From as young as I can remember, I have always loved children. I was the family babysitter, loving camp counselor, “Do my make up!” cheer coach. The idea of being a mother with a family seemed a given at birth. I recall having a journal with baby names – first and middle – etched with hearts around them for when my “true love” and I would be expecting. By my freshman year of high school, I had acquired a Rolodex full of names.
But by the time I reached my freshman year of college, the names underwent a disappearing act. The more opportunity I saw, the more distant my desire to be someone’s mother became. Success and motherhood could no longer coexist – the choice felt either/or.
Related: Childless by Choice: A Powerful Act of Self Love
That positive sign applied a pressure I had never experienced before. There I was, 23 years old, a month into marriage, six months out of undergrad, and I was going to be someone’s mother. ALREADY? A week before learning of my pregnancy I was mapping out the next big step forward. I was settling into life with this man that I knew and loved deeply but hadn’t experienced life with as “just us.”
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