Parenthood - the mere idea - felt like a threat to everything I've spent years building. It meant giving up pieces of myself, lowering my ambition, or worse, settling for mediocrity when the world offered exhilarating opportunities for greatness.
It felt intimidating, consuming, almost suffocating. And when the discussion finally arose - when we danced on the edge of this life-altering question - I made my choice.
I believed I was choosing wisely, consciously dodging the rabbit hole my mother fell into, her dreams forsaken for the sake of nurturing a household that would later grow into resentment and misunderstanding.
I couldn't shake the fear of history repeating itself, couldn't dismiss the whisper in my head that parenthood would demand sacrifices I might resent, and that those sacrifices might unravel the pieces of my identity I had fought to build.
And yet, this choice - the one to safeguard independence over shared blood - haunts me in unpredictable ways. It paints me as selfish and heartless, casting shadows over the version of myself I thought I could live with.
It breaks my heart to admit that the "me" who refused to share her love with her own hypothetical children - the ones who would never hear bedtime stories or feel unconditional expression of warmth - might never fully reconcile with the tenderness buried within her.
I sometimes imagine what it might have been, this life with children. Would I be a good parent? The question terrifies me. If the answer is no - or even anything short of amazing - it feels like justification for the absence of such a reality. And yet, there's something undeniably hollow in never venturing far enough to find out.