On not birthing a child

I broke a rule.

You're not meant to be sad about not having kids. You meant to swallow your friends stories of how hard it is, or to have made very strong feminist choices about body autonomy.

But I don't feel that.

In my mid 40s I hang on to each endometriosis contraction of pain as a link to all the women who came before me. I plea through tears of pain and lean into the ghost arms of my mother and grandmother. And howl “How did I end up the last of my line?” And they do not answer because they are dead. And I don't feel stupid for asking them anyway.

These become just outlines of conversations I will never get to have. Empty speech bubbles that clatter against the walls, tantruming for response and trying to tie them into clues.

But you can't manipulate ghosts into answers none of you will ever find.

But I have to remember, what I choose to remember, is it I come from a long line who were never allow choices.

We frame motherhood as natural, as inevitable, as what should have been. The truth is that it would rarely have been a choice.

Maybe I come from women who would have loved to lay on beaches and read books until noon. Maybe my ancestors would have liked to educate themselves more, or just stare at the sky and eat dinner at 9:00pm in a ballgown, or just their knickers, if they wanted to.

It is foolish to pretend our legacy is natural order. And it's just naive to believe that I too could be a version of all of my people ever dreamed of for themselves.

Maybe I didn't let them down.

Maybe I am their future dreams.