The Choice I Never Thought I'd Lose

There are moments in life that divide your story into a before and an after. My emergency partial hysterectomy was one of those moments.

Before that day, I wasn't trying to have a baby. I also wasn't someone who said, "I never want children." I always believed I'd become a mom one day. I just wanted to wait until the time felt right.

Growing up in a single-parent household taught me how important it was to have a loving, committed partner. I wanted to get married. I wanted a stable career. I wanted to become the best version of myself before bringing a child into the world. I always believed I'd get to make that decision when I was ready. It never crossed my mind that life would make it for me.

My hysterectomy wasn't a choice. It was a life-or-death situation, and the surgery bought me back my life. For that, I will always be grateful.

People sometimes tell me they're sorry. I appreciate their kindness, but I also tell them something that surprises them. My hysterectomy bought me back my life; had I not had that surgery; I may not be here today.

Both things are true. The surgery saved my life, and it took away a choice I never thought I'd lose. For a long time, I didn't know what to call that feeling.

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I wasn't grieving a child. Instead, I was grieving the loss of choice. I was grieving the future I thought I'd get to decide for myself. This kind of grief can feel confusing. I questioned whether I was even "allowed" to grieve because I wasn't actively trying to become a mother. I felt guilty for mourning something while also feeling incredibly thankful to be alive.

Over time, I realized grief doesn't ask for permission. I've learned that we don't only grieve people. Sometimes we grieve the version of our life we always expected to live.

After losing both of my parents, I thought I understood grief. My hysterectomy taught me that grief has many faces. Sometimes it's the death of someone you love; a diagnosis; even a life-saving surgery. It can be the quiet loss of a future you always assumed would be waiting for you.

Looking back, I can see that every significant loss in my life has shaped the work I do today. Losing my Mom and Dad in addition to losing the ability to choose whether motherhood would be part of my story.

Those experiences became part of the foundation for Shanti's Promise, the grief-informed practice I created. I wanted to build the kind of space I wish more people had; more so, what I wish I had. A place where grief isn't compared, minimized, or judged. A place where people don't feel like they must explain why something hurts.

Because grief isn't measured by what was lost; it’s measured by what that loss meant to the person experiencing it.

Today, I'm still grateful the surgery saved my life. And I'm also honest about the fact that I grieve what it took from me. I've learned those truths can exist together.

Sharing this part of my story isn't about finding a perfect ending. It's about making space for the kinds of grief we don't always talk about.

If someone reading this has ever mourned a choice, a dream, or a future that changed without their permission, I hope they know they're not alone. Sometimes healing begins the moment we realize our grief has a name. 

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Originally from New Jersey and now calling North Carolina home, Shantel Robinson, MSW, LCSW, is a licensed clinical social worker, speaker, and founder of Shanti's Promise. Drawing from both her personal experiences and professional expertise, she creates spaces where people feel seen, supported, and empowered to honor their grief while embracing hope.