... I couldn’t remember a time in my childhood, or my adolescence, that I dreamed of being a mother, of having a child. And still, this realization means nothing to me, because I still can’t tell if this was due to a disinterest or an expectation. Did I always just know that one day I would be a mother, and therefore never feel the necessity to hope and dream for it? Or have I always pushed it off with an idea of “later” that really means “never.”

I had a precious baby doll growing up, I used to help mother my little brother out of pure enjoyment, I’ve never been the kind of person that jokes about kicking kids or gets annoyed when babies cry on planes, I have a niece I would literally die for and who I tell everyone about.

I know what it is to be maternal and I do care for that feeling. So what is so confusing to me about making use of my fertility, or giving myself a 9 month break from blood soaked pads, in 10 or so years? About doing what my body was born to do?

Maybe that is it. Maybe I am scared of pregnancy, not the aftermath of it. Maybe, in the deepest depths of my gut, right next to my waiting ovaries, I am scared that I am not selfless enough to give my child my body without expecting anything in return. Maybe I need to return my mom’s voicemail...