In the summer of 2014, when I decided to stop chasing men and start chasing my dreams of becoming a mom, I committed myself to being the most reliable professional I could be, which for me meant making sure I consistently got to work promptly.
My first nutrition job after grad school was in a pediatric clinic and I always loved working with kids. But I never felt like I wanted to have my own at that particular time.
Until the summer before I turned 29. Something started to stir within me. My innards began to desire to grow my future generation.
That summer, the summer of 2014, I had the realization that instead of being obsessed with guys who seemed to be the conduit to marriage and thus family, I had to start being obsessed with family. I made the decision that if I was still single in my mid-to-late 30s, I would have a child on my own.
I felt called to have my first child. I felt like she was already starting to be created on some energetic level. I felt like I was riding some sort of spiritual wave en route to having my first child. I felt a calling.
Now I’m just trying to keep my shit together. To hold down my dream job as a nutritionist. To hold in my emotions at times instead of letting loose on my daughter and husband. To hold on to the faith that even though now is not the time, perhaps in the future it will feel right to bring another vulnerable human being into the world, whom I help mold into a good citizen—or more so, who will help mold me into a more patient, compassionate person.
But the time is not now.
And as much as social comparison is my favorite toxic pastime, I just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other as I continue to follow in my father’s footsteps as a compassionate health clinician and healer.