We expect everything except what actually happens. Not only does life follow no script, but it is often more sublime, more crazy, tougher and more creative than all the films and novels put together. And our convictions, however steadfast, crumble in the face of the relentless and the immense, which are beyond our grasp.


For example, I had firm convictions about my relationship with motherhood: I would never have children because it’s not for me. I’d be too busy a mother, not there enough, not attentive enough. Ever since I was a teenager, I’ve known I’d never be a mother. I’d live alone and wouldn’t start a family; I’d be content with my friends. I’d convinced myself of this, for thousands of reasons. The first of these is undoubtedly that I’ve seen far too many dysfunctional role models


I’m expecting a baby – my second child. My first – my ‘guest’, as I like to call him – arrived as a surprise six years ago. I discovered he was in my womb by chance, in South Africa, whilst on a trip for my NGO. My team and I were setting up a local branch there. A Zulu woman who was holding me close to say goodbye whispered in my ear, “There’s another life inside you.” ’ For a control freak like me, that was impossible. I would have known. I would have felt it. Three pregnancy tests later in my hotel room, my certainties – and my sense of control over my life – had vanished. Flowing through my veins now was a strength from a parallel world, a form of happiness I’d never known before.

And I would never have guessed that.


Being a mum (or dad) is very difficult (let’s be honest) but it’s fabulous. Yes, it’s true, you’re never your own priority again; for the first time, you truly experience the feeling of fear (for the other person and for yourself) — a feeling you’ll never fully overcome. You do the best you can, with all the love you have, whilst knowing that along the way, you’ll have made mistakes. Children are mirrors: they reveal us for who we are, in our beauty and our ugliness – that’s true too – but they shower you with a wild, mad love. I don’t think anyone loves the way a child loves their parent. Like so many other women, I’ve become a mother who’s half Amazon, half giant cuddly toy. I, who used to love children from a distance, find myself loving spending time not only with my own but also with other people’s. When you experience that, the inevitable sometimes happens. You find yourself longing, desperately, for a second child.


So you set off again, full of certainty. Firstly because the brain loves that sort of thing (certainty), but also because there’s no reason why it shouldn’t work out. Nothing will change – you’re sure of that.


We prepare for everything, but never for what doesn’t happen. The fruitless attempts, the silences when we come out of the bathroom with a negative test. And then the moments of joy that come as quickly as they fade away. The silences in the doctor’s surgery, the blurry images on the screen and the sympathetic glances. The miscarriages, after several months of hope, which follow one after another and repeat themselves. We go from having a name in mind to a void in our womb. Cruelty always makes a grand entrance, and nothing, more than nothingness, damages the human soul.


And then, very quickly, it’s back to work. No ritual, no officially recognised period of mourning. Quickly, reply to messages; life goes on. Everything is more urgent than our emotions. Above all, carry on living, acting as if the body weren’t reminding us of who we are. There are no right words, except perhaps amongst women (and from a few men too) — though even then, you have to dare to speak and already know that you can feel nostalgic for a life you’ve never lived.


Later on, we start again, yet again. But never from the same starting point. We also feel guilty, because we’re already experiencing the joy of having a child we love madly. Is it acceptable to hope for happiness when we already have it?


When asked ‘How are you?’, a ‘I’m fine’ means ‘I’m still standing’. Only you know the difference. You cling to the tiniest things: a friend, a walk, a fit of laughter. Optimism is a daily practice, an active and fragile choice. It’s not about convincing yourself that nothing is serious – no. It’s about believing that you’ll find a way through, whatever happens. Optimism is holding your own hand.


And holding your own hand sometimes means finding meaning. That’s how it was for me: because I believe in souls, I realised that a miscarriage is, true, the death of the physical body, but the soul continues its journey towards life. Towards another woman. Towards life. For me, a soul never passes through a body without reason. They convey a message. These setbacks and failures have revealed something about myself to me. I already felt alive simply because these lives had passed through me. So we weep when the time comes to say goodbye, but we also say thank you: “thank you for coming to me.” This thought has humbled me in the face of the immense, reminding me that, just like me, life has its reasons.





I have learnt to challenge the idea that joy is simply about getting what I want. Optimism isn’t limited to those for whom everything goes to plan. Optimism also exists in times of grief, in reinvention, and in the choice to live differently. I have learnt to live differently. I have learnt a great deal from women who have tried, hoped and suffered, and for whom, despite everything, a child will not come. They have taught me that optimism can also be the immense courage to live without a child, despite a burning desire. To make room for other forms of love, fertility and passing on.


What we experience alone is, in reality, a very crowded corridor, where we pass women standing tall, others bent over, but all of them courageous. Even when they doubt themselves or have lost the will to carry on.


Both at work and in my personal life, I have come to realise that my life operates on the principle of ‘invitation’. This doesn’t mean waiting for someone to knock on my door or for things to be done for me. It’s more subtle than that. It’s about learning to discern—in what is invisible to the eye but tangible to the heart—what will come easily to us and what requires a struggle against ourselves. In my case, it was about letting go, about stopping trying to convince myself that I can silence my inner waves, tidal waves and winds at the snap of my fingers, just as one closes a book. Accepting that I cannot is, in itself, a form of power. But you have to have dug deep within yourself to realise this.


I’m now expecting my second child. I fell pregnant when I stopped trying. There’s no lesson to be learnt here; it’s just how it happened for me.


This piece is for all women, and especially those for whom it won’t happen. To them, I say: all stories intertwine. All bodies and all life paths.



Inès Leonarduzzi

Inès Leonarduzzi is a socio-environmentalist. A few years ago, she founded an NGO that advocates for and promotes digital technology that consumes less energy and is kinder to our brains. She is the author of the essay *Réparer le futur* (Published by Observatoire, 2021) and gives talks in France and abroad on a variety of topics, ranging from the environment to culture, including our new ways of living (together). She occasionally writes poetry. Every month throughout 2025, she invites readers to come together on Aroma-Zone.com to explore the theme of joy, so that we may collectively discover the possibilities for a daily life which, despite its ups and downs, is worth living.