Why Tubal Ligation?
I am not a writer. A feeler, certainly. A sharer, without question. A writer? Not so much. All of my writing acumen was sucked out of me by 7 years of higher education expository writing, leaving me with only stream of consciousness journaling when I had Big Feelings to process. However, I was recently reminded that just because I don’t identify as a writer, doesn’t mean that I don’t have a story worth telling and a voice with which to tell it. So, I’m going to give it a try here. Welcome to my first blog post.
I’ve known that I didn’t want biological children for nearly a decade, but didn’t really trust that truth until I spoke the words aloud for the first time. It was 2015 and I was newly dating my now husband. I knew vaguely that, at least as a concept, kids were something he wanted and I didn’t want him investing his time and energy in a relationship in which values weren’t clearly aligned. So to spare us from future disappointment, I broached the subject in one of our first “serious” conversations.
Looking back, I should have known much earlier than 24. When I was a kid, I never played house and wanted to be the mom. I always wanted to play school and be a teacher, or be a witch, or a fairy, a pioneer, or some other free, feral woman. Often, when we did play house, I wanted to be the baby (have I finished unpacking this? No. Do I have ideas? Yes. I will happily discuss D/s dynamics all day. Let’s do it.) but had zero interest in being the mom.
The further I got into “adulthood,” the more I tried to explain to people why I didn’t want kids; I really struggled to come up with ideas and concepts that were easy to digest. In hindsight, this shouldn’t have been my first priority, but that’s the patriarchy for you! The way I described my perspective on having biological kids was the following: I had never had baby fever. My ovaries never lit up, my uterus didn’t explode from watching boyfriends hang out with their niblings. If I wasn’t CRAVING kids, why bring more lives into the world when it’s all really a game of roulette?
If I ever did imagine kids in the future it was nearly entirely centered around what names I liked - and they were all obnoxious (I’d like to say “you’re welcome” to the world for not having a girlchild and naming her Persephone). In these daydreams, Jude, Felicity, and Persephone were always young adults. My vision was me with teenage daughters talking about dreams and visions for the future, or being affectionate with my adolescent sons and encouraging them to share their feelings with me. But even these were vague and only happened in passing, and usually when I was in a new relationship and beginning to dream of future plans together and grabbing for what felt familiar.
In 2016 I started working with teenagers and was immediately shown that opportunities for nurturing and connection weren’t limited to parenting; in my first two years with these teens, I worked my ass off to build a foundation of trust and care and by 2018 I had a deeply loving and caring relationship with the vast majority of the kids I worked with. It was around this time that I distinctly remember having some of the teens I worked with cry out when I said I wasn’t having kids - “but Cady you’d be such a great mom!” My reply to them was that I couldn’t do this work and be a mom. I said to them, “think of how much impact I can make on this world and community if I have the emotional energy to spare.”
Even as a 30-year-old, emotional energy is something that I am only just learning to conserve. I give and give and give until I’m running on empty. I’ve gotten much better at catching myself when I’m at a quarter of a tank instead of “E” and making time to refill, but I would still not identify this as a skill of mine. I fully embrace the concept of prioritizing my needs and care first because I know that we “can’t pour from an empty cup,” but to practice, this is different than to preach it. I don’t necessarily anticipate this being a fully integrated practice for me ever, though I’m always working towards it. The idea of having to do this while also sharing energy with a co-parent and potential offspring terrifies me.
My neurodivergence was also a factor for me; When I was first learning to accept that I Just Didn’t Want Kids, I often used a fear of my anxiety and ADHD negatively impacting my future biological children as an excuse to not parent. I said to myself (and sometimes to those closest to me) that I simply wouldn’t be a good mom because of my neurodivergence. My sister finally called me out about two years ago when I mentioned my mental health as another reason not to be a mom. “Everyone who meets you tells me how much they admire and look up to you as a nurturing figure. So you can say you don’t want kids, but don’t use the excuse that you’d be a bad mom because that’s bullshit.” I realized that I was scared to admit that I just didn’t want them. It felt wrong somehow. Like I was letting something or someone down. To merely not want kids was unheard of to me. There was always a reason. Genetic diseases, physical ailments, etc. I needed these excuses to back up something that I knew was a truth. I couldn’t trust my own knowing because of the way that our society had indoctrinated me to needing marriage and kids in order to be fulfilled completely.
I haven’t yet fully processed all of the different feelings that I’m having around this decision, so I know I’ll have more to share, but I’ll leave with this - if there is anything that I’ve learned about myself in therapy over the last three years, it is that I can trust myself to Know. My intuition is always right in some way or another, regardless of the stories that I tell myself or the assumptions that the world around me makes. There is some part of me that sees this decision as a form of reclamation, and I am honored to share that journey with you <3
