What feels like the biggest decision of a lifetime

Why I can’t stop contemplating the question of children

My desk (shout to my brilliant friend Sara’s book, Momfluenced, pre-order it!)

I cannot stop asking myself whether or not I should try to have a child. At forty, the need to figure this out feels urgent to say the least. But so often, the conversations around it feel lacking, framed in a sort of binary desire—do you want children—which, to me, misses the crux of many people’s dilemma.

I recently read a piece on the topic from a woman whose life circumstances were more or less where she wanted them to be—committed relationship, secure finances, job she loves—and found it evading the heart of where so much of my own ambivalence lies. The messiness of my decision comes from untangling, amidst circumstances that are not ideal, what I’m willing to do or give up (or not) in order to do it. In other words, the question is not if I want a child (sure, ideally), but at what cost? 

It’s hard to write about this, though I’ve been contemplating the topic for years and have tried to before, because I don’t think I have anything of value to say that Sheila Heti hasn’t already covered in her book Motherhood. A book I keep near my bed and bring with me when I travel, like a Bible of sorts. When I feel lost, I open to any page and it offers a glimmer of self-knowledge, reminding me I’m not insane or at least not alone. 

I used to envy the main character, Sheila, because she had a serious partner who she loved and who was happy to have a child with her, or not; her partner already had one of his own. At the time, I hadn’t been in a serious, committed relationship since my twenties. So the question of whether or not I wanted children felt urgent when I read the book at thirty-six because, in a sense, it was, but it also felt moot because I knew, for personal reasons, I didn’t want to raise a child alone. 

Instead, I contemplated how much effort I was willing to put into dating in order to give myself the option, which, after a miserable decade of online-dating attempts, was an easier answer—not much. Maybe not-so-coincidentally, this coincided with me falling in love with writing. Around that time, I accepted that life wasn’t going to look how I always imagined it would—falling in love and building a family—but, in writing, I had found something else I loved, something far beyond what I’d imagined.

Four years later—it still feels bizarre—I am actually in a committed relationship, oddly, with someone like Sheila’s partner, who already has a child of his own. So the question has re-emerged (a huge privilege in itself to even have the option). But in those past four years I’ve settled into a version of adulthood in which not having kids is kind of fundamental. I’ve prioritized freedom and flexibility by not answering to dependents, and the need for extended time and space to think and write, a practice that, when removed, makes me feel as if a pile of dirty dishes is building up in my the pit of my soul.

People don’t like to talk about money and doing things for money, which is insane given that nearly everything in our society is governed by capitalism. But the reality is that I cannot make a living off my writing. Nor do I have a partner whose income and benefits I can rely on. Instead, I schedule writing in on the weekends and early mornings, I save up and take chunks of time off work. If I have a child, flexibility will be harder, since those hours will be swept up by care-taking. And I will need to work full-time (not on writing) for the next eighteen years. Of course many moms figure out how to do all of this! But it takes a ton of time and effort and planning, which, very simply, sounds exhausting—because it is.

Writing isn’t the only thing I fear giving up. There are at least a dozen women in my life who I’m regularly checking in on, meeting up with, and holding space for. When you’re single for the entirety of your thirties, you learn to put real work into your friendships, and it pays off in ways that are hard for others to grasp. I love that a close girlfriend can text me at 4pm on a Friday and I can meet her for a multi-hour walk in the park that night, a walk that leaves us both feeling refreshed, seen, and understood in a way that is astoundingly rare. I’m terrified, because I’ve seen it happen—it’s the simple logistics of only so many hours in a day—that I will be a worse friend if I have children, that I will no longer show up as well for that community. Women who really make space for one another well into adulthood is a real special ecosystem to be a part of.

“What does your gut say?” people ask, as if everything else might be muddled, but one’s gut is clear as day. My gut tends to be lined with fear and anxiety and wrapped up in about five layers of depression. I have no idea what, under all that, it is saying. 

I tell my therapist it’s not so much that I don’t have an opinion on the matter, it’s that I have an intense, insisting position, it just varies every single day. There are days I wake up when the thought of a child makes me want to crawl under a rock, retreat to the woods or at least some sort of cell so I can sit in my thoughts infinitely in peace. Then, there are others, when the desire is so acute, where I feel I absolutely must at least try, that it’s only fear getting in my way, and I’ve never been one to shy from fear.

Most of the time, when I imagine a baby physically inside of my body, I have an overwhelming sense of terror, the feeling of being trapped. When I sit with this and really try to access its root, I understand that it has the very real and frequent possibility of truth—pregnancy is a trap for many women, hence the essential need for choice—but is not true in my specific circumstance, in which I would be opting into pregnancy. In this context, it reminds me of how I used to feel about sex. When I was in my twenties, sex felt like an act against me. It was impossible to conjure pleasure at the thought of it—at least not physical; there was emotional pleasure in feeling wanted—because after some traumatic formative experiences, I associated it with men’s control even in the safest of circumstances. It took decades to engage in sex on my own terms, to enjoy and feel it was for my own pleasure. This is, sometimes, how I feel about pregnancy, that it could be for me, if only I could see past its control over me.

See what I mean about gut feelings?

My mom put her children first, always. While she insists she doesn’t regret it for a second, her life became a form of survival for my sister and I. I love her for that and owe her everything. But it terrifies me. Up until around thirty-five, I was heads down chasing superficial achievements like job titles, fancy degrees, numbers on a scale, terrible men. I didn’t have to put in the work of thinking for myself and the harder work of trusting myself when I did. I didn’t value my own pleasure—what even was pleasure beyond validation and achievement? As I’ve said many times, writing was my gateway to accessing this feeling of uninfluenced want. It’s still very new, this notion of my own pleasure, and the thought of being thrown back into a life of doing things for others at the very point I’m starting to figure who I am, others aside, well, it’s scary.

Here, with fear again. But aren’t we supposed to listen to our body when it warns us?

I feel embarrassed to admit why I want to have a child. People don’t ask the question because the desire is assumed; no need to explain why you want them, only why you don’t. But I don’t think all reasons are good. Many of mine are narcissistic: I’m curious to experience a version of myself in the world, though of course—of course—kids are their own people. I’m hungry for human experience; I don’t mean skydiving or traveling, but feeling and connection, and this is a big one. (Although, I remind myself, having one’s life to themselves is a big one, too, and arguably a rarer one to experience.) It will give me a sense of purpose when so often I’m at a loss.

There are plain-old, silly reasons, too. They’re so cute. I want to touch their little feet. I really like this one name. And other reasons: The sound of a child’s giggle makes everything else seem pointless. I’m honestly curious to meet my child, to see what they’d be like. And then there is the big one. The time I feel the desire for children most acutely is when I’m with my mom and my sister, laughing until we cry, completely ourselves, at ease, and I’m desperate to make this feeling we have, this thing, grow—this thing called family. But then why do I feel so compelled to grow a good thing, rather than just enjoy what’s already there?

I’ll admit, it would be a much harder decision if my boyfriend’s son wasn’t in our lives. Much of what draws me towards children, I’m lucky to get with him. I love kid shit. Introducing him to Warheads and Push-up pops and Swedish Fish at the candy store, playing spy games, assisting with (inciting) pranks on his dad. I get to experience the world freshly through his big little eyes, see how much unbridled joy the smallest things bring him. But then I’m also reminded, through his eyes, how hard life is, how much we struggle through every step of it, how big our dreams are and how hard it is to get them, and though I know this is partially (if not fully) my depression talking, it’s hard to imagine throwing someone into all that for my own selfish reasons.

On a walk with my dear, dear friend’s new adorable baby.

Friends will often tell me, we didn’t really know either, it just happened. My partner tells me the only way he thinks we’ll have one, is if we just do it, because I can overthink it forever. I’m sure they’re all right. But, to me, that feels not only like a cop-out given that I’ve spent so many years contemplating it, but a self-betrayal, to leave the most profound decision of my life up to chance. Also, I totally get their point. 

Even my therapist tells me that if I decide to have a child, all this thinking will fall away. People say the word thinking like it’s a curse, something to expel. I try to explain: that’s exactly what I’m afraid of! I’m terrified I’ll get so caught up in having a child that I’ll lose my perspective, that all the things that fascinate me now will dissolve into the act of care-taking.

I think I’m stuck on it because it’s the first decision in my life I can’t take back; a real confrontation of one’s mortality. I’ve become very good at hedging my life. Switching careers, moving cross-country again and again and again. My partner, rather perceptively and a little cruelly, observed that I treat the various parts of my life like an Airbnb, trying things on, but never fully committing. He’s not wrong. I take pride in the kind of elasticity I’ve created. Pure freedom. Nothing to lose. 

Except, of course, in assuring infinite possibilities, you eliminate the possibility of feeling truly grounded and stabilized. The things that matter most to me are my family. The other is my freedom. Often, these are at odds. There is no conclusion to draw. At some point you just have to make a choice, trust that it will be whatever you make of it, and jump off the cliff. The only thing I know is that I can’t stay peering down the edges, wondering, forever.

Reading Recs:

I was big into interviews this week, here are two of my favs…

• Rachel Syme’s interview with the brilliant Kate Berlant about her new show and the artifice of authenticity (if I don’t mention my POOG ladies at least once in this newsletter, does it even count?)

• This conversation with the author Annie Ernaux and filmmaker Céline Sciamma, the kind of discussion you wish you could just make a bed and live inside of.