldn’t ignore. And sometimes, I answered. Sometimes, I turned away. Life handed us other things to care for, and I kept circling back to the question:

How does a woman know when she is done having children?

When is it truly enough?

I loved being pregnant. I loved birth, that sacred rite of passage. Meeting a new soul, and in doing so, meeting a new version of myself. There’s nothing quite like it.

Two years ago, we even tried again. Started fertility treatments. Hope bloomed. But when the test was negative, something surprising happened—relief.

And in that space, the truth emerged:

Maybe what I longed for was not another child, but to honor the longing itself.

Still, the question returned. In a child’s wish for a sibling. In quiet thoughts. In the subtle shift of my body as I enter my forties. Time reminding me: the door is closing.

I researched. I asked doctors. I checked the facts.

Everything said yes, it’s still possible.

But my heart said, no—it is time to let go.

And so, two days ago, I went to the shore. I sat on a stone and looked out over the water. I held space for my grief. For the part of me that will always ache a little for the soul I will never hold.

I wept for the dream.

I wept for the goodbye.

And then—I felt peace.

As vast as the sorrow was, something deeper rose from within me.

A knowing. A quiet reverence.

I am letting go… and it is not a failure. It is an act of love.

I gathered a handful of imaginary stars, a reminder of what I already have—three bright lights who orbit my life with their laughter, their questions, their love.

Thirteen years ago, I didn’t know if I would ever become the mother I am today.

And now—when I look back—I see a path paved with pain and perseverance, yes, but also indescribable beauty.

Our children are growing. Becoming themselves. And I am walking beside them, grateful.

So maybe I don’t have a perfect answer to the question: When do you know it’s enough?

But I know what my body tells me now.

And I trust her.

Ten years from now, I might grieve this choice again. I might wonder about the “what ifs.”

But today, this letter is my anchor.

A love note to the life I’ve lived and the woman I am becoming.

I am entering a new season. The final chapters of my fertility. The edge of the threshold where maiden and mother give way to something else.

Wise woman. Elder. Wild and whole.

I want to meet her with open arms.

Because she, too, is a miracle.