Se nos pasó el cuento, no el arroz: Non-Motherhood, (In)Fertility, and Choice in Míriam Aguilar’s ¿Y ahora qué? (2024) and Paola Andrea Ghirardi’s Diario de una bordadora (2024)

In Spain, it is estimated that four in ten (40%) women born after 1975 will not have children, a stark contrast to the one in ten (10%) of their mothers’ generation born after 1950 (Alvarez and Marre 719). Moreover, the average age for first-time motherhood in Spain rose from 25 to 31 between 1980 and 2019, and in 2019 32% of first births were to women over the age 35, and 8% to women over 40 (Bogino Larrambebere, “Impossible” 364).^[1] This means that one-third of first-time mothers were of advanced maternal age (35+), a factor that makes it more likely to experience biological difficulties trying to conceive a child naturally or with the help of assisted reproductive technologies (ARTs), as the Spanish public health system limits fertility treatments to a maximum age of 40 (371). As such, obstacles to pregnancy and motherhood have intensified, and the postponement of motherhood is only one of several factors contributing to Spain’s declining fertility.^[2] Social infertility (la infertilidad social) is quickly becoming the principal reason why Spanish women over the age of forty do not have children, and it refers to non-medical factors that impede pregnancy or motherhood, such as economic instability, the absence of a suitable partner, or a woman’s reluctance to pursue single motherhood (M. Aguilar 54).^[3] But in “Motherhood in Spain: From ‘Baby Boom’ to ‘Structural Infertility’,” Bruna Alvarez and Diana Marre point out that these low fertility realities do not reflect women’s reproductive desires, as Spain has the highest “child gap” in Europe, or the largest difference between how many children a woman desires and how many she births (719–20). This gap suggests that many Spanish women who remain childless did not initially intend to do so, and that many women do in fact possess a strong underlying desire for motherhood that remains unfulfilled. The fact that by 2016 Spain had the highest number of assisted reproductive treatments performed in Europe and ranked third in the world (721) further supports these hypotheses, and an increasing reliance on fertility technology indicates that biological motherhood remains an aspirational ideal for many twenty-first-century women.

This quest for motherhood as a (normative) reproductive goal is visible in the recent literary boom of Spanish first-person narratives that are often framed as (pseudo) autobiographical accounts of the pursuit of motherhood, and that frequently feature, as a vital recourse, one or more of the numerous ARTs offered by the rapidly growing fertility industry.^[4] As Olga Albarrán Caselles has noted, “la literatura sobre maternidades en primera persona parece haberse convertido hoy en día en una nueva corriente” ((Pro)creación 21). Yet despite the aforementioned demographic shifts regarding non-motherhood, Míriam Aguilar observes that it is still taboo to speak publicly of having wanted to be a mother and not having become one, given that the prevailing cultural and medical messaging insists that if a woman persists, especially in light of new medical advances, she will ultimately succeed (quoted in Gragera).^[5] But this is a misconception, and journalist Diana Oliver succinctly captures the dissonance between the romanticized promise of motherhood and the realities of infertility or social constraints: “Querer no es poder,” which she repeats three times as if it were a slogan or battle cry (43). Neoliberal assumptions that equate personal freedom and individual effort with achieving reproductive goals not only isolate women who express maternal desire but are not mothers, they also foster an internalized sense of failure or shame when motherhood remains unrealized. Experiences defined by and culminating in non-motherhood remain far less visible, given that a fertility journey that does not result in childbirth is considered “unsuccessful” or a “failure,” and thus rarely discussed outside intimate circles.^[6] As Míriam Aguilar explains, “en el imaginario colectivo, el único final feliz en la búsqueda de la maternidad es convertirse en madre” (35). When not excluded or invisible, non-mothers are often viewed in binary terms that fail to capture the diversity of their lived experiences. If viewed negatively, they are selfish outliers or tragically “childless,” and when viewed positively, they are happily liberated or voluntarily “childfree.”^[7] These stereotypes erase the complexities and costs of reproductive desire and choice, as well as the difficult process of embracing (in)voluntary non-motherhood when there may be “sadness in missing out on, or even not wanting, the thing that so many others say gives their life its meaning” (O’Donnell Heffington 21, emphasis mine). Reflecting broader demographic shifts and the increasing number of women who do not become mothers, more nuanced portrayals of non-motherhood by circumstance are beginning to emerge in contemporary Spanish literature.

This article examines two non-fiction, hybrid narratives on non-motherhood. First, published in 2023, Diario de una bordadora was penned by Argentinian-born, Barcelona-based artist Paola Andrea Ghirardi, also known by her pseudonym “Señorita Lylo,” which she uses for her artist persona. Ghirardi’s illustrated text – which is often sold in the graphic novel section of Spanish bookstores – intertwines two narratives, presenting her motherhood quest alongside her development as an embroidery artist by effectively using embroidery as a metaphor for the intricate and tangled nature of her emotional journey to (non-)motherhood. The visual components of sewing and embroidery art enrich Ghirardi’s first-person narrative, reflecting the challenges of giving voice to invisible reproductive loss and non-motherhood. The second, published in 2024, is Míriam Aguilar’s ¿Y ahora qué? Una reflexión sobre la no maternidad por circunstancias, which is both an attentive, first-person reflection on non-motherhood and a guide for those grappling with the challenges and grief associated with infertility or involuntary childlessness. In blending memoir and social commentary, Aguilar advocates for alternative models of womanhood beyond biological motherhood, redefines what constitutes a happy ending to reproductive journeys, and offers “otros finales felices” for those struggling to accept non-motherhood (35). Both Ghirardi’s and Aguilar’s accounts trace the uncertainty and grief of prolonged fertility struggles, resist (un)consciously internalized societal pressures and cultural norms about biological motherhood as central to female identity, and reveal both the complexities of maternal desire and the unpredictability of non-motherhood by circumstance. In the end, ¿Y ahora qué? and Diario de una bordadora challenge how we think about choice in relationship to (non-)motherhood by rejecting the simplistic notion that motherhood can be either embraced or rejected, while extending empathy and support to others navigating fertility struggles, maternal grief, or the absence of motherhood.^[8]

Míriam Aguilar’s definition of non-motherhood by circumstance (la no maternidad por circunstancias) as a deeply desired yet unrealized motherhood provides a useful lens through which to approach both narratives. Appearing in her title and defined early in the text, Aguilar characterizes the experience as one of profound desire and loss:

La no maternidad por circunstancias es aquella que no se concreta pese a haber existido el deseo y, en muchas ocasiones, años de búsqueda de un embarazo, incluso con pérdidas gestacionales en el proceso, que nos dejan a las puertas de esa maternidad deseada. Todas las mujeres sin hijos por circunstancias somos mujeres que quisimos ser madres y no lo fuimos… Aunque cada historia es diferente, la no maternidad por circunstancias es dolorosa siempre. (17)

I employ Aguilar’s phrase, “non-motherhood by circumstance,” to discuss these texts and their implications, as it is more encompassing than “circumstantial infertility”^[9] because it accounts for various barriers to motherhood that include, but are not limited to, infertility, perinatal or neonatal loss, illness or health concerns, or social infertility. To discuss the complexity of the non-motherhood experiences that Aguilar and Ghirardi expose, this article is divided into three thematic sections: presumed motherhood, liminal motherhood, and beyond motherhood. Each corresponds with the general chronology of fertility journeys undertaken by women who desire to become biological mothers, attempt to conceive (with or without ARTs) and maintain a pregnancy, and are ultimately unable to birth biological children.

Presumed Motherhood: Education and Sociocultural Preparation

I use the phrase “presumed motherhood” to refer to the social and cultural preparation or education for motherhood, which is often “understood as a quest process” (Bogino Larrambebere, “Impossible” 270). This journey toward motherhood begins long before a woman first attempts to conceive, as her education and understanding of sexual relations, pregnancy, and motherhood are conditioned by social and cultural messages. In late twentieth-century Spain, like in many other western nations, women were often raised with conflicting messages about fertility, sex, and motherhood. On the one hand, many grew up internalizing the notion that motherhood is an essential, natural component of female identity, while also seeing it exalted or romanticized. This was especially true for women coming of age under the Franco dictatorship (1939–75), which made motherhood the core feature of female identity and converted reproduction into a women’s most sacred duty (García Fernández 133). This narrow ideal of femininity placed women in the home as mothers to many children, and it was not only upheld by political and socio-cultural forces like the Falange’s Sección Femenina (Bermúdez and Johnson 253), but codified in a 1941 law for “the protection of natality, against abortion and contraceptionist propaganda,” which would endure until 1978 (Ortiz-Gómez and Ignaciuk 659).^[10] While the generation writing on motherhood in Spain today was born largely after the transition to democracy in 1975 and did not contend with the same enforced ideology, conservative political and religious discourses remained. As such, women often internalized cultural beliefs passed down by family (often mothers and grandmothers), such as “ser madre es lo mejor que le puede pasar a una mujer” or “el amor incondicional solo se puede experimentar siendo madre” (M. Aguilar 91–93).

On the other hand, these same women born after the 1975 transition were often raised to fear (unplanned) pregnancy and received little to no education about their fertility, its relationship to their menstrual cycles, or how to prepare their bodies for conception. Míriam Aguilar summarizes this ironic contradiction: “Resulta al menos desconcertante pensar que a menudo se impulsa a las mujeres hacia la maternidad como si fuera su único destino, simplemente por ser mujeres, sin brindarles las herramientas necesarias para emprender ese viaje con un mínimo de información” (50). In fact, for those women who had access to sexual education, the focus was almost exclusively on contraception and the risks of unplanned motherhood: “La educación sexual que recibimos se centraba exclusivamente en evitar un embarazo. Nadie nos enseñó cómo prepararnos para concebir, qué es la fertilidad, cómo son nuestros ciclos” (28). For the post-transition generation, the arrival of democracy in Spain brought about significant changes in the discourses on women’s rights and autonomy, including the legalization of contraceptives (1978) and divorce (1981), the decriminalization of abortion (1985), and the approval of the first laws regulating adoption (1987) and ARTs (1988) (Bogino Larrambebere, “Impossible” 359). While they may have resisted or rebelled against the dependency, shame, and self-sacrifice associated with their mothers’ and grandmothers’ generation, they were unable to resolve the tension between motherhood as a destiny or a choice (Vivas 15). These essential progressive changes impacted access and approaches to sexual education, as well as how young women grew to understand their relationship to their fertility, leading to new dilemmas and contradictions surrounding potential motherhood.

For better or worse, the prioritization of contraception in sexual education, buttressed by the long-awaited gains of second-wave feminism that supported women’s reproductive autonomy – largely in terms of postponing, avoiding, or ending a pregnancy – contributed to the widespread myth in younger generations that becoming pregnant is both easy and natural. This myth becomes painfully evident when infertility or reproductive challenges arise, and Míriam Aguilar aptly describes the accompanying disillusionment: “…se [ha] instalado en el imaginario colectivo la idea de que tener relaciones sexuales sin protección equivale a quedarse embarazada. Así llega el día en que quieres quedarte embarazada y piensas que será fácil, pero la realidad es diferente” (50). Ghirardi’s recollection of her first attempt to become pregnant reflects this expectation: “Ese primer mes sin cuidarnos quedé embarazada… ¿Cómo iba a imaginar que esos minutos serían el único día de la Madre que íbamos a compartir con mi mamá casi de igual a igual?”^[11] (34). Similarly, Bogino reports that many women who waited to pursue motherhood until their late thirties report feeling shock, disappointment, and guilt when they struggle to become pregnant, suggesting a lack of knowledge regarding aging and fertility (“Impossible” 363). Ghirardi’s experience confirms Aguilar’s direct complaint that many women only learn about their fertility when they have difficulties conceiving: “no nos explicaron cómo se logra un embarazo… [lo cual] ha llevado a que muchas mujeres aprendan sobre su cuerpo, ciclos y fertilidad justo cuando se enfrentan a dificultades reproductivas” (49).

Ghirardi, however, does not address her own sexual education, nor identify a discourse of pregnancy-prevention as influencing her understanding of motherhood, likely reflective of the fact that she grew up in Argentina, where birth control pills and many methods of contraception were illegal until 2005, a generation longer than in Spain (Mollmann 13–14). Yet she recalls that motherhood was never questioned in her upbringing, leading young girls to assume they would inevitably reach the “natural” motherhood milestone: “Se daba por hecho que todas seríamos madres. No lo cuestionábamos, no lo poníamos en duda, ni siquiera se nos ocurría pensar en la barbaridad de no tener hijos. El mandato de la maternidad se instalaba a sus anchas y desde temprano, y el rol queda asegurado desde la más tierna infancia. Solo era cuestión cumplirlo” (20). Even though Ghirardi did not experience this cultural expectation as oppressive or restrictive (she attended university and moved to Spain for work), this framing of motherhood as intrinsic to female identity and a woman’s sense of self is problematic for equating motherhood and womanhood, which then intensifies the emotional and existential shock when unanticipated difficulties in conceiving arise. It implicitly sustains hegemonic discourses that associate female infertility with a tragedy, problem, or curse, and label non-mothers negatively as unfortunate, failed, suspicious, or deviant (Bogino Larrambebere, “Impossible” 361).^[12] As a result, this early association, no matter how innocuous, reinforces a sense of shame that contributes to the silence and invisibility surrounding fertility struggles and non-motherhood.

Esther Vivas has also described the difficulty of living with unfulfilled maternal desire: “Desear tener criaturas y no poder es causa de tristeza, desesperación, ansiedad, miedo, angustia, estrés. Algo que además se vive, la mayoría de las veces, en silencio y soledad” (33). In Diario de una bordadora, these emotions become both visible and visceral when Ghirardi describes monitoring her body during the dreadful monthly wait for her period: “Entre regla y regla, sentía otro torbellino que crecía: una mezcla de expectativa y alegría y ansiedad y temor que me invadía cada vez que iba al baño… porque cada visita al baño podía ser un pequeño triunfo o la peor de las derrotas. Un infierno íntimo rodeada de azulejos” (45). Yet despite years of this repeated torment and disillusion, she recalls: “nunca lo hablé con mis amigas. Fue uno de mis secretos mejor guardados” (46). She attributes this to feeling “una presión brutal a mi alrededor” (46), given that family and friends were waiting for the happy news of what would be her second pregnancy announcement. These intersecting and contradictory conditions – the sociocultural construction of motherhood as a core component of female identity, and a lack of knowledge and open discussion about (in)fertility – leave many women feeling ashamed, isolated, and unprepared for reproductive challenges that they frequently experience in silence and isolation. For women who have difficulty conceiving or maintaining a pregnancy, their quest for motherhood quickly becomes a private, prolonged, and emotionally taxing journey that is invisible to the outside world, as the next section will demonstrate.

Liminal Motherhood: The Costs of Seeking Pregnancy

Building on Bogino’s language of “impossible motherhood,” which she uses to describe the uncertain timeframe in which women repeatedly pursue pregnancy (often through ARTs) without reaching the desired outcome of childbirth (“Impossible” 360), as well as Alison Reiheld’s theorization of miscarriage as a “liminal state” of transition (10), I use the phrase “liminal motherhood” to foreground the suspension and ambiguity that characterize motherhood journeys defined by infertility, ARTs, and/or pregnancy loss, and that culminate in non-motherhood. Unlike “impossible motherhood,” which points to a thwarted outcome, or Reiheld’s “liminal state” that refers specifically to the embodied experience of natal loss, “liminal motherhood” highlights the protracted instability of a maternal identity repeatedly and indefinitely in the process of becoming. Relevant to this line of thinking is Jennifer Scuro’s The Pregnancy =/= Childbearing Project, in which she situates pregnancy itself as a complex maternal experience with multiple outcomes, rather than a step towards a singular outcome of eventual childbirth and motherhood (189–90). Scuro’s “disentanglement” (189) of pregnancy and childbearing offers a space for non-mothers by circumstance within motherhood literature and for a discussion of non-motherhood not as a failure, but rather as one possible experience or outcome of maternal desire. In this section, I will focus on three characteristics of liminal motherhood that are visible in Aguilar’s ¿Y ahora qué? and Ghirardi’s Diario de una bordadora. First, a woman’s relationship with her own body becomes fraught, as it is progressively defined by anxiety, grief, medicalization, and perceived failure. Second, extended liminality places a strain on both a woman’s sense of self and on her intersubjective relationships. And third, the prolonged and indefinite path toward motherhood exacts significant costs in terms of time, energy, and resources, on financial, physical, emotional, and psychological levels.

Beginning with a woman’s relationship with her own body, the experience of unexpected pregnancy loss, or miscarriage (aborto involuntario or espontáneo), is deeply personal and devastating for women, yet the grief it provokes remains largely unacknowledged. Given its private connection to an individual woman’s bodily experience, Scuro has argued that the purportedly “‘natural’ and ‘normal’ expectations of pregnancy-as-childbearing draw from … dehumanizing scripts that dangerously implicate women in both the successes and the failures of these labors” (192). Women who experience miscarriage report feeling guilt, embarrassment, or shame, and they may even blame themselves for the loss (Bogino Larrambebere, “Impossible” 371–72). Scuro identifies the cultural expectation pregnancy-as-childbearing as the “childbearing teleology,” referring to how medical and social scripts value pregnancy only when it results in a live birth (189). In this case, miscarriages are dismissed as failures or non-events that erase both the pregnancy and the embodied experience of a woman who endures natal loss (189). Similarly, scholars have classified miscarriage as an ambiguous loss because the grief is rarely socially recognized and, without the societal acknowledgment of death, there is no space for rituals to honor the loss (Bogino Larrambebere, “Impossible” 371). Moreover, Vivas points out that, even within feminist circles, it is often difficult to acknowledge or discuss the pain and grief of miscarriage due to legitimate fears of validating pro-life or anti-abortion positions (231). As such, the grief associated with gestational or perinatal loss is ignored, silenced, and invisible, which deepens women’s emotional burdens as they are left to process it in silence and isolation.

In ¿Y ahora qué and Diario de una bordadora, Aguilar and Ghirardi challenge this invisibility by publicly sharing their painful stories of loss.^[13] When Ghirardi narrates her first miscarriage (34–41), she integrates visual illustrations, and her embroidery begins to take over. After confessing her loss, she shares an embroidery piece: a small white square with the phrase “No hay latido” embroidered in simple, black thread (35). Upon turning the page, the reader views only a two-page illustration showing the reverse side of this white fabric, where the black threads emerge sporadic and tangled, revealing a semi-legible mirrored version of “No hay latido,” which has become a mere shadow or footprint (36–37). The following two pages are image-based, featuring a jarring red color palette that lacks narrative text and contains only a close-up photograph of assorted strands of red yarn and threads that are interwoven in intricate, chaotic patterns (38–39). On the right side of the image, the short, clinical phrases, “Mujer 28 años. Legrado aspirativo,” are embroidered in capital letters on a thin strip of white cloth layered above the red yarn (39). Finally, the next two pages feature a white decorative doily with white, floral embroidered edges (40–41). The outline of a cross-stitched hand appears from the top right corner, holding a needle that pierces the expansive center of the cloth (41). The dark reds evoke blood, and the blank center of the white doily suggests an empty uterus, allowing the images to powerfully and symbolically communicate the physical and emotional toll this loss has taken.

Ghirardi resorts to images where language is insufficient, which is indicative of the challenge involved in making sense of this loss and communicating her feelings: “la pérdida de mi bebé me había dado un golpe atroz y me había dejado una tristeza diferente, que me llenaba cada poro de la piel. Y no lograba medir la profundidad de aquel dolor porque nunca había sentido nada parecido. ¡Estaba jugando en otra liga emocional!” (44). For women dealing with miscarriage, processing these emotions is complicated by both the private nature of early pregnancy and the silence surrounding perinatal loss. Reiheld captures the paradox of miscarriage when she describes it as something that “both is and is not,” following the words of poet Susan Steward’s words “the event that was nothing” (15). While the woman’s loss is physical, psychological, and emotional, to others it is wholly undetectable, “at the margins of recognition, invisible to the sociopolitical discourse about pregnancy, rendering all pregnancy loss patently unintelligible” (Scuro 193). Míriam Aguilar implicitly felt herself caught within this paradox and its resulting loneliness after her first miscarriage, when she was convinced that no one else could understand. At the same time, she confesses that it never even occurred to her to ask for help or support with such an unanticipated and private loss (28). As part of her project with ¿Y ahora qué? (116–32), Aguilar endeavors to make pregnancy loss more visible on a broader scale, and her text closes with interviews and testimonials, from both non-mothers and mothers, offering advice on how to support or accompany someone through liminal maternal experiences.

Within motherhood journeys that require fertility treatments, miscarriage is one early, often repeated step within an intense and progressive medicalization – or “hipermedicalización” (Vivas 32) – through which women are constantly reminded that they are ultimately unable to control their own bodies. There are three common modes of intervention for miscarriages, beginning with the least and ending with the most medically invasive: first, a woman’s body may naturally expel the contents of her uterus after a short waiting period; second, she may need medical management, such as prescribed medication, to assist with the expulsion; or third, she may need surgical treatment or curettage, meaning medical instruments must physically empty her uterus (Bogino Larrambebere, “Impossible” 368–69). Importantly, this “medicalization of miscarriage has implications in both the biological and emotional dimensions for women, and it might become a more or less traumatic experience” depending on her medical treatment and the empathy of healthcare professionals (369). Both Míriam Aguilar and Ghirardi recount miscarriages that did not require medical assistance and Ghirardi reveals that she had two surgical procedures (legrados) after miscarrying. Aguilar also describes a traumatic second miscarriage that required medical assistance: “A diferencia de la primera vez… tuvieron que provocarme el aborto. Nunca había sentido tanto dolor. Ni físico ni emocional. Fue una experiencia que me traumatizó” (29). She recalls that the doctor never informed her what would happen, nor did he discuss alternatives or pain management; it was only after the procedure that he explained the “normal” pain from uterine contractions. Not only did she feel infantilized and mistreated, but she realized that obstetric violence is not limited to childbirth or pregnancy (29). For a short time after this experience, she even contemplates no longer wanting to become a mother. When she changes her mind, she remains silents about her reproductive decisions: “No le confié a casi nadie lo que había estado viviendo, porque, cada vez que explicaba algo, me sentía incomprendida y juzgada” (33).

For many women, calculated fertility treatments and professional medical surveillance may initially offer hope for success, especially after many frustrating years trying to conceive and maintain a pregnancy without medical intervention. But these processes generate unexpected discomfort, unease, and anxiety due to the rigorous disciplining of the female body that medical tests and invasive procedures require. Míriam Aguilar admits that she never planned to resort to fertility treatments, and that deep down her intuition told her not to put herself, her body, or her partner through the ordeal (33–34). Yet she followed the promises they offered largely out of fear – “lo que me decidió fue el miedo” – and to avoid regretting later that she did not try everything possible to become a mother (34). She reflects on how her medical data provided false promises of positive results, and subsequent tests offered no answers when she was unable to conceive: “Hicimos una multitud de exámenes médicos… Ningún médico ni prueba – y fueron muchas – pudo darnos una explicación o pista de lo sucedido. El diagnóstico nos dejaba a tientas: infertilidad por causa desconocida” (33). Unexplained infertility is a common yet indefinite diagnosis that prolongs liminal motherhood and offers neither solutions nor prescribed paths forward. After a total of four pregnancy losses, Aguilar turns to ARTs, going through in vitro fertilization three times and ultimately choosing not to pursue a fourth round with her final embryo (34). It is only when she looks back on her experience that she challenges the dominant narrative that insisted her efforts would lead to the reward of motherhood, and she poignantly acknowledges, “no es cierto que ser [madre] a cualquier costo valdrá la pena” (72).

When recalling in her Diario how fertility treatments entered her world, Ghirardi resorts to embroidery as a metaphor for conveying the disconcerting effects of her intensifying motherhood pursuit after transitioning to ARTs. She compares her life path to sewing stitches: “mi vida dejó de deslizarse con la fluidez de un punto hilván para convertirse en una sucesión de puntos nudo. Pero no esos nudos que adornan los bordados y que tanto me gustan. Nada de eso. Eran los nudos que traban, que duelen, que lo complican todo” (44). As she begins to visit fertility clinics, her anxiety grows alongside her hope: “Entonces empezó a acelerarse la rueda de la locura. Agujas. Pinchazos para inyectarme hormonas. Pinchazos para sacarme sangre” (54). After a year and a half of testing and confusing diagnoses, she finally learns of a chromosomal translocation that would make a natural, healthy conception nearly impossible and force her to rely on ARTs (53). She illustrates this transitional portion of her narrative with three pages of embroidered nature images: the first contains a green leaf carrying the embroidered letters ADN [DNA], appearing against a background featuring the bark of a tree and abundant green foliage (55). Each of the next two pages contains an image of a single dried, brown leaf against a white background: the first leaf is also embroidered with the letters ADN (56), and the second leaf is actually the reverse side of the first, featuring the back of embroidery project where the various threads composing the letters are entangled, blurred, and illegible (57). This juxtaposition of natural elements and laboratory-based scientific terminology lays bare the uncomfortable reality of (in)fertility, whereby a reproductive process purported to be natural and even effortless may be met with biological obstacles of varying magnitudes, that may or may not be overcome.

When Ghirardi learns that egg donation will be her best option, she faces another unexpected challenge: “el duelo genético,” or the sadness and grief of realizing that her potential children will not share her genes. This genetic grief is common in women receiving donated eggs, and the sadness can be as ambiguous as it is expansive. A woman may grieve who her potential children could have been, experience anxiety about not sharing any resemblance, and even question what defines a mother or to what extent her potential children will indeed be “hers” (Ross, 362–64). After Ghirardi’s first two failed attempts with egg donation, she blames her body, rather than the technologies: “Mi cuerpo seguía fallando” (129). Later, she summarizes all her clinical procedures, creating an “Inventario de mis intentos de ser madre” alongside an innocuous “Inventario de un costurero,” the latter of which contains images of assorted colorful threads, spools of all shapes and sizes, needles, scissors, and an embroidery hoop (136–37). The adjacent list related to motherhood, however, contains no images; only five short bullet points below the red, embroidered titular letters: “3 abortos espontáneos (2 con legrados)… 1 embarazo ectópico… 1 trompa derecha extirpada… 3 tratamientos fallidos de fecundación in vitro… 3 tratamientos fallidos con ovodonación” (137). The clinical language and the stark numbers associated with multiple medical procedures and pregnancies highlight the toll taken on Ghirardi’s body. Thes two adjacent lists beget a striking contrast between an aesthetically pleasing, creative, and generative toolkit for sewing and a disappointing, medicalized, and ultimately non-generative toolkit of ARTs.

Both Míriam Aguilar’s and Ghirardi’s narratives point to tensions between maternal desire, reproductive choice, and neoliberal culture. Here, it is useful to consider what Spanish psychoanalyst and author Lola López Mondéjar refers to as “un deseo fanático,” or “el fanatismo paternal (o maternal)”:

Llamo fanatismo parental a la incapacidad de renunciar al deseo de un hijo, a pesar de la infertilidad, de los reiterados intentos de fecundación in vitro, ovodonación o donación de embriones descartados de otras parejas; a pesar de los daños, el coste emocional y económico que supone, las mujeres insisten y no consiguen desprenderse de ese imperativo de ser madres. (466–67)

This phenomenon, propelled by modern medicine and neoliberal culture (467–70), offers a lens for understanding women (or protagonists) who risk their health and well-being to relentlessly pursue motherhood, even in the face of profound suffering and increasing costs. In this framework, the obsessive choices or behavior are not necessarily the result of an individual woman’s decisions or character flaws, but of the cultural messaging and systemic forces – especially within the fertility industry and neoliberalism – that push women to obtain motherhood at all costs: “El neoliberalismo… nos educa para pensar que todos los deseos pueden ser realizados, que los convierte en derechos, que han de ser realizados aun a costa de lo que sea” (López Mondéjar 470). Ghirardi’s above list of “motherhood attempts” reflects precisely how advances within the fertility industry offer women endless procedures that nurture their motherhood dreams and contribute to the neoliberal myth that their ability to have a child is within their control. Yet ARTs have much lower success rates than what many women (and the public) understand, and the true probabilities of success are obscured by clinics’ optimistic messaging and selective presentation of data.^[14] In Diario de una bordadora, Ghirardi alludes to how fertility clinics fed her dream, even as it became less obtainable: “No me mentían, pero tampoco me decían toda la verdad: la tasa de éxito de la fecundación in vitro es muy baja, y cada año de vida, cada cumpleaños iba comiéndose una parte de ese mínimo porcentaje como un pacman” (66). Within this framework, women must self-impose limits within an industry and culture that offer only endless possibilities. Míriam Aguilar’s text cautions women against seemingly infinite medical technologies and encourages them to define their own physical, financial, and ethical or moral boundaries, because neither friends nor family – and especially not the “lucrative” fertility industry – can or will impose limits for them (40). This act of defining boundaries within a systemic cultural of maternal obsession may be in fact be read as an act of resistance against the neoliberal fertility industry and the ideology it produces.

The relentless medicalization of the female body in pursuit of pregnancy also places significant strains on partnered relationships and on a woman’s relationship with her own body and self. Reiheld affirms that “procreation is not only identity-constituting, but sometimes relationship-constituting. Pregnancy loss, then, can deal profound damage to both personal identity and to interpersonal relationships” (11). For couples struggling to achieve a natural pregnancy, fertility struggles transform sexuality, which Míriam Aguilar addresses by noting that sex becomes a mechanical tool, “una simple herramienta para lograr el embarazo,” rather than an act of passion, love, or connection (49). Over time, this dynamic erodes intimacy and leads to conflicts, with partners growing increasingly disconnected from both their bodies and each other: “El sexo, al menos por un tiempo, deja de ser algo apasionado, divertido, placentero. Ya no es un tiempo compartido de juego, de gozo. Se convierte en una obligación. Pasa de ser un momento de conexión con tu pareja a ser incluso un motivo de discusiones” (M. Aguilar 50). This has a damaging psychological effect, especially on women, as Aguilar confesses: “Me había desconectado totalmente de mi deseo, de mi placer” (32). She fears that this mindset can lead to an unhealthy view of sexuality and sex as nothing more than a means for reproduction, which has roots in historical or religious beliefs that regarded sex as sinful (53). Furthermore, after losing a pregnancy, some women (and their partners) may become hesitant or fearful of penetrative sex because they worry that a potential pregnancy may lead to another painful episode of loss and grief (52). Aguilar reminds women to be patient in the process of healing their relationship to their sexuality, as well as in reconnecting with their pleasure, body, and partner (51–53). This unexpected process may take longer than a woman anticipates, representing yet another investment of time and emotional energy.

In Diario de una bordadora, Ghirardi reflects on her relationships with her partner and self, but in terms of the emotional and psychological toll of fertility treatments, rather than sexuality. She recalls the day that she and her partner adopted a cat and became a “family of four” (with their dog), and how her happiness revived her energy for pursuing motherhood: “Quizás por eso, porque a medida que la familia se agrandaba también crecía mi felicidad, me resistía a darme por vencida con la búsqueda del embarazo y me expuse a más tratamientos de los que mis emociones aconsejaban” (66). She was also driven by an emotional longing to make her partner a father, feeling guilty when she could not do so: “Por mi culpa, él no podía vivir esa experiencia. En medio del dolor, llegué a pensar en separarnos para que él pudiese encontrar a una mujer fértil con quien tener la descendencia rubia y de ojos rasgados características de su familia” (75). Despite his consistent support, dedication, and reassurance, she admits that she feared for their future: “Me hacía rabiar por la realidad que nos tocaba… me castigaba… que no sirvo, que me abandone. Cuanto más se encendía mi furia, más nos apagamos nosotros” (76). In addition to her partnered relationship, Ghirardi speaks of her changing relationship with herself, as she began losing her carefree spirit and struggled to prevent constant negative thoughts: “Mi espíritu alegre me miraba desde las trincheras buscando respuestas con desesperación… ser una persona alegre y positiva no era un don natural. Era una elección y tenía que alimentarla a diario si quería mantenerla viva” (49). She finds a new hobby in embroidery, which not only calms and distracts her, but offers a supportive community of women where “nadie conocía mi historia. Éramos mis agujas y yo, nada más, y eso me daba tregua para mostrarme como en el fondo siempre había sido: curiosa y optimista. La aguja de bordar cosía mis partes rotas. Me daba la vida y la alegría que la aguja médica me negaba” (83).

From the above, the multiple costs of liminal motherhood reside in the immense investment of time, money, emotional energy, and psychological fortitude, and with no guarantee of reaching the desired outcome. The process can consume years of women’s lives, leaving them to mourn not only the loss of pregnancies and potential motherhood, but also of a life goal, “un proyecto de vida” (M. Aguilar 108), in which they had invested years. Again, López Mondéjar gives language to a phenomenon that Aguilar and Ghirardi narrate: that prolonged fertility pursuits promote the (re)appearance of a totalizing identity (“identidad totalizante”) based on motherhood: “una maternidad vivida como identidad casi única… una identificación total con el hecho de ser madre” (467). This commitment to a singular identity limits future possibilities, yet remains attractive during the fertility journey for its promise of stability, of “una identidad sólida… un modo concreto de inscribirse en la vida y en el mundo” (471). In Ghirardi’s case, she spent thirteen years hoping to become a mother, even as procedure after procedure yielded undesired results. She recalls considering adoption, “pero ya habíamos invertido tanto – tiempo, dinero, energía, mi cuerpo, mi mente – que no teníamos resto para empezar otra vez y encarar un proceso de adopción. Simplemente no podíamos más” (129). When she reflects on her first eight years of failed attempts (“de búsqueda fallida”), amidst sporadic moments of happiness, the time was marked by worries and frustrations that prevented full presence in her own life (98). She admits that if she had to describe the years 2007–2015 in only three words, they would be, “sin duda ‘soledad’ y ‘llorar’, pero también ‘bordar’. Las tres palabras estaban presentes en cada momento de mi vida, tan enredadas y difíciles de separar como a veces quedan mis hilos en la caja donde los guardo” (113). Even when she finds success with embroidery workshops, she also implies a feeling of monotony and stagnation due to her ongoing maternal liminality: “El mundo seguía girando, los años seguían pasando, y yo seguía aferrada a lo mismo” (148). Finally, just before symbolically signing papers to confirm nonrenewal of cryopreservation storage fee, Ghirardi recognizes that she cannot continue suffering a fourteenth year: “¿Cuánto tiempo más íbamos a seguir aferrados a ese dolor?” (159). While the emotional and relational impacts of her fertility journey may have been invisible to the outside world, they characterized over a decade of her life, which she had never anticipated on the day she learned of her first pregnancy.

Likewise, Míriam Aguilar dedicated eight years in pursuing motherhood, noting that she and her partner invested all their savings in trying to have a child (34). She decries the fact that women are rarely warned about the potential regret of dedicating so many years of their lives to fertility treatments, chasing a dream that may never materialize: “Desde niñas, nos han amenazado… ‘Si no eres madre, te arrepentirás’. Sin embargo, rara vez nos han advertido que podríamos lamentar esos cinco, diez o quince años dedicados a buscar algo que no ha sucedido” (72). She also criticizes the idealization of motherhood in fertility journeys (24), which leaves costs and challenges unexamined while obscuring the fact that, for some women, the best option may in fact be to stop pursuing motherhood: “Elegir no ser madre o dejar de intentarlo es tan respetable como la elección de serlo” (89). Additionally, the intense emotional and psychological journey is compounded by the massive amounts of hormones – up to seven times that of a normal menstrual cycle – that women receive as part of processes like in vitro fertilization, and this medicalization exacerbates feelings of shame, self-loathing, and anger at their bodies (Llopis 194).^[15] For Aguilar, making the conscious decisions to stop pursuing motherhood and accept non-motherhood offered her closure and newfound freedom.

Indeed, both autobiographical voices in ¿Y ahora qué? and Diario de una bordadora reveal the high costs of pursuing motherhood, making visible otherwise invisible trials and subtly cautioning women who may feel compelled to push themselves beyond the limits of what their bodies, minds, and relationships can handle. Both narratives reflect a broader ideological climate that may wholly entwine women’s identities with the pursuit of motherhood, a dynamic propelled and reinforced by the fertility industry (ARTs) and neoliberal discourses that frame desires as rights to be fulfilled (López Mondéjar 470). In offering candid testimonies about their years-long motherhood quests, Míriam Aguilar and Ghirardi gradually begin to resist dominant narratives that present motherhood as obtainable with enough effort. Moreover, in advocating for self-imposed boundaries they offer a counternarrative to the cultural pressures López Mondéjar critiques, revealing alternative life paths and modeling both the overcoming of grief and the acceptance of new beginnings, as we will see in the final section.

Beyond Motherhood: Acceptance and Redefined Success

In ¿Y ahora qué? and Diario de una bordadora, Aguilar and Ghirardi ultimately reject the idea that non-motherhood is synonymous with failure or tragedy, admitting that it took time to arrive at that sentiment. For Aguilar, this involves validating the grief that remained unrecognized, dismissed, or denied throughout non-motherhood journeys: “Seamos conscientes o no, pues no haber podido ser madre quizá se viva durante un tiempo como un duelo negado” (17). Both narratives correspond with what Bogino observed in the participants in her non-motherhood by circumstance study, in which the “desire for motherhood is transformed and new projects appear” that reinvent goals and (re)shape the women’s subjectivity (“Impossible” 374–75). In the case of Aguilar and Ghirardi, both turned to creative outlets to share their experiences and joined supportive communities to engage in various degrees of activism. As Albarrán Caselles has observed, recent motherhood narratives often reveal a deep connection not only between the reproductive body and the creative process, but between the individual and the broader social fabric, even in texts like Nanclares’ Quien quiere ser madre, which closes with an “unsuccessful” fertility journey: “la maternidad constituye una relación humana y no un mero rol identitario desligado de la interacción intersubjetiva” ((Pro)creación 23–24). Reading Aguilar’s and Ghirardi’s work through this lens highlights how their storytelling itself constitutes a (pro)creative act with value beyond reproductive “success,” ultimately reframing their isolated maternal journeys to non-motherhood as both generative and intersubjective. Both authors’ transition to and acceptance of non-motherhood allows them to proactively shift their identities and influence beyond the limits of their previously solitary reproductive journeys.

Míriam Aguilar frames her decision to stop pursuing motherhood not as an act of resignation but rather of acceptance: “Yo no me resigné a no ser madre. Acepté que no lo sería. Son dos cosas completamente distintas” (76). She recognized that her choice was not about relinquishing desire, but about embracing a new way of being that included, first and foremost, giving herself permission to stop trying to become a mother. Given all she had been through during those difficult years of liminal motherhood, her choice not to continue was just as valid as others’ decision to continue at all costs (72). Importantly, she learned to disassociate herself from the cultural messaging around her that framed the decision to stop as giving up “on motherhood” rather than giving up the physically, psychologically, and financially taxing ordeals that drained her life – “las renuncias buenas,” as she terms them (72):

Las renuncias que nadie menciona. Renuncias al dolor de seguir prolongando esta búsqueda, al cansancio y a la frustración que has estado acumulando. Renuncias a la sensación de haber parado toda la vida para poder ser madre, de estar peleándote contigo misma y con la vida. En la renuncia hay elección. Eliges dejar atrás. Eliges empezar de nuevo. (72)

In reframing the end of her (non-)motherhood journey as a new beginning that she has chosen and accepted for herself, Aguilar is able to focus on new projects, recognize the value of her own family without children, prioritize existing relationships with extended family and friends, and take steps to build a supportive community for herself and other women. In this way, she finally resists and challenges the pervasive societal narrative that having a child is “el punto culminante en la vida de una persona” (36).

Through her book and social media,^[16] Míriam Aguilar seeks to “visibilizar la no maternidad,” advocating for stories that present non-motherhood as a valid and fulfilling reality, even if it may not have been the chosen path at the beginning. She aims to end the taboo of discussing non-motherhood by circumstance by sharing her story and increasing positive representations that frame acceptance of non-motherhood as success rather than failure (101). Writing and creating a public platform has led her to healing, psychological support, and connection with other women who wanted to become mothers but experienced infertility or a fertility journey that resulted in non-motherhood. She believes she would have benefitted from stories in which the protagonist’s experience mirrored her own, “contada no desde el miedo ni los prejuicios. Una historia que hablara de éxito, no de fracaso. De aceptación. De cómo se puede seguir adelante, sin quedarse estancada por lo que no pudo ser” (101).^[17] In fact, during the anguish of her motherhood journey, Aguilar decided that when she became a mother she would help other women by writing a book about her (presumedly resolved) challenges with infertility; instead she has written it from the perspective of a non-mother: “Ese libro que iba a hacer cuando fuera madre lo estoy escribiendo ahora, sabiendo que nunca lo seré. Lo hago algunos años después de haber tomado esa decisión, que trajo transformación y paz en mi vida” (15–16). Now, she perceives a bittersweet but ultimately happy ending to her motherhood journey: “Mi compañero y yo, con una mezcla de tristeza y también de mucho alivio, brindamos por todo lo que dejábamos atrás y por todo lo que estaba por llegar, aceptando con amor que seríamos una familia de dos” (34).

Ghirardi similarly reconstructs her identity through the connection and creativity offered by sewing and embroidery, historically feminine art forms associated with women’s storytelling, activism, and personal reflection. Her text’s engagement with Jane Austen, Louise Bourgeois, Louisa Pesel, and May Morris – women who also dedicated themselves to artistic endeavors in place of or alongside motherhood – situates her within a lineage of female artists who found fulfillment beyond traditional maternal roles in the private sphere. Embroidery allows Ghirardi to enter a supportive network and celebrate non-traditional family structures, and the craft becomes an essential tool in both her acceptance of non-motherhood and her creation of a new identity. In fact, the first line of Diario de una bordarora, “A mí, el bordado me salvó la vida” (7), foreshadows the end of Ghirardi’s journey, and she closes her book with a metaphorical summary of her acceptance of non-motherhood:

Bordando aprendí que si algo no sale como quiero, no hace falta deshacer ni volver a empezar: todo se puede enmendar. Reparo, construyo sobre lo que salió mal y sigo adelante. En la reconciliación con los errores y los fracasos y las decepciones, encontré lugar para la esperanza. No pude ser madre, pero descubrí una pasión y sigo adelante. El bordado me enmendó, me ayudó a unir las partes de mí que estaban rotas y a incorporar esas marcas a mi vida, a dejar que las cicatrices también sean una parte de mi trama. (165)

Like Míriam Aguilar, Ghirardi gradually comes to accept a new identity, one that she very literally gives a name: Señorita Lylo. Choosing an artistic pseudonym, or alter-ego, allowed Ghirardi to give a name to the “persona” she had begun to embody at her embroidery gatherings, as she tried to distance herself from the painful losses she was experiencing in her state of liminal motherhood: “Necesitaba darle nombre a esa persona detrás de la que podía esconderme, pero también necesitaba darle vida porque se parecía a la mujer que siempre había sido. La aguja de bordar me estaba enmendando. Loly estaba rota y Lylo la reparaba” (109). This allowed her to give voice to the part of herself that did not want to remain silent and invisible to the outside world, and she even modified her appearance by braiding her hair to make Señorita Lylo feel real: “Y yo necesitaba sus trenzas, sus flores y sus agujas para empezar a reconciliarme conmigo misma” (116). She recounts how “Lylo crecía en contraposición a la frustración por los tratamientos que no daban resultados” (122) and “mientras mis sueños de madre se desvanecían, mi realidad como bordadora florecía” (150). She began to participate in collective feminist activity, as her embroidery community offers restoration, intimacy, and peace, but also represents a feminist act, “un grito hacia el exterior desde las profundidades de nuestro mundo más interior… En el bordado se genera una unión entre mujeres que trasciende el tiempo, las edades y las profesiones… Bordar hoy nos da una voz propia. Bordando formamos una comunidad” (105). In the end, Ghirardi embraces non-motherhood and redefines her concept of family, valuing her role as an aunt, sister, and daughter, while asserting that she and her husband, along with their cat and newly adopted (second) dog, form a complete and meaningful household: “Esa etapa de nuestra vida había terminado. Sin buscarlo, volvíamos a ser una familia de cuatro” (159).

Conclusion

Colombian author Pilar Quintana, whose short novel La perra (2017) features a protagonist unable to have children, has rejected the implied failure of the phrase “la maternidad fallida” and the accompanying exclusion of non-mothers from discussions of motherhood and maternal experiences. She affirms instead that infertility and non-motherhood are also aspects of motherhood (“la maternidad”) and should be recognized as valid maternal experiences (Quintana 130). In line with Quintana’s evaluation of fertility struggles and non-motherhood (by circumstance), it is relevant to note that both Míriam Aguilar and Ghirardi preserve their relationship to motherhood and to their “hijos/hijxs,” despite not having given birth to a child. Aguilar even recognizes her own trajectory as a non-traditional motherhood experience: “Lo peor de todo ya lo he pasado. Ahora me siento bien. Me siento madre porque he tenido cuatro embarazos que habrían sido cuatro hijos” (quoted in Bonilla). She processes her “invisible grief” by memorializing these losses on her body: “cuatro puntitos tatuados en el reverso del brazo, uno por cada hijo que no nació, son el recuerdo gráfico de los cuatro abortos que ha sufrido” (Bonilla). Likewise, Ghirardi contributes embroidered captions for a public photography exhibition featuring mothers’ nude bodies, a difficult but ultimately liberating process: “Lloré a mares mientras decidía la tipografía, calculaba el tamaño y bordaba cada frase, pero cuando terminé, me sentí liberada” (156). She also shares a personal piece of art in her narrative, a small decorative cloth with the embroidered quote, “Gracias a esos hijxs no nacidxs que habitaron ‘fugazmente’ en mí,” with only the word “fugazmente” sewn with a single strand of thread (95). For her part, Aguilar optimistically answers the rhetorical question that titles her book (“And now what?”) and troubles many non-mothers: “Ahora nada. Ahora todo. Ahora lo que tú quieras… No haber podido ser madre no tiene por qué ser el final de todo, también puede ser el principio” (80).

Ultimately, ¿Y ahora qué? and Diario de una bordadora disrupt simplistic narratives of how women purportedly choose motherhood or non-motherhood by portraying the emotional nuances of maternal desire and the unpredictability of loss. Aguilar’s and Ghirardi’s stories reject the notion that non-mothers’ lives are deficient or abnormal, shine a light on the complexities of non-motherhood by circumstance, and offer alternative models of non-mothers grounded in fulfillment and belonging. Recognizing the diverse trajectories of non-motherhood is especially necessary in the twenty-first century, when the percentage of women who do not or will not have children is increasing on a global scale. As Melanie Notkin noted a decade ago in the United States, “the rise of childless women may be one of the most overlooked and under appreciated social issues of our time. Never before have so many women lived longer before having their first child, or remained childless toward the end of their fertility” (Otherhood xv). In Spain, Míriam Aguilar and Paola Andrea Ghirardi have offered texts that not only challenge the invisibility of women’s non-motherhood experiences, but question polarized societal narratives surrounding motherhood and non-motherhood. In doing so, they critique contemporary feminist and neoliberal frameworks that position non-motherhood as freely chosen and liberating,^[18] while simultaneously subverting neoconservative and pronatalist ideologies that stigmatize women without children. By depicting non-mothers who lead empowered lives, enriched by extended family and community, professional aspirations, and creative projects, Aguilar and Ghirardi show that acceptance of non-motherhood can be an active, transformative process that broadens the scope of valid and valued models of womanhood.