Motherhood Isn’t One Way: The Cost of Silence and the Power of Truth

Why we must tell the whole story—and stop shaming women for how, when, or whether they become mothers.

Prelude: When I started this Substack, I planned to write about fashion, travel, and curated beauty—but life has a way of rerouting us. The last blog—and this one—weren’t planned, nor were they on the publishing queue. But something stirred, and I’ve learned that sometimes the most powerful growth happens on the detour. So, welcome to an unplanned series: Breaking the Silence. Raw, real, and unfiltered. Fashion and travel will return, but for now, I invite you to take this unexpected turn with me. Let’s grow through it—together.

Let’s talk about motherhood with this self-proclaimed rich African auntie—also known as Kendrick’s auntie.

Motherhood, a word so simple, yet so complicated. It’s a topic laced with expectations, pride, shame, silence, and judgment—depending on how and when it unfolds. And in my culture (which is the only lens I can speak from), there are so many unspoken judgments that cut deep into one’s soul.

Recently, I’ve been reflecting on Chimamanda Ngozi’s a Nigerian author and to some the face of feminist movement neo post-colonial; she boldly and share that she became a mother of twins at 47 through surrogacy.

She eloquently and calmly stated, “I don’t like to lie about things that can be consequential to other people”. Her response was very powerful to me. Indeed, she owes no explanation, but we exist in this world where we are connected to one another. She adds that if she doesn’t share the facts of her motherhood journey, she may mislead others. For that, I respect and applaud her compassion and selflessness.

And what happened next? The internet, especially voices from the African continent, erupted in critique—some subtle, others sharp—about her not doing things “the normal way.” As if there’s only one valid route to motherhood.

Let’s pause here. In 2025, we still have a very limited collective understanding of fertility—especially within African communities. I imagine the critics typing their ignorant comments on their 'smartphones'—the irony of it all. How about doing a little research on fertility before commenting? I call these people social media activists, critics, and unsolicited advisors—they are so draining.

Comments such as “I am disappointed too. What happened to the traditional way of bringing children to this world. We were made Male and female for a reason why bypass that” yes, comments like were more than expected.

These same folks who quote the Bible while cherry-picking what to use have somehow missed the original stories of surrogacy—Hagar and Bilhah.

For those unfamiliar, here’s a little background on Bilhah (she’s fresh on my mind because I just started watching The Handmaid’s Tale): Rachel gave her husband Jacob her maidservant, Bilhah, to have children on her behalf. Now, was that, okay? Wait a minute—oh, it was God-ordained. But people are out here judging women for making a similar choice today—not because it benefits the patriarchal system, but because it benefits them. Bilhah bore Jacob two sons, and Rachel named them Dan and Naphtali.

Do you think Bilhah had a choice? Nope. But today, surrogacy is a choice.

There are so much misinformation, silence, and shame surrounding women's choices, or lack thereof, when it comes to becoming mothers. And unfortunately, so many people still believe that motherhood should happen in a certain way, at a certain time, with a certain body.

But here’s the thing: fertility is not a guarantee. It’s not something you can always plan for, and it’s certainly not something we should take for granted. The truth is, even for women who want to be mothers, biology, timing, access, and life circumstances don’t always align neatly. No one owes anyone their reproductive story—but sharing yours might affirm another woman’s journey.

That’s why I deeply appreciate Chimamanda honesty. She could have easily said nothing and let people assume she “beat the odds” and she is modern day Sarah, Hannah and Rachel (read bible) But she chose to name surrogacy—and in doing so, she protected other women from false hope. Because if you don’t share the whole story, people start to believe lies: “Oh wow, maybe I can have twins at 47 too, no problem

Not knowing the physical, emotional, and financial layers that go into a journey like that.

It reminds me of how I felt when Naomi Campbell announced she has her daughter at 51 via surrogacy to the world and later on vogue interview she said, “She wasn’t adopted – she’s, my child.” and "It's never too late to become a mother" but didn’t say much else. She has every right to her privacy. And yet, when women share only part of the story about motherhood without context, it can blur the line between inspiration and misinformation.

Same with Janet Jackson, who had a child at 50 and later spoke about visiting fertility specialists across Europe. That kind of access is powerful—and not available to everyone. It made me think about what it means when we say, “It’s never too late.” Is it possible we’re offering hope without context?

It made me think: when we say, “It’s never too late,” are we offering hope… or false reassurance?

In my opinion (which may not matter to everyone), to borrow Chimamanda’s words, “Don’t mislead folks.” Because omission can also be consequential.

Encouraging women that “it’s never too late”—when many don’t have the resources—can be misleading, hurtful, and harmful.

There comes a time when the shop is completely closed. No more eggs. Not even scrambled. Or maybe you never had eggs to begin with. And that’s a fact and it can be too late to become a biological mother.

Freezing eggs, using donor eggs, IVF, or surrogacy are not casual steps. They’re not like picking up a carton of eggs from the grocery store. These are expensive, emotionally taxing, and medically complex processes. They require planning, access, and in many cases, privilege.

And for many of us, women of African descent there’s the added pressure of cultural expectations that say: “You must have children.” “You must give your parents grandchildren.” “You must do it naturally.” “You must not speak of your struggles.”

On a personal note, it was few years ago found out that my maternal grandmother’s sister, who was married, never had children. When you think about a woman living in rural Tanzania in the 1950s, being married and childless wasn’t really something you chose—it usually meant something deeper, something unspoken. It wasn’t until recently that my mom shared that her aunt simply wasn’t able to have children of her own. But she still became a mother—raising her husband’s children with love and care. I can’t help but wonder how different things could have been if stories like hers were told more openly in our families. What kind of understanding could have been passed down if we didn’t keep so much in silence?"

This leaves so many women sufferings in silence, misunderstood, and even shamed—whether they choose to become mothers, struggle to do so, or opt not to at all.

As someone who’s still wrestling with my own motherhood journey—the why, the why not, the maybe—this conversation hits deeply. It’s a long story. One I may tell one day.

But for now, I am blessed to have a nephew who is filling my heart and who ultimately affirms my self-proclaimed title of “Rich African Auntie.”

Thus, in the spirit of breaking the silence, I want to encourage any woman who desires motherhood one day and is reading this:

Don’t take your fertility for granted.

A friend once told me something I’ve been reflecting on more and more: As you’re working to prevent pregnancy, make sure you’re also able to become pregnant.

Advocate for yourself. Have honest conversations with your doctor.

Ask about your egg reserve—yes, you can request bloodwork that gives insight into what those reserves are looking like.

Know your body. You only get one. Own your uterus—no one else should decide what belongs there. (And for the record, fibroids do not belong there.)

Have the hard conversations with your partner—or your future one. If someone isn’t willing to take the journey of parenthood with you, don’t assume they’ll change their mind. Especially when it comes to something as time sensitive as motherhood.

Waiting may not always work. And becoming a mother at 45, 50 or later is not as simple—or common—as the media and celebrities sometimes makes it seem.

To those who choose motherhood through surrogacy, IVF, or adoption—your journey is valid.

To those who remain child-free by choice or by circumstance—your life is whole.

To those still in the waiting, the wondering, the grieving—you are not alone.

Let’s talk about motherhood in all its forms—with honesty, with compassion, and without shame. Let’s create room for stories that don’t fit the mold. Because there is no one “normal” way to be a mother.

xo,

Rahel