During a recent trip to Austin, Texas, I found myself at a birthday bash for two lively sisters aged 3 and 5, who are friends of my buddy’s kids. Stepping into a church that boasted a basketball court, a bowling alley, and an array of play structures, I was completely taken aback—what a world away from my quiet, suburban New Jersey bubble!
As I munched on chicken nuggets and watched the little ones navigate the bowling alley without dropping heavy balls on their toes, I thought, “This is what the future could hold for me.” I was genuinely enjoying myself—yes, I’m that person who can’t resist scrolling through every photo of your kids and is always game for a round of Candy Land or air hockey—until a trip to the bathroom changed my mood.
There, I unexpectedly discovered that my period had arrived two days early. Surrounded by children buzzing with sugar, I felt a wave of sadness wash over me. Just a month before, my cycle had been four days late, igniting a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, at 39, my dream of motherhood might finally be within reach. Clearly, that hope was dashed—again. I had packed pads for my trip, but didn’t anticipate needing them that day, as my cycle usually runs like clockwork. However, here I was, trapped in a time warp of disappointment.
The fierce competition over foosball and the adorable little fashionistas lost their charm in that moment. I’ve always disliked the phrase “having it all,” yet I couldn’t shake the feeling of emptiness that came from only having part of it all. I’m in a loving, serious relationship with a partner who treats me like royalty—seriously, he even played “butt nurse” for a week when I had a bit of a medical issue. I’ve edited over 50 anthologies in my chosen field of erotica, have two columns, and just published an article in The New York Times—something I dreamed of since my teenage years. I even started teaching an online writing course that sold out at a price I would have never dared to charge before. When friends ask about my dream career, I proudly say I’m living it. Still, I can’t shake the nagging feeling that something is missing.
If a genie popped up at my desk right now, offering to swap my successful career for a healthy baby, I wouldn’t hesitate. My desire to become a mom became clear when I was 30. Back then, I thought I had all the time in the world—juggling a job as an adult magazine editor by day and trivia and comedy nights out. Now I find myself counting my life in cycles, feeling low when my period shows up and hopeful when it doesn’t. With my 40th birthday looming, I feel like time is slipping away. Many of my friends have already welcomed children, and here I am, still waiting.
My career and relationship are thriving after years of uncertainty, but I often feel like I’m missing out on the joys of parenthood—no kids to play games with or dress up in adorable outfits, no birthday parties to plan or cakes to decorate. I adore the supportive boyfriend I live with, but it doesn’t fill the void I feel when I see children walking to school or rolling suitcases that are almost bigger than they are.
Every day, I grapple with choices that feel like they should be made for future kids I’m not sure will ever come. Do I indulge in a glass of champagne or stick to seltzer? Is spending $100 on a bra too extravagant? Should I visit a friend across the globe or save for a rainy day? What Would A Good Mom Do?
But this cycle of questioning can become a trap—it assumes that all parents make perfect decisions, which I know is far from true. I’ve spent enough time with friends and family who have kids to understand that parenting is messy. I hope to join their ranks soon, but until then, my otherwise fulfilling life feels incomplete.
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In summary, while I cherish my career and relationship, the longing for motherhood often overshadows my achievements, leaving me to navigate the complexities of hope and reality.