for the past four years, i have tried to have a baby.
but let me start further back than that. when she was 17, my sister had a baby. my family lamented, gnashed their teeth, tut-tutted, shook their heads. she ruined her life, they said. she hadn't even graduated high school, they asked: what would become of her now?
well, i'll tell you what become of her: a wonderful mother to two - now grown - incredible humans. one of the strongest people i know. a woman with an endless desire to care for and nourish others. i still cannot wrap my head around her bravery as a teenager, looking at the future ahead of her, knowing entirely what she wanted, ignoring the naysayers and barreling into the unknown. her decisiveness is something i've always admired.
at that time (i was 12), i was horrified to think of childbirth. to be honest, i still am. the idea never sat right with me - giving up my body to the chaos of it all, potentially dying, the potential for unbearable loss, the pain, the absolute uncertainty. it was something i never ever thought i wanted to endure - impacted somewhat by seeing the response of my family to my sister's young pregnancy - but also wholly a notion and feeling of my own. when i was the same age my sister was when she got pregnant, i asked a doctor about getting my tubes tied (of course, they wouldn't do it. i wasn't old enough to make those kinds of decisions, they said).
so i spent the majority of my young adulthood fairly certain that i would never get married (that's another story for another time) and absolutely, soul certain that i would never have a baby. that was not the path for me. absolutely not. no fucking way.
but then i met my husband. i have have grown older with him, 5 years of dating and then marriage, and now 10 years of that. the most wonderful man i have ever known. someone so nurturing and so kind... his compassion and care for others consistently knocking me back. someone who would make an unbelievably wonderful father, coupled with my own growth, aging, entering my thirties... that biological clock just tick tick ticking away. so we tried. to my own surprise, we were trying. casually. just to see. a toe dipped into the unknown future ahead of us.
and you assume (if you've ever spent the majority of your life using various methods of birth control to avoid a "mistake") that it will just happen. but so often it doesn't. a year passed, then we entered a pandemic and we stopped trying because, wow, how do you try to bring a human into the world when the world is falling apart all around you? but things eased somewhat and we tried again. then I went to the doctor - had horrible painful xrays, ultrasounds, blood tests that made me nearly pass out. it was the blood test that said it: you waited too long, maybe, or you just didn't have what was needed from the start.
so you see. there's a thing about stepping into the unknown, no matter how casually. you can't just close your eyes and jump blind (well, maybe you can, but i certainly can't). in the darkness i needed to imagine at least the vague shape of the next thing to stand on. what would it look like? how would i manage? i pictured myself in this new reality, rolled it around on my tongue to get a feel for it. and in the imagining, without even realizing it, it felt like the only place left to stand.
our casualness, before i knew it, soon became very serious. options were weighed, pros were considered and cons were proven. what would it take? tens of thousands of dollars, medical intervention, going to another country to afford said medical intervention, what was i thinking? all for this thing that i had spent the majority of my life trying to avoid at all costs? my mind felt like it was not my own, my longing became despair, my thoughts a laundry list of future regrets and past mistakes. i needed this, i needed to jump into this unknown. it became all consuming.
it became a sort of fantasy: the person i would be on the other side, all new and shiny and chrome. obliteration of the self, rebuilding as something different, with a distinct purpose, a compass. a mother. i didn't fear the chaos any longer, i craved it.
i slowed. i am slowing. i am remembering who i was when i took that tiny tip toe into the darkness of the unknown those four years ago. i saw a paths spread out in front of me then, beautiful paths full of possibility, love, tenderness, family, growth. but then suddenly that one path became brighter than the rest and i started to forget there were ever any other options.
but in the slowing the other paths have come back into focus. my life, my wonderful life, with my husband, with my dog. our plans and our dreams. the things i wanted and longed for before this new unknown presented itself to me. that the feeling of lack was a lie, because i have so, so much.
i have realised that what i was wanting was a path that was set for me, something to anchor me and tell me what to be next, on the cusp of my 40th year on this planet. no turning back. the absolutism of giving myself over to something out of my control. and there is nothing wrong with that... but it is perhaps not the best reason to bring a new life into the world.
so i have paused once again. talking with my love, support from my friends, countless hours sitting and thinking harder than i've maybe thought in my entire life. and realising my reasoning for longing so deeply has more to do with my own internal self and uncertainty than with anything else, and that i don't actually have to do this. that i can let it go, and find my own path without the anchor and absolutism. and my god, it felt so freeing. i felt this weight lift off my shoulders, and saw a new unknown present itself to me, less like a darkness and more like a blossom.
i don't know what the future looks like exactly. but i know i feel such a relief to let go and let it be what it will be. there is no loss - only love - and a new wild, beautiful unknown.
blakekathryn
pixelskylines
theartofmadeline
vaporwave
gummygunk
gamechangershow
romaincrisis
