I am supposed to not care or not be bothered by it, but I am. I am supposed to be able to balance work and motherhood with such ease that all the species on the earth look to me for advice, but it’s not like that at all.
I am supposed to.
I am supposed to.
I am supposed to transition from one stage of this process to the next with grace, but it builds under the surface of my skin. I am supposed to say, “I have a good life, what does it matter if I don’t experience motherhood.” I’m supposed to remember all the freedoms I still have that my friends who are now parents don’t and revel in the glory of it.
You see rules and shoulds and supposed to’s ordained my beliefs about womanhood: I spent my twenties rebeling against them all and then one day at thirty-three realized I wanted it, wanted it bad.
Three years later one supposed to now a frayed ribbon that dissolves in water like saffron threads and I find relief in the cozy female voices far and near reaching out through my phone to love me, hug me, support me.
Strangled no more by the expectations, I move forward in a new way–embracing the unknown and reveling in each new turn.
