If you’ve studied a bit of economics you’ll have come across the lump of labour. The idea that there’s a given amount of work needing doing in the economy at any one time, and you can distribute it to make more - or fewer - jobs.
Economists think this is rubbish. But it makes me wonder about personal energy. Is it a fixed amount, that we slice up and expend on certain tasks? If not, what can drive my energy levels up or down?
I’m still figuring it out, but I do know I have never felt so lacking in energy as I have in these later stages of infertility.
When I look at my lovely friends, they all care enormously about their children. But my sense is that otherwise they seem to care about roughly the same things after kids as they did before (it’s worth noting that they’re a fortunate bunch with decent earning power, and partners). Those who were fulfilled by their professional role before have generally carried on working full or part-time, and still care about their career. Those who were less into their job have generally remained broadly unexcited by it, and have either stopped working or gone part-time. If they were motivated by social causes before, they still are. If they liked things to look beautiful before, they still do. And, whether or not they’re holding down paid jobs, they all seem to tap into the most incredible reserves of energy to look after their families and run busy homes.
It’s a puzzle because the conventional wisdom goes that your priorities completely change when you have kids. My theory is a bit different. I think that when it comes to fertility, the lucky ones are having a deep, visceral need met. Having a deep visceral need met doesn’t always feel good – you’re exhausted, feeling the pressure of competing demands at home and work, missing time to yourself, worried about being a good enough parent. But you don’t have to spend too much time thinking about the deep visceral need, because it’s taken care of. And in its own way, that’s energising – you’re pouring your energy into something that is motivating at the most basic level. Energy begets energy. (Apologies to any knackered parents who are reading this and thinking “whaaaaaat?”)
The unlucky ones aren’t having that need met. Every fibre of mind and body is aching to put all my energy into making and caring for a baby. But as that’s not happening, my body turns its nose up at the other things on offer. Any number of things that used to motivate and delight me – travel, nature, music, work - now hold absolutely no interest. The energy, or the potential for it, is there, but it is trapped, and I just feel flat all the time. So my conclusion is that having a deep visceral need left unmet is pretty de-energising. Maybe what I’m describing is depression. Maybe it amounts to the same thing.
So I am less motivated and bring less commitment to my job than colleagues doing similar jobs on far fewer hours sleep while raising children. It’s a weird irony. My objective circumstances are pretty perfect for a big push on the career front, but all I can muster is an enormous shrug. I can still see that I have varied, interesting work, but my tolerance for the rubbish bits is zero. I could walk away tomorrow.
I hate the cliché about “having it all”, but the truth is we all want everything. Perhaps being able to conceive confirms one’s sense that the things we want come to us, that everything is nothing more than our due. And not being able to leaves you with the knowledge that you are completely lacking the power to bring into your life the things you want most. Perhaps it’s a good life lesson in understanding that you’re not in control, which for me came later than it does for many.
So, who knows if your priorities change when you have kids. But I can say with certainty that they’ve changed beyond all recognition for me by the end of year four of trying unsuccessfully to conceive. My life, reduced to the size of an egg. Perspective, balance, delight in the world, all gone. And all my energy trapped in a horrible, fruitless yearning. I have a sense that at some point in the future, if we could only stop trying, things might start to feel different. That I will be able to step back from the narrow, boring, sad world I’ve been in for a long time now and start to take some pleasure in life again. For now I can’t do it, because the price is letting the last grain of hope slip away.
The good news is that a life crisis helps you contemplate big changes. My willingness to put up with workplace bullsh*t is way lower, because I know that what any organisation can offer me just isn’t that important at the end of the day. My experience has taught me not only what matters most to me (and nothing can give me that) but also how to recognise when something really doesn’t matter at all.