Why I Thought Motherhood Wasn't Meant for Me

Not her fault. Not anyone’s. Just the cruel lottery of illness.

She’s the strongest woman I know.
A fighter who shows up, even when the fight feels impossible.
A woman who still manages to smile through pain, to crack jokes through frustration, to be beautiful in her resilience.

But as a kid, it’s hard to understand what illness really steals, not just from the person who’s sick, but from everyone who loves them.
There were moments she couldn’t be there the way she wanted to be, and I didn’t always know how to reach for her.  Not her fault. Not anyone’s.

I learned to keep things to myself, to not worry her, to be strong when she couldn’t. And that’s where it started — this quiet fear that being a mother meant losing yourself, or worse, losing control of your body, your freedom, your life.

How Caregiving in Childhood Changes How We Love, Nurture, and Choose Our Partners I grew up watching my dad take care of my mom. Full on legend! He was her steady hand, her driver, her nurse, her partner, her pain in the ass  in every sense. And somewhere deep down, I started to confuse caretaking with love. Maybe that’s why I spent so many years choosing partners who needed fixing. I thought being needed was the same as being loved. I thought nurturing meant sacrificing. I mistook responsibility for intimacy. And maybe  just maybe that’s why motherhood scared me. Because I’d seen what it could demand. I’d seen what it could take.

It wasn’t that my mom did anything wrong. She didn’t. Nor did my dad!
But watching her illness shape our world taught me to associate womanhood with loss of health, of energy, of choice.
I didn’t realize it then, but I was terrified of repeating that story in my own way. The Hidden Fears Women Carry About Motherhood, Identity, and Losing Themselves

What if I got sick?

What if my husband did?

What if something happened to my child before me — how would I go on?

Those thoughts sat in the back of my mind for years, still do. 

And then there were the quieter fears the ones that show up in the middle of the night:

Selfishness:Why would I give up my independence ? Absolutely, not!

Impatience:What if I lose my shit on my kid and now I am on the cover of the “Worst Mom Ever” mag ( I know it doesn’t exist) 

Financial stress:In this economy, P-AAA-LEASE.

Space:Time for myself, for my husband, for my dog too, how does one do this? 

Body image:Fearing what pregnancy would do to my reflection in the mirror. I already struggle with body dysmorphia. 

She was 35 when she was diagnosed with MS. She was learning about this phase around the same time of being told she was sick. Therefore, we never spoke about this part of life. 

So when my hormones started shifting, when my emotions swung like a pendulum, when depression crept in and premenopause started showing up uninvited, I felt a bit naive and blindsided.

No one told me this part of womanhood could feel like your body turning on you.

The weight gain.
The irritability.
The sleepless nights.
The sudden wave of tears over nothing.
The brain fog.
The anxiety through the roof. 

It wasn’t until I started reading, learning, talking with my core best friends who were going through it too, that I began to understand. That this, too, was part of becoming.

And in a strange way, it made me feel closer to my mom,  like maybe I was walking through a different kind of illness, one she couldn’t prepare me for, but could understand completely.

The Moment I Realized Why Motherhood Scared Me More Than I Ever Admitted When people talk about choosing not to have kids, they usually make it sound simple.
Like it’s a preference, a lifestyle choice, a “maybe someday” that quietly fades.
Mine wasn’t that simple. Mine was shaped by what I saw growing up.

When my mom got sick, our whole world shifted. Not just hers. Not just mine. Everyone’s.
Three kids under thirteen, a mom fighting for her independence, and a dad doing everything in his power to keep the entire family afloat.
I watched him carry all of it. Her care, our needs, the house, the emotional load no one talks about. I saw it. All of it.
And somewhere deep inside me, a belief formed: Motherhood can break you. It can break a marriage. It can break the people around you.

I saw how illness stole things from my mom — not her love, not her presence, not her heart but her independence, her energy, her ability to just… be.

I saw what it took from my dad — his time, his freedom, the “partner” part of partnership. He became everything to everyone, and somehow nothing belonged to him anymore.

No wonder I grew up terrified of repeating the same story.
No wonder I felt like motherhood might be impossible for me.
No wonder the idea of being responsible for a tiny human felt like a mountain I wasn’t sure I could climb.

I didn’t want to lose myself.
I didn’t want to lose my marriage.
I didn’t want to lose my body.
I didn’t want to lose my freedom, or my emotional stability.

And truthfully? I didn’t want to risk becoming a version of my parents’ story.
One where love survives, but not without being stretched, strained, and reshaped.

So yeah… I developed a selfish streak. Not because I didn’t care.

But because I grew up watching two parents who had zero room to be selfish, not even for a minute.

There was no space for their needs. No margin for their desires. No time to breathe.

And I think a part of me swore, internally, I will not live that way.

It took me a long time to understand: My fear of motherhood wasn’t about babies.
It wasn’t about diapers or sleep or logistics.
It was about survival — mine and everyone else’s.

And once I finally admitted that truth to myself, everything else in my story made sense. How I Found Purpose Through Mentorship When Motherhood Didn’t Follow a Traditional Path For years, my husband and I talked about fostering. We still do. I loved the idea until I realized how hard it would be to give a child back. I couldn’t bear the thought of saying goodbye to someone who’d finally felt safe, someone I had grown to love. 

Adoption crossed our minds. It still is a consideration. But the stories of last-minute heartbreaks, of biological parents changing their minds, it terrifies me. I know it would crush me.

Still, something inside me wanted to give back. To nurture, in whatever way I could.

So I signed up to be a mentor withPromise 2 Kids.

It felt small at first — like dipping a toe into a different kind of motherhood.

But then I got matched with a young adult. And that changed everything.

As I still wait for my mentorship program to start, I sit with unsettling questions:
What business do I have mentoring a kid? 

Will I do a good job?

Will I say the right things?

Will my advice matter?

I don’t know why I doubt myself. Likely because it’s new and new things can be scary.

But what I do know is this, when I show up for her, when I listen, when I see her light up at being seen, something inside me will  soften.

It may feel  maternal, just not in the way I once imagined.

Motherhood was never one lane anyway.

Some women birth babies.
Some birth boundaries.
Some raise kids.
Some break cycles their mothers couldn’t break.
Some pour into the child they mentor, or the friend they hold up, or the younger version of themselves they’re still trying to heal.
Some mother in ways that never show up on a birth certificate,  but still require everything: love, patience, showing up when it hurts.