The ever-growing dread of deciding to have children
The older I get, the less certain I am about having a child. Some days, I’ll be doing something mundane, like squeegeeing the shower, and feel a sudden, quiet ache to be pregnant. But more often, I’ll go to dinner with a friend or wake up after a full night’s sleep and think about how I don’t want things to change.
I teeter constantly on the edge of wanting a kid. Emphasis on one. Gone are the days when I pictured a gaggle of kids, or even both arms full with two tiny humans. These days, the responsibility of only my dogs feels safer. Simpler.
What makes this so hard to talk about is that I’m not firmly on either side. I’m not steadfast about a child-free life, but I’m not dreaming of nurseries either. I exist in the grey space; the in-between where desire and fear blur together. And that space is hard to name, let alone defend, because it isn’t a stance. It’s more of a limbo. One that isn’t discussed often.
Just last week, my husband and I celebrated our one-year anniversary. During our wedding planning months, I was insistent with anyone who asked: I wanted to start trying on the honeymoon.
But after the wedding passed and that date neared, I had a quiet but very real meltdown. Within 24 hours, I decided we’d push it off by a year. And yes, I decided. I had a conversation about it with my husband, but the choice is ultimately mine. It’s my body, my choice, after all. For what it’s worth, he’s also in no rush.
Now it’s been almost a year since our honeymoon, and we’ve pushed the decision off again.
To help put things into context: I’m thirty-three. And a half. I’m at the age where an invisible line is being drawn by doctors, family, and well-meaning women who whisper about how I should start trying “just in case.”
It’s either now, or later with risk. Or never. Or freeze my eggs. Or maybe adopt, ethically. Regardless of the path, the pressure to choose is no longer in the near-future. It’s real. It’s here.
I used to think, as I got closer to this so-called deadline, that I’d feel more certain. That I’d be overtaken by the desire to create a tiny carbon copy of me and my husband. That some maternal instinct would flip on like a light switch, and all fear would dissipate with the shadows
But instead, the opposite has happened.
The closer I get, the more I’m thoroughly freaked out.
Over this past year, I’ve collected a mental list of reasons why having a child might not be the right decision for me. That’s not to say the good wouldn’t eventually outweigh the hard, but it doesn’t change the fact that the hard is unignorable. Especially for women.
So it’s not surprising that more of us are stepping back and asking ourselves:
Is it worth it?
The pressure to become a mother is everywhere. But the support once you become one? That’s harder to find. We’re told motherhood is the most natural thing in the world, then handed a system that makes it feel like a punishment.
A subtle dread has been growing inside me this past year, occupying the space where the baby I thought I’d have might’ve been. It’s a kind of fear that doesn't make me want to scream, but keeps me up at night in quiet, recurring thoughts.
Most of the women I know have had a rough go with pregnancy. First trimester “morning” sickness seems to have been replaced by every-hour-of-the-day misery. But if that were the worst of it, I could probably suck it up. At least as much as my stomach would allow.
But then there’s childbirth: in the U.S., maternal death rates are rising. Emergency surgeries are common. And women are still being told their pain is exaggerated, sometimes even as they're bleeding out. The stakes aren’t theoretical. They’re real. And in some cases, final.
People (usually men) still say, “It can’t be that bad. Women do it all the time.”
By that logic, chemo must not hurt. Amputations must be easy. Tens of thousands go through them every year, right? As if frequency ever made pain less real.
The only time my thoughts start to feel like panic, screams pounding just behind my chest, is when I think: Women are dying.
Is it selfish to wonder if your life is worth more than the possibility of creating one?
And that’s just in the delivery room. What happens after? When you’re home, healing and unraveling, sleep-deprived and hormonally hijacked? When the world expects you to be a superhero: keep a child alive, “bounce back,” stay present, and somehow maintain your relationships. All while the husband (if there is one) gets praised for pushing a stroller through the grocery store.
I’ve had major depressive disorder since middle school. My meds hold me together now, but what happens when postpartum depression enters the room, too? What happens when the fog rolls in and I can’t see a way out? I’ll most likely need help, and I know my husband will try.
But still. I’m scared of what might grow in silence behind nursery doors.
Maybe the decision would feel easier if I lived near friends who already had kids. But right now, we’d be the first in most of our circles. I know my friends would love my child, but things would change. Slowly, then all at once. And I don’t know if I’m ready for that.
Some days, I grieve the version of me who was sure. Who wanted a baby so badly she’d scroll through name lists and watch videos of moms packing toddler bento boxes or teaching baby sign language.
That version of me fit easily into what was expected. But she wasn’t asking the questions I’m asking now. Her feed skipped the videos from women who felt abandoned, or from husbands who lost their wives in the delivery room.
And yet. Sometimes I picture a baby who has my eyes and my husband’s smile. A child we can be silly with, who gets to become our little adventure buddy. I feel that flicker of longing. It still comes often enough.
But with that flicker comes something else. And it’s that something else I can no longer ignore.
I know my mother will probably see this. Maybe an aunt or even my grandmother. Same goes for my husband’s family. They’ll probably worry; their desire for a new addition to the family burrowing deep in their gut.
But I also know someone like me will see this. And they’ll maybe feel seen. Seen when no one else seems to understand. Words put into existence around an experience that’s murky. This post is for you.
I always thought longing and dread were mutually exclusive. But now I know they can live side by side, taking turns tugging at the same part of you.
That’s it. That’s all. Let me know if you’re struggling with the same point in your life.
I’ll leave you with a few things I’ve been loving lately:
loving 1: This article by milk and cookies about measuring your life in peace rather than productivity.
loving 2: My sleep mask that cups my face like a perfect fitting bra for my eyes.
loving 3: An absurdly dramatic TV show from 2015 called The Royals that I somehow never heard of.
loving 4: Electrolytes from Santa Cruz Paleo because they actually taste good (specifically the mango flavor).