Confessions of an unborn mother
On being childless at mid-life
Childbearing is one aspect of womanhood that is perhaps the most lauded, as well as the most fraught. The capacity to create life is a uniquely feminine superpower. Women are the portal that bridges finite form and infinite possibility.
Yet motherhood is interlaced with countless cultural conditions and judgments and “shoulds.” For centuries now, the dominant culture has objectified women for their usefulness in baby making. If we collectively view female bodies as a utility, then it comes down to the ability to bear children that makes a woman, woman.
Of course, the decision to have kids or not is a deeply personal one, nestled within a many layered web of factors and influences. On some level, all humans are biologically wired and culturally conditioned with this aim of procreation. Both men and women can have powerful impulses to leave a legacy with their genetics. Beyond feeding ourselves and fighting for survival, our next primal drive is to try to cheat death by making something that will outlive us. Humans are designed for creation.
If you are living in a woman’s body, one of the strongest spells we are under is that creator consciousness must be expressed by making a human baby. This is so embedded in our programming that we take it for granted. To support this program, women are bombarded with marketing messages on how to attract and capture a man. We are trained to use an array of subconscious hooks to achieve this end.
Consider some of the common female beauty ideals, which are subtle signs of fertility, capacity and desirability for childbearing: tilted forward pelvis created by wearing high heeled shoes (open and ready to receive a man’s seed); painted red lips (to simulate the blood flush of orgasm, and optimal conditions for impregnating); curvy full bottom and wide-set hips (advantageous for easeful birthing); big breasts (helpful for nourishing offspring); symmetrical face (indication of good genes).
I could go on, but I think you get the idea.
With all the programming I’ve been force-fed, reaching 40-something without any progeny — accidental or otherwise — is quite the achievement. But according to society’s standard way of seeing, this is the biggest failure of my life.
The rest of this piece is paywalled because it contains some raw personal sharing. Readership is limited for my emotional safety. I trust that those who pass through this gate of intention are invested enough to take care with my vulnerability. No casual scroll-bys here.