I never wanted to be a mother. I felt that way since I was a little girl. Perhaps this was related to my childhood and having many siblings from my parents’ marriages. Marriage and childhood weren’t a choice for my grandmothers, and I watched how this affected them. Even in their 80s, one can tell that that generation has more than a little resentment and anger.

When I was in my 20s, I had a few friends who had children. This didn’t help. Both of these kids were needy and emotionally volatile. They had an emotionally volatile start to their life. Both of their fathers had been verbally or even physically abusive to the mother. Being around these children made me not want children. Which feels cruel to say, they were innocent and sweet kids. But demanding and unable to be alone. It wasn’t either of the mother’s faults, and they were working against a persistent, negative influence. It scared me.

It wasn’t until I met one of my best friend’s twin girls that I began to understand how the impact of early trauma influences the experience of motherhood. These twin girls were and are independent and smart. This led me to realize that I did want children, but that I wanted the world for them. Who I chose to have children with could be devastating. My friend’s ex-husband is disappointing and absent. This is far too common, but the choice of motherhood entails this possibility and demands that a woman be able to overcome those obstacles.

Giving birth is the easy part. And yet that’s the only part we focus on in our political climate. We want women to have no choice in their reproductive future, depending on where they live. And we all have seen the disastrous aftermath. Motherhood is fraught with impossible decisions and emotional turmoil. My sister was in the process of leaving a physically abusive relationship. This was when she got pregnant. Thankfully, in Maryland, she was able to have an abortion and get an I.U.D. placed. Had she been forced to carry that child to term, she would’ve been tied to that monstrous excuse for a man for the rest of her life.

Years later, I got pregnant as well. With someone who didn’t want kids but is kind and decent. A person I’m still friends with to this day. In New York, I had no problem getting an abortion. It took a week to recover, and I had an I.U.D. inserted immediately after the procedure. I don’t regret this decision. That child would have likely suffered from the same mental illness that ran rampant in my ex-boyfriend’s family. It was medically managed, and they were decent people, but they had a healthy skepticism of their gene pool.

At times, I find myself sad about having this abortion, only because in the years following, I’ve struggled with infertility. Maybe. I didn’t realize that after having my I.U.D. removed, my fertility might not come back for a year. And it’s possible that the person I tried to have a baby with could’ve been the reason we didn’t conceive. But thank god we didn’t. My life and 20s can be described as a series of trial and error with my romantic partners. Even recently, I was with a person who was unkind. I have to realize my patterns and choices come from a tumultuous childhood, and despite my mother’s best efforts, this has shaped who I am as a person.

If I got pregnant once, it’s fair to assume I could get pregnant again. But now I’m 32, and the fear that I cannot conceive lives in the back of my brain. Birth control seems to affect me to the extent that I no longer use it. I don’t think it’s universally damaging, and it’s still our best option to control our reproductive future. I’m grateful every day that I have not been able to have children yet. Only recently have I made better choices in selecting partners. When I have the financial means, I will finally get my hormones tested.

In a way, my body has protected me from the fate that has befallen many women in the past, present, and future. I have no choice but to choose conscious motherhood. And if another option presents itself, I’ll take it. Fertility treatments are expensive, and I’ll have to live in a place with protections in place to prevent the death of both my unborn child and me. My friend has been encouraging me to have a baby on my own. There are many paths to becoming a mother after all. I have more choice and freedom than my grandmothers, and I do not take that for granted.

Now I have friends who are mothers that I envy and admire. Strong women who are raising strong children, often on their own. It’s no wonder that many adults are scarred and wounded by what happens in adolescence. The strength that is required to combat this reality is a strength that I’ve doubted I have within myself. It’s impossible to quantify and describe. It’s persistently challenging, devastating, and rewarding simultaneously.

I have names picked out. I want to have a little girl. I want to be pregnant, and I want to go through childbirth. Whether that will happen for me remains to be seen. I know that I have to be careful when selecting a partner and that having a child on my own with the help of my friends may be the best radical, new option for me. An option that the women who came before were denied. An option that women, depending on where they live in the world, are still denied. That perspective grounds me. I have a deep gratitude for my body’s hesitation. It’s a blessing.

When I finally become a mother, I’ll be more ready than I was to deal with an unkind world and the impossible choices that mothers make every day.

Finally, I cannot write this without thanking and taking the opportunity to express my gratitude to my fierce and loving mama. I talk to her every day. She’s the kindest and best person I’ve ever known. I see now that all of her choices and our difficulties were for my greater good and that she would’ve moved mountains for me. If I’m even a fraction of the mother she is, my children might just thrive and survive in a world hell-bent on tearing them down.

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