When Childlessness Makes You Feel “Cut Off”: A Reflection on Surah Al-Kawthar

The Muslim Counsellor | Faith-Informed Psychotherapy

For some Muslim women, childlessness is not only the grief of not having a child.

It can become a question of identity, belonging and worth.

We live within families and communities where motherhood can occupy an enormous part of a woman’s identity. Women understandably celebrate their children, speak proudly about motherhood and share the milestones of raising a family.

But for the woman sitting quietly without children, these conversations can sometimes hurt.

Not because she begrudges another woman’s happiness.But because someone else’s motherhood can become a mirror reflecting something she desperately wanted for herself.

And somewhere beneath that pain can sit an uncomfortable thought:

“Everyone else continues. I end with me.”

“I Feel Cut Off”

There is a word in Surah Al-Kawthar that can feel particularly powerful when considered alongside this experience:

الْأَبْتَرُ — Al-Abtar

Cut off. Severed. Without continuation.

The surah concludes:

إِنَّ شَانِئَكَ هُوَ الْأَبْتَرُ

“Indeed, the one who hates you — he is the one who is cut off.”Qur’an 108:3

The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ had experienced the loss of his sons. His enemies used this loss to mock him, believing that without surviving sons his name and influence would disappear.

They looked at the absence of biological continuation and saw an ending.

But Allah rejected their judgement.

And remarkably, the surah begins not with deficiency, but with abundance:

إِنَّا أَعْطَيْنَاكَ الْكَوْثَرَ

“Indeed, We have granted you Al-Kawthar.”

This surah is not specifically about the modern experience of infertility or childlessness, and we should be careful not to present personal reflection as Qur’anic tafsir.

But there is something profoundly comforting in its message.

Human beings saw absence. Allah spoke of abundance.

When “I Don’t Have Children” Becomes “I Am Less”

In therapy, we often explore the difference between an experience and the meaning we have attached to that experience.

There is a difference between:

“I do not have children.”

and

“Because I don’t have children, my life is less meaningful.”

Or:

“I haven’t become a mother.”

and

“Therefore, I have failed as a woman.”

The first statements acknowledge a reality.

The second statements attach worth, identity and meaning to it.

And sometimes those meanings haven’t originated entirely from within us.

They have been absorbed.

From family.

From culture.

From community expectations.

From social media.

From the way women are spoken about.

And sometimes from well-meaning religious conversations in which marriage and motherhood become so heavily emphasised that the woman whose life followed a different path begins wondering where she belongs.

When Other Women’s Motherhood Hurts

One of the more difficult emotions to admit can be:

“Other women’s motherhood triggers me.”

Perhaps someone announces another pregnancy.

A friend talks constantly about her children.

Someone describes motherhood as the greatest purpose a woman can ever experience.

Or your social media becomes filled with photographs celebrating mothers and their children.

You may genuinely love these women.

You may genuinely love their children.

And still feel pain.

That does not automatically make you bitter.

Sometimes what looks like jealousy is actually grief being activated by proximity to what was longed for.

There is an important difference between:

“I wish she didn’t have this.”

and:

“Watching her have this reminds me that I don’t.”

Understanding that distinction can reduce some of the shame women carry around these feelings.

Her happiness and your sadness can exist in the same room.

The Fear of Having No Legacy

Childlessness can also bring existential questions that aren’t always spoken aloud.

Who will remember me?

Who will carry something of me into the next generation?

Who will be there when I grow old?

Who will make du’a for me when I die?

These aren’t superficial questions.

They touch belonging, mortality and our human desire for continuation.

But biological continuation is only one form of legacy.

Islam gives us a much broader understanding of what a human being can leave behind.

Knowledge can continue.

Charity can continue.

Kindness can continue.

A person you supported can carry something you gave them into another relationship.

Someone you taught may teach somebody else.

A person whose emotional wounds you helped heal may parent differently because they met you.

A life can ripple into other lives without sharing DNA.

Some legacies have your eyes. Others carry something you taught them.

You Don’t Need to Replace the Child You Didn’t Have

When trying to comfort a childless woman, people sometimes rush towards finding substitutes:

“Your career is your baby.”

“You can be a mother to your nieces and nephews.”

“Allah gave you something else instead.”

“At least you have your freedom.”

These statements can unintentionally minimise grief.

A career does not replace a child.

A niece doesn’t need to become a substitute daughter.

Travel does not compensate for motherhood.

And finding purpose does not require pretending that you never wanted something different.

Therapeutic acceptance is not:

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Sometimes it is:

“It mattered enormously. It still hurts sometimes. And my life can still contain meaning.”

Both can be true.

From

Abtar

to

Kawthar

Perhaps one therapeutic reflection we can take from Surah Al-Kawthar is to notice the language we use internally.

When life didn’t unfold as expected, did:

“I didn’t become a mother”

slowly become:

“I am incomplete”?

Did:

“I don’t have descendants”

become:

“I leave nothing behind”?

Did:

“My life looks different”

become:

“My life is less”?

Surah Al-Kawthar offers a striking interruption to our human tendency to equate visible absence with deficiency.

The people looking at the Prophet ﷺ saw what had been lost.

Allah spoke about what had been given.

Al-Kawthar. Abundance.

For the childless woman, perhaps the question therefore isn’t:

“What did Allah give me instead of a child?”

It may be:

“Have I become so accustomed to measuring my life through what is absent that I can no longer recognise what is present?”

That question doesn’t erase grief.

It makes room beside it.

You Are Allowed to Grieve and Still Recognise Your Abundance

There may always be moments that hurt.

A pregnancy announcement.

A mother-and-daughter photograph.

A conversation where everyone discusses their children and you suddenly feel outside the circle.

You don’t have to spiritually bypass those feelings.

Notice them.

Name them.

Explore what they mean to you.

And when the feeling becomes:

“I am cut off.”

perhaps gently return to Surah Al-Kawthar.

Not because the surah tells a childless woman that she should not grieve.

But because it reminds us of something deeply important:

Human beings can look at absence and misunderstand the entirety of a person’s story.

Your life cannot be measured only by who came from you.

It can also be measured by what came through you:

Your compassion.

Your knowledge.

Your faith.

Your service.

Your relationships.

The people who became safer because they knew you.

The cycles you chose to break.

The goodness you placed into the world that may continue long after you leave it.

You may sometimes feel abtar.

But feeling cut off is not the same as being without worth, purpose or continuation.

Perhaps healing begins when we allow ourselves to grieve what isn’t there while becoming curious about our own Kawthar — the abundance that is.

The Muslim Counsellor

Culturally sensitive, faith-informed psychotherapy exploring grief, identity, relationships and the experiences that can be difficult to speak about within Muslim communities.

Take the Next Step

If you're ready to begin your journey towards healing, clarity, and emotional wellbeing, feel free to book a consultation call or counselling session today.

Whether you’re seeking support for personal challenges, relationships, or spiritual growth, I’m here to offer a safe, compassionate, and faith-informed space to support you every step of the way.

Book Now