Recently, during a visit to a friend in Houston, Texas, I found myself at a birthday celebration for two young sisters, aged 3 and 5. The venue was a church that boasted a basketball court, a bowling alley, and enough play structures to keep the little ones entertained, which was quite a revelation for me as someone from suburban New Jersey.
As I munched on chicken nuggets, I couldn’t help but think about the future I envisioned—one filled with children. Watching those kids competing to not drop bowling balls on their toes filled me with joy until I made a trip to the restroom, where I discovered, two days early, that my period had arrived.
Surrounded by children fueled by sugary birthday cake, I felt a wave of sadness. Just a month prior, I had experienced a late cycle, which had sparked a flicker of hope that my dream of motherhood might finally be on the horizon at 39. But that hope quickly faded as reality set in. I had packed sanitary products for my trip, but in my usual routine, I hadn’t brought any that day. Now, as I rejoined the festivities, my excitement was dulled by the disappointment of my cycle throwing a wrench in my aspirations.
The phrase “having it all” often annoys me, yet in that moment, all I could think about was how unfulfilled I felt with only part of it. I’m in a loving, serious relationship with a partner who treats me wonderfully. Professionally, I’ve edited over 50 anthologies in erotica, penned two sex columns, and even published an article in The New York Times—a dream I’ve held since my teenage years. I recently taught an online writing course that sold out, charging three times what I initially thought was reasonable. When friends ask about my dream job, I tell them I’m living it. And yet, despite this success, I still feel a longing for something I don’t have.
If a genie appeared and offered me the chance to trade my career for a healthy newborn, I wouldn’t hesitate. My desire for motherhood began at 30, a time when I thought I had plenty of time to spare. I immersed myself in my work as an adult magazine editor and filled my evenings with trivia and comedy shows, having no concrete plans for the future. Now, as I approach 40, I feel time slipping away. I know friends who’ve had children well into their 40s, but the thought of turning 40 looms over me as a threshold into a phase where many of my peers are already mothers.
While my career and relationship are thriving, I often find myself fixated on what’s missing. I don’t have a child to play games with or dress up in cute outfits. I don’t have a little one to throw birthday parties for or to bake cakes with. I live with a wonderfully supportive boyfriend, whose kindness amazes me daily—like when he became my “butt nurse” during a particularly sensitive health issue. I don’t want to sound ungrateful for all I’ve achieved or the life we’ve built, yet I still wake up feeling like something crucial is absent.
Every day is a challenge as I navigate the decisions of adulthood while still holding out hope for motherhood. Should I order that glass of champagne or stick to seltzer? Is spending $100 on a bra too much? Should I visit a friend in Bangkok or save for a rainy day? I often wonder, “What Would A Good Mom Do?” But this line of questioning can become a trap, presuming that all moms make perfect decisions, which I know isn’t true from my experiences with friends and family who have kids. 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 desire for motherhood looms large, creating an emotional tug-of-war between what I have and what I long for.