tick tock, clock is ticking: when your womb has a deadline

I place my palm against my lower belly in the dark. It happens without thinking - this gesture that's part longing, part wondering what might grow there someday.

When I was twelve, I made a wish with flower petals in a bowl, throwing it with essence and smoke into the night. I wished for a tall man with dark hair and blue eyes, and when he smiled, a small dimple would appear in his cheek. Back then, I was sure this man didn't exist.

I got the idea from a movie about witches where she wishes for an impossible man so she'd never have to suffer losing him like her mother did.

I was twelve and already trying to protect myself from heartbreak by making love impossible.

The women in my family lose the men they love. My great-grandmother. My grandmother, who lost hers to another woman. My mother, who lost Alex. Even at twelve, some part of me understood that loving someone deeply meant risking devastating loss.

So I wished for someone who couldn't exist. Someone safe because he was imaginary.

Now I'm 28, living with my parents, writing about motherhood with zero income and no boyfriend. But I've learned something that twelve-year-old me didn't know yet: life is meant to be lived, and part of that living is love - even with the possibility of heartbreak.

What my parents taught me

Growing up, I watched my mother disappear into service, becoming a ghost in her own life. My father numbed his confusion with alcohol, became absent when we needed him most. Their dynamic wounded my child self. Part of me absorbed the message that love meant losing yourself, that partnerships meant someone always carries more.

As an adult, I've watched them transform into incredible parents - constantly improving, letting go of toxic behaviors, willing to grow and change. We've become genuine friends. They showed me what I don't want in partnership, but also what's possible when people commit to growth.

I believe we choose our parents before arriving to earth school. I chose mine, and I love them with all their flaws, all their beautiful humanity.

This is why I can admit now what felt scary for years: I want to be a mother someday. I want to find someone extraordinary to co-parent with, to create life with. Yes, I could have a baby without a baby maker. But I want the whole package. I want to love my baby's father and feel that love multiply when I see pieces of his amazingness in our child.

I've done the work to heal my inner child. The wound that once made me wish for impossible love has transformed into clarity about what real love could be.

What I actually want

A friend recently suggested I join dating apps - not because of timelines, but because of loneliness. Why be alone when you could have someone? But she misses the point. I'm not afraid of being alone. I'm afraid of scattering my energy into randomness just to avoid solitude.

What I want feels rare but not impossible: someone loyal, reliable, trustworthy. Someone who takes care of their body, who questions society, who doesn't stay silent when things are wrong. Someone secure enough to admit mistakes, mature enough to change their mind.

Someone who makes me feel safe because he's accountable to something bigger than himself - a mission, God, whatever you want to call it. Love is a verb that translates into action, not just feeling.

Someone who will challenge me, who aspires to freedom but understands my need for stability. Someone who won't bore me, who I can talk to about everything.

There's a quote that captures it: "Dear God, only bring me relationships where you can be first and I can be me."

I don't know if he'll have dark hair and blue eyes and a dimple when he smiles. But I know he'll feel like coming home and setting sail at the same time.

Why I'm not chasing

I can barely afford coffee, let alone the places where I might meet someone doing their own inner work. Dating costs money. Being social costs money.

But there's something deeper too. If thoughts create reality, if there's divine timing, won't the right person and I find each other naturally? Or maybe I'm still that twelve-year-old making impossible wishes, just with more sophisticated language.

Maybe this hermit phase isn't just about personal growth. Maybe the universe is keeping me in this cocoon until I'm ready in every way - emotionally, spiritually, financially.

Finding work that aligns with my values isn't just about fulfillment. It's about creating the conditions that make meeting someone possible and eventually make motherhood sustainable.

In my ideal life, I'm present as a mother while maintaining my own income, with a partner who's financially stable. We build security together instead of one person disappearing into the other's life like I watched growing up.

The nurturing impulse shows up everywhere - being a good friend, a good daughter, a good worker. It's about intention behind every action, whether or not it flows toward biological children.

Peace with uncertainty

I don't know if I'll meet this person. I don't know if biology and timing will align. I don't know if I'll build the financial stability that makes motherhood possible.

The twelve-year-old who wished for impossible love was trying to control the uncontrollable. The woman I'm becoming is learning to hold desires lightly - present to the longing without being consumed by it.

My parents' transformation taught me that the right timing exists for everything - including love, including growth, including the courage to want what you actually want instead of what feels safe.

If motherhood happens, I want it to be because I met someone extraordinary and we both said yes to creating life together. If it never happens, I want to pour that maternal love into the world in other ways.

Tonight I'll place my hand on my belly again. Not counting down or panicking. Just acknowledging what lives there - the longing for soul connection, for motherhood, for a love I no longer need to make impossible to feel safe from.

The right person will find me when we're both ready. Or they won't. Either way, I've learned what twelve-year-old me couldn't know yet: love is always worth the risk, even when it breaks your heart.

I am my own strength. And that makes me brave enough to want more.