when my boys were young
syama was about nine and maitreya six—we were driving to the library when syama asked me when i knew i wanted to be a mother.
his tone so loving. innocent in its assumption.
my response was honest maybe too honest.
i told them i never wanted to be a mother, that i still didn't. their faces registered immediate shock.
and hurt.
explaining my perspective—how motherhood was an overwhelming responsibility, how the constant guilt consumed me, how i hadn't finished reading a book in years. i spoke of the pressure to do a good job, how it weighed on me constantly.
watching their expressions fall was painful, especially syama's. his sensitivity made my words land even harder.
softening, i tell them that despite everything, they were the coolest people i knew. and if i hadn’t been a mother, i might not get to know them.
i can say it's worth it, but i am not like most mothers. i don't experience that warm, fuzzy, sentimental feeling that seems so common. perhaps it's my autistic nature or maybe it was the abuse, but those particular emotions don't come naturally to me.
i have tenderness and empathy and feel deeply, but that specific maternal sentimentality remains elusive, something i've envied in others.
what mattered most to me was teaching my children responsibility—showing them how their choices ripple outward, affecting neighbors, distant strangers, the planet itself. i wanted them to move through life aware, eyes open to consequences. that awareness itself was a heavy inheritance to pass down.
straddling the fence.
this grief stems from contradiction—participating in systems built on extraction and violence to keep my children safe, while simultaneously trying to raise them outside those very systems. i worked to keep them from being indoctrinated into unquestioning citizenship yet had to function within society's framework.
i showed up consistently, making sacrifices and adjustments, fully aware of what those choices meant.
the gift of clear sight breaks your heart daily.
my kids have never eaten from a fast food restaurant. mcdonalds or chick fil a.
this wasn't about superior parenting or anything, but about refusing participation in systems that are violent. while other families had convenience, i chose the gentle path, gentle on everything but me, making everything myself despite working hundred-hour weeks in an industry that devalued motherhood.
part of my grief process involves speaking truths i have been too
ashamed.
afraid.
to voice. acknowledging that my survival choices within this system likely came at the cost to other mothers and their children elsewhere. the system is designed that way
i remember a shopping trip when maitreya was 3 or 4. he spotted raspberries in february. when i refused to buy them because they weren't in season, he couldn't understand. to him, their presence on the shelf meant they were available. i tried explaining about the unsustainable cost of winter berries, another lesson in awareness that made his life more complicated.
raising children half-in, half-out of society's norms is painful. they constantly saw others living seemingly easier, more pleasure-filled lives without these considerations. but years later, they understand. they can make these conscious choices themselves now, which was my ultimate goal, though it came at significant cost.
my own conditioning against motherhood ran deep—my mother and grandmother explicitly warned me against having children, insisting they would ruin my life.
at just five years old, i heard my grandmother say she wouldn't choose to have children if she could do it over again. when i pointed out that would mean i wouldn't exist, her response was chilling—she suggested that would be an acceptable consequence.
i grew up believing children inevitably destroyed any hopes for yourself. in many ways, this proved true, but not because of the children themselves. it's because we lack proper support systems. we're left navigating motherhood in isolation, especially when trying to avoid causing broader harm.
i embraced needing less.
i've survived with so little for so long that i'm no longer certain what my actual needs are.
for now, speaking these truths aloud feels sufficient.
a relief.
Photo by Gabriel Ramos on Unsplash
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