#grievingthefuture

[margins-of-me]

What I Wish People Knew About Living at Home in My 20s

I did have a plan for what I wanted my 20s to look like. In hindsight, it was so naive. Not in a cringe way—just in that soft, hopeful way you only get to be once.

I thought I’d be married by now. I thought I’d be talking about having kids. Now, I’m not even sure I want them.

And instead of nesting into some adult life I thought would appear like magic, I’m here—living in a house that was never really mine. Because we moved around so much growing up, I never had one home that felt like “mine” in the first place. This house wasn’t part of my childhood. It’s just where I ended up. And most days, it still feels like I’m visiting someone else’s life.

[margins-of-me]

I Always Thought I’d Be a Mom

For most of my life, it wasn’t a question. I was going to be a mom. It wasn’t something I weighed or debated—it was just this quiet truth I carried around with me. Like a future memory waiting to happen.

I wasn’t sure what kind of job I’d have. Or where I’d live. Or who I’d end up with. But I always saw kids in the picture. I could see their rooms. Their backpacks. Their little shoes by the door. I wanted to braid hair and pack lunches and say things like “Because I said so” even if it made me sound like my mom. I wanted to give someone the love I didn’t always know how to give myself.

But lately, that future feels less certain.

It’s not that I don’t love kids. I do. It’s not that I think I’d be cold or cruel or checked out. It’s just—I know myself better now. And the truth is: I struggle to take care of myself. In the quiet, daily, boring ways. I forget to eat. I sleep too much or not at all. I dissociate when I’m overwhelmed. I spiral over small things. I exist in survival mode more often than I’d like to admit. And no matter how much love I have in me, I don’t know if that’s enough to make me a safe, steady place for someone else to grow up inside of.

I think about what it means to be a parent. Not just to love your kid, but to show up. Consistently. Without disappearing into your own chaos. Without making them feel like they have to manage your emotions just to keep the house from crumbling. And I think maybe—maybe—the best thing I can do as a mom is to not become one.

Not because I wouldn’t love them. But because I would. So much. Too much. And I would hate myself for not being enough.

There’s grief in this. Even if I know it’s right. Grief for the version of me that built her life around a crib that won’t exist. Grief for the stories I used to tell myself about who I’d be. Grief for the daughter I imagined would save me—before I learned I had to save myself.

I still don’t have a clean answer. I still have moments where I see a baby on someone’s hip and feel a tug I can’t explain. But I also have moments where I remember what it’s like to cry on the floor at 2PM because I forgot how to be a person that day.

And maybe that’s enough clarity for now.