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Grieving Your Friend’s Pregnancy: The Loss We Don’t Talk About
- Angela G.
- 3 days ago
- 9 min read
When a friend announces she’s pregnant, the script is clear: we’re supposed to smile, squeal, and shower her with congratulations. And often, we are happy that she’s happy. But what’s rarely acknowledged is the grief that can quietly creep in for those of us who are childfree — by choice or by circumstance.
We don’t get to talk about it.
We don’t get to say out loud that, alongside joy, there is sadness, fear, anger, and even resentment. Because while our friend is gaining something huge, we are losing something, too: the relationship as we once knew it.
I felt so strongly about this, not just wanting to write the blog, but also to wax on it in this week's episode, Episode 207: Feeling Grief from Their Pregnancy Joy of The Empowered Millennials Podcast. I feel like speaking this out loud gives space for a younger version of me who needed to hear this, to heal and to remind herself that she isn't wrong, crazy, selfish or whatever narrative she hears. I wanted to speak on this for all women who couldn't quite pin point these emotions or what to do with how she was feeling.
So, this is for 20 something Angela, for my single and childfree community and to all of us who miss our friendships.
The Grief No One Acknowledges
We have to call it what it is. It is OUR grief. And we often have to hide it and stay silent because of THEIR joy. And why it is only with pregnancy? Are we not allowed to have feelings about something we didn't ask for but will irrevocably change our lives, without our consent?????
If a friend moves across the country for a new job, she’ll often say, “I’m going to miss you so much. This is going to be hard.” There’s space for both excitement and sadness. If a beloved work friend takes a new role, it’s natural to admit, “I don’t want you to go. Who else will I commiserate with?” Both parties understand the shift, the ache, the impending absence.
But with pregnancy, that acknowledgment almost never comes. The expectation is: be happy, full stop. Don’t dwell on what you’ll miss. Don’t name what’s being lost. Don’t say that your best friend — your ride-or-die — is moving into a world that you didn’t sign up for or if you are like me, don't ever want to be in.
And so we swallow it. We clap, we cheer, we buy the baby clothes. And then privately, maybe, we grieve. But more likely, we just absorb our feelings and put on a performance and shame ourselves for hating their choices.
The Unspoken Fears
We know EXACTLY what’s coming.
We can feel it long before the baby shower invitations go out.
We will slowly move down the priority list.
Our spontaneous adventures will be replaced by nap schedules.
Our late-night calls will be cut short by bedtime routines.
Eventually, she’ll have a new community: other parents who get it in ways we never will. They’ll share stories about milestones and tantrums, while our updates about work projects or solo trips will feel frivolous by comparison. And yet, on our end? She will still sit at the top of our list. That imbalance stings.
We didn’t choose this change, but we’re expected to absorb it gracefully: to smile, to celebrate, to be endlessly understanding. Every time another friend announces her pregnancy, we brace ourselves for another quiet goodbye. Not because she’s doing anything wrong, but because the shape of our friendship is about to shift, and we have no say in it. How can we? It isn't our life and it definitely may not align with our life vision and trajectory. We grieve in silence because there’s no socially acceptable script for this kind of loss. We’re told to “be happy for her.” We are. But happiness and heartbreak can coexist and this is one of those times. Listen, Silent Grief is Real.
There’s no breakup text. No dramatic fallout. Just a slow fading of what once was. You watch her build a new world — one that doesn’t have space for the old rhythms, the inside jokes, the carefree nights that used to feel endless. And as much as you want to hold on, you know you can’t compete with a baby’s cry or a partner’s exhaustion.
You didn’t consent to this goodbye. You didn’t get a choice in the way your friendship shifted or ended; it just dissolved under the weight of her new life.
And so, you carry the ache quietly. You tell yourself this is adulthood. You remind yourself she’s not gone, just different. But still, you can’t help but feel like you’ve been left behind in a life you once shared — now standing at the edge, watching from a distance, clapping for milestones that no longer include you.
Missing Who They Were
What I’ve never said out loud is this: I miss my friends. I miss who they were before they were moms.
And that doesn’t mean I don’t love them now. It doesn’t mean I wish them anything but happiness. It simply means I am grieving a version of our relationship that once existed, one that was beautiful and whole and perfect in its own way. And a change from a choice that only ONE person decided to make. It’s okay to miss that.
If you’re watching your closest friendships veer off into a life you don’t want, or can’t have, know this: it’s okay to feel sad. It’s okay to grieve the loss of what you had. That doesn’t make you a bad friend, it makes you a human being who deeply values connection.
Your sadness doesn’t erase your love for your friend. Both can exist at once.
But here’s the part we may need to remind ourselves: as single and childfree women, we can’t just live in the grief of being left behind. We also get to build new bonds, new circles, new spaces where we aren’t an afterthought — we are the center. We deserve friendships that see us, that celebrate our milestones and our everyday lives with the same enthusiasm that society showers on weddings and baby showers. We get to change, grow and evolve, too.
"WTF AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW?"
Since we are conditioned to minimize our sadness: “It’s not my life that’s changing, so why should I feel this way?” But grief doesn’t need permission to be real. Write your feelings in a journal, voice memo them to yourself, or talk them out with someone you trust. Naming the truth — “I miss her. I feel left behind. I feel invisible.” — is an act of self-respect. You don’t have to pretend you’re fine.
So yes — let yourself grieve the friendships that change. But don’t stay only in the loss. Here’s what you can do:
Give yourself space to feel both things
We live in a culture that doesn’t leave much room for and. Either you’re overjoyed for your friend, or you’re bitter. Either you’re supportive, or you’re jealous. Either you’re celebrating, or you’re resentful. But real life, and real friendship, doesn’t exist in those extremes.
The truth is, friendship after pregnancy is layered. You can cry about losing your late-night wine chats and still be the first to send a baby gift. You can grieve the version of her who was always down for last-minute plans, while genuinely loving the woman she’s becoming. You can miss her and cheer for her, all at once.
Let yourself feel the and. That’s not contradiction: that’s emotional maturity. It’s the recognition that joy and grief can share the same space, that love doesn’t cancel out loss, and that your feelings don’t make you selfish; they make you human.
When you give yourself permission to hold both truths, you stop abandoning your own heart in the name of being a “good friend.” You make space for your full experience, not just the palatable parts. Because the end of one chapter of friendship doesn’t mean the end of love. It just means you’re brave enough to see the whole picture, even when it’s messy, even when it hurts.
Redefine your friendship — or release it
Not all friendships survive this shift, and that doesn’t mean you failed. It doesn’t mean you weren’t supportive enough, or understanding enough, or patient enough. It simply means that the foundation you once shared was built for a different season of life, one that has now passed.
For some, the friendship will evolve. You’ll see each other less often, but when you do, it’s intentional and rich with meaning. You’ll trade the daily chatter for deeper check-ins, the constant texts for rare but soulful conversations that still remind you why you loved each other in the first place. Those friendships become softer, slower, but still steady.
Others, though, will quietly dissolve. She’s in a world you can’t access, and she doesn’t reach back to pull you in. There’s no malice in it, just absence. And yet, that absence echoes. It hurts to feel like you’ve been reduced to a footnote in someone else’s new story.
But as painful as it is, that loss also creates space. Space for the friendships that feel mutual. For connections that don’t require you to constantly shrink, wait, or understand. For relationships where your life, your milestones, and your joy are equally celebrated: not tolerated.
Releasing a friendship isn’t betrayal. It’s acceptance. It’s the quiet, courageous act of acknowledging that love sometimes runs its course. And sometimes, the most honest choice is to let go with grace rather than grip tighter to something that no longer fits.
Because the truth is that not every friendship is meant to last forever. But every ending has the power to reveal what you truly need, and who has the capacity to meet you there.
Find your TRIBE& Celebrate
Friendship grief hits hardest when you feel like you’re the only one experiencing it. Seek out others who get it. Find the women who don’t need you to explain why this hurts, or why you still love your friend even as you grieve her absence. Join online groups, attend meetups, or create your own space where childfree women gather not to justify their choices, but to be celebrated for them. These friendships often run deeper because they’re chosen with intention and you are NOT ALONE. This is exactly why The Single and Childfree Network exists (membership is open on Nov 1st): so we don't have to sideline our joy, we can find people who share our lifestyle and similar values. And more importantly, will never bail on us last minute because they don't have a babysitter.
When your friends are consumed with kids, it’s easy to feel like your own life is somehow less full. But this is the time to turn inward: to nurture what makes you feel alive. Travel. Learn a language. Take the class. Start the project. Say yes to the things that light you up, not because they’ll impress anyone, but because they remind you of your own vitality. You don’t have to wait for your old friendships to fill the gaps. Pour into yourself. Joy is not a distraction from grief — it’s how you reclaim your place in a world that often sidelines you.
And as you rebuild, create your own milestones. One of the hardest parts of being single and childfree is watching everyone else’s life be publicly celebrated while yours quietly hums in the background. Change that narrative. Host a dinner party to honor paying off your debt. Throw a weekend getaway for a promotion, a new apartment, or simply surviving a hard year. Celebrate your dog’s birthday. Launch a “business baby shower.” These are not consolation prizes. They’re rituals of recognition for YOUR milestones, YOUR CHOICES and proof that your life deserves applause, too.
GO FORTH
Grieving a friend’s pregnancy doesn’t mean you’re selfish or bitter. It means you loved your friendship as it was, and you feel the loss of its shift. That is human. That is valid.
AND (see what I did there?) you don’t have to stay stuck in the grief. You get to feel it, honor it, and then step forward into building a life that celebrates you. Make sure you listen to this week's episode, Feeling Grief from Their Joy on The Empowered Millennials podcast because I share how this has impacted me, too.
You are not the last one standing or the one left behind. You are the pioneer carving out a new way of being, one where friendships, joy, and milestones are not dictated by motherhood but by what makes your life feel rich, whole, and alive.
When you start celebrating your own milestones, you stop waiting for validation from a world that was never designed for your path. You start living on your own terms, fully, joyfully, courageously.
That is the bigger truth. You get to grieve. You get to heal. And then you get to live your epic life.
xo,
Angela
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