Where’s the Restart Button?

It happened on one of those ordinary days when everything feels heavier than it should. I was at a coffee shop, staring blankly at my phone, scrolling through yet another post of someone announcing their pregnancy. My latte was cold by then, untouched, as I replayed the familiar chorus in my head: Why not me?

A man sitting a few tables over must have noticed the shadow on my face. As he passed by, he stopped and said something that startled me: “You look like you’re searching for a restart button.”

I blinked, unsure if I should laugh, cry, or feel offended. He didn’t wait for a reply, just smiled and walked out the door. But his words stayed with me.

A restart button. That’s exactly what I wanted.

For years, my life had felt like one long cycle of chasing, hoping, and grieving. Chasing the dream of motherhood, hoping the next treatment would work, and grieving every time it didn’t. I had built my entire identity around becoming a mom, so when infertility slammed the door shut, I felt like my life had stalled completely.

I wanted to scream at the universe, “Where’s the restart button? How do I begin again when the life I imagined doesn’t exist anymore?”

At first, I waited for an answer. I thought if I just sat with the pain long enough, something or someone would come along and show me the way forward. But that didn’t happen. Instead, the world kept moving, while I felt stuck in place.

It took time—so much time—but I eventually realized something: no one was going to hand me a restart button. If I wanted one, I had to create it myself.

I started small. I gave myself permission to feel everything—anger, sadness, even jealousy. I wrote letters to the version of me who thought motherhood was a guarantee, letting her know it was okay to grieve. I allowed myself to imagine a life that wasn’t centered on children, even though it scared me.

Little by little, I found pieces of myself I had forgotten. I rediscovered the joy of creating, the peace of quiet mornings, and the thrill of chasing passions I’d sidelined for years. I started to see that my purpose wasn’t something I lost—it was something I hadn’t fully uncovered yet.

Infertility taught me that life doesn’t come with a clean reset. But it also taught me that starting over doesn’t mean erasing what came before. The pain, the struggle, the love—they’re all part of my story. They’ve shaped me into someone stronger, someone more compassionate, someone who understands that purpose is bigger than a single dream.

Now, when I think about that stranger in the coffee shop, I wish I could thank him. He didn’t give me the answer I was looking for, but he planted the seed.

Restarting isn’t about forgetting the past. It’s about choosing to move forward, one step at a time, and discovering that there’s so much more to life than the dreams we lose.

For anyone else wondering where the restart button is, I’ll tell you this: it’s not out there somewhere waiting for you. It’s inside you, waiting for the moment you’re ready to press it.