The Pressure to Become a Mother

Photo: Amber Burns

This post is a part of a special series Mom/Me: An exploration of motherhood and beyond. This collection of poetry, essays, and visual media showcase the many facets of motherhood and our relationship to it. In partnership with Mater Mea.

By Ashley M. Coleman

I sat in the non-descript exam room picking at my fingers while waiting for the doctor to enter. I was already annoyed because it took about a month and half to get an appointment that was due to the fact that I landed in the ER with a possible cyst rupture. I also had to wait close to 45 minutes when I got there because the doctor was running behind. And I had questions. Questions about these fibroids that the gynecologist in the ER mentioned might be fairly simple to remove.

I had routine banter with my gynecologist about how things were going and she did her exam. After, I remembered that I needed to ask about these fibroids that were becoming more of an irritant by the days. I literally lose the first day of my period. It knocks me out for the count even though I’m on birth control to help the symptoms. I swear, most days I look a couple months pregnant and I’m tired of having to pay the remaining balance on ultrasounds every six months. I thought maybe I would get some expert advice, but instead I left feeling despondent, hurt, and lost about my uterine health options.

“It would all be easier if you just had some babies,” she said in response to reviewing my options for treatment. The only real choice, a myomectomy, a major surgery that encompasses a 4-6 week recovery period and will probably cost me a pretty coin even though I have good insurance. All the other choices she discussed, uterine embolism and hysterectomy, would clearly affect my fertility.

What I heard in that comment was, “If you would just have babies, we could take your uterus out and be done with it.” It reminded me of how many women in my family have had their uteruses removed. It reminded me of the lack of compassion that I feel black women receive in health care. I felt stuck. I felt uncared for by a fellow black woman who just happened to be a gynecologist. I felt like the pain and discomfort of fibroids is just something you have to bear or you’ll be forced into motherhood before you’re ready to really deal with them once and for all.

At 33, soon to be 34, I literally feel like the walls are closing in on me when it comes to making a decision on motherhood. This is exacerbated by the fact that I’m married which adds another layer of pressure. People assume that once you’re married and relatively stable, (read: a paycheck away from disaster) you would just want to have children.

I’m not there. Quite honestly, if anything sealed the deal for me it was getting a dog. Having another living being to be responsible for was a major shift for my husband and I. We were used to going where we wanted and doing whatever we wanted to do. All of a sudden we had to figure out dog sitting plans or how long we were comfortable leaving the dog in the crate. I was told that financially I would only have to worry about food for a dog, but that was a lie. I spend money on yearly shots, monthly flea and tick and heartworm medicines and a host of things in between. I love my dog a lot, but he definitely brought a lot more responsibility than I anticipated. It took being in it to actually realize what I’d signed up for.

My husband is a full-time entrepreneur who works in the music and entertainment space. He works crazy hours and is pretty much on for his work 24/7. He also travels a ton for DJ gigs, pre-coronavirus, of course. I have a lot more structure with my full-time work, also in the music space, but I, too find myself traveling during the summer months and having work commitments outside of normal office hours. I know we are not the only busy people to ever need to make a decision about children, but it is indeed a decision. A big one.

There is so much speculation on why millennials aren’t having children and here is my truth:I am deathly afraid of having a child that I’ll resent. At this time in my life, a child feels like something else I will have to add to an already full plate. With work, managing a house, and trying to manage some semblance of a romantic relationship with my husband, I cannot imagine what that would be like. Never mind the student loan debt, paying off cards, and trying to find our way into the world of the fiscally sound. Yes, the love of creating something all your own may seem dreamy, but in practicality is a lot of work. I am reading your quarantined tweets, parents, which only supports this thinking.

Not only do I have these apprehensions about parenthood, I find myself up against the proverbial clock that men don’t necessarily have to worry about as much. Their fertility endures, while I have fibroids competing for space in my uterus and a limited amount of eggs busting loose each month.

I know there are all these options, like freezing eggs or adoption, but it comes down to this, do I really want to be a mother? Am I fine with being the professional auntie that comes to every function bearing gifts from her whimsical travels? The one that her niece and nephew vacation with for summers? Do I need to have a child to feel like I’ve somehow completed this whole cycle of family and marriage that is the “norm?”

I always thought I would be someone’s mom. I am struggling with the idea of whether that has changed for me. Is it selfish somehow to only want to worry about myself, my husband, and dog Coltrane because that’s enough in itself to handle? Am I missing the whole point of what life is really about?

Right now I have more questions than answers. When you express this fear to others, they try to assure you by saying that you’ll rise to the occasion, which I have no doubt in my mind that I will. That’s almost the problem. There are not many things in this life that I have not given my all to be the best at. But that reality, that there will be something else that trumps everything else in my life, may be the scariest part I’m not certain I’m ready for. But I cannot ignore that my most robust fertility years are already behind me. With an approaching birthday, I’m just another year closer to what they affectionately call a geriatric pregnancy. Geriatric!

The reality here is, no one can make these decisions for you. We have to learn how to be bold and forge our own territories because a lot has changed from when our parents had their cookie cutter families where they were married by 22, buying their first house by 25, and dropping a couple of kids. There’s so much that I still want to do and accomplish and I want to be able to give my all to those things.

I could not have been happier that I didn’t have to quarantine with a child. That I’m not having to manage both my work and family remotely. And sometimes that part scares me more. That I’m happy like this. Content like this because at another time, it wouldn’t have seemed possible to feel so complete without that last piece, a child.

I do think of my own childhood and all the great memories. Having dinner with my mom and brother. Going on road trips with the whole family. The bond that I have with my parents and wonder if I’m cheating myself.

My resolve? Honestly, if it’s in God’s cards for me to be a mom, I don’t think there will be anything I can do to stop it. So, in the meantime, I’m going to just live my best life, continue healing myself as a person so that if I do have a kid they have a fighting chance at being the best human they can possibly be. And maybe, I’ll also look for a new gynecologist.

Ashley M. Coleman is the Founder of Permission to Write, a freelance writer and project manager based in Philadelphia. She’s written for The Cut, Zora Mag, Apartment Therapy and more. She’s working on her first novel and tweeting about it in the process. Follow her @ashleymcoleman_