Member-only story
Am I Only Half a Woman For Not Being a Mother?
About wombs that don’t give life; desires that fragment our identity, and the fear of being incomplete/ half-a-woman for the rest of our lives
It seems I can’t have children.
But at this point in my life, I’m unsure if I even want them.
My hair is streaked with gray, my patience is waning, and my mind plays tricks on me, mixing up times, memories, and past desires with present ones.
This confusion makes it hard to discern present reality. There’s still a part of me that dreams of a future long gone as if it were still ahead.
Even when awake, an old voice shouts loudly, eagerly awaiting the wild adolescence I saw in the 90s: mingling with young teenagers, going out and hitting the clubs, engaging in extreme sports, going to prom with a dapper boy by my side, kissing him all night long.
It never happened, but the desire remained.
Not fulfilled, part of me yearned for university as the last stage of my youth.
I wanted more than to study, leave the nest, and engage in romances, passions, and loves that weren’t talked about during my high school years.
