There’s a point in everyone’s life when a decision has to be made. This great question can come at any time. Some people know the answer before they’re even asked. My sister was in kindergarten when she decided she didn’t want kids. My mother knew her whole life she wanted a big family. But what about people like me, the ones who can’t decide which side of the fence to stand on?
I’ve found myself at a crossroads lately. I have no map, and I’m standing in quicksand. Each path offers a rope that could pull me free. Once I grab one, either one, it will tie me to that path. I won’t be able to go back.
Some people know they want children. My mother always wanted a big family—she was aiming for twelve. When she met my father, who also wanted a big family, he talked her down to six. Ultimately, they had four, which is still a lot to some. It certainly feels like a lot when you’re waiting fourth in line for the bathroom before school.
Others know they don’t want children. Maybe they were parentified as kids, or maybe they simply hate the idea of everything being sticky. Whatever the reason, they’re confident that children aren’t for them.
I was the youngest of four girls. We had a large extended family as well. We were packed into the back of the car and slept like sardines at Grandma’s. We waited in line and fought over seconds and leftovers. But I’d rather be in a big, loud, messy family than be an only child with no one to play with. This led me to decide that if I ever did have children, I’d have an even number so no one would be left out.
I have been taking care of people since I was a child. I babysat for the first time when I was five. My mother had shoulder surgery when I was in fourth grade, and I took care of her in the mornings before school—the only way a nine-year-old could—with burnt toast and lots of blankets. I think about having children and I feel warmth. I want to make cookies and tell them my crazy stories. I want to tell them about how I fell in love and about my first heartbreak. I want to sit down and talk about our emotions and help them find their inner voice.
For those of you who are certain, it doesn’t matter which side of the fence you’re on, I envy you. I wish there were something in me that told me which way to go with unwavering conviction. Every time I sit to think about it, I argue with myself. For every pro, there’s a con.
What drives people to want to have kids? Is it a primal urge to keep the species going? There must be a sense of joy that comes with placing a brick on the path forward. Can a life be fulfilled shuttling kids from school to soccer and back again? My mother, and countless others, found joy and fulfillment in that lifestyle. However, now her children are grown, and she frequently asks, “What about my life?” and “Where are my friends?” Can you build a life with children without losing your sense of self?
There are many routes one could take when it comes to having kids: the nuclear family, the dual-income–no-kids dynamic, single parents, or married women who are simultaneously single mothers. Each comes with its own expectations and pressures. Society has pushed many people—especially women—toward having children. Countless women have left behind dreams and opportunities for motherhood. Some are fulfilled by that choice. They love their children and find meaning in that life. Others, though, are drowning in regret. Do I want to risk being someone who gives up her dreams for one she might come to regret by the time it turns five?
I’ve always been fiercely independent and value my freedom. I love looking at the calendar, seeing that I don’t work this weekend, and setting off to spend a couple of days at the beach. I have been cherry-picking what I want out of motherhood—the kinds of connections and experiences I’d want to have with my child. I know I could fill a life with a child with love and joy and emotional regulation skills. And a life without a child would be just as full of love and joy and less stressed financially.
I have a fear of being a disabled mom. A mom who can’t play with her child because of her illness. I don’t want to create a home where a child has to tiptoe for any reason, especially not to accommodate my headaches. I know myself. I know how I react once I reach my limit. I can’t stop it—it’s something I’m working on. I step back and take space to calm down and collect my thoughts. But how do you do that with a child who doesn’t understand why you’re angry or what’s happening?
I don’t have the answer for myself. I guess I’ll be stuck in this quicksand a little longer while I keep searching. I wonder if I’m running out of time. Is the sand at my ankles, my hips, my shoulders? How much longer do I have before this decision is made for me? Maybe it would be easier if someone else just told me what to do—if I let myself conform to societal pressures, whichever direction they bend me toward.
For anyone reading this, sinking in their own crossroads, I hope you know you’re not alone. There is no wrong answer, and as you grow and change, your answer may change too. I know I sounded really final in the beginning, but I’m anxious and dramatic, so you’ll have to forgive me.
The Lyons Den 
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