The idea of having kids when you’ve had a traumatic childhood is complicated. The fear of passing on my own crap to someone else, it feels unfair. Selfish, even. Why should I have a child have to carry around the weight of my unresolved pain?
And yeah, I’m 31. Biologically, if I want kids, I probably need to start thinking about it seriously. But the truth is, my trauma runs deep. I don’t know if I’ll ever be “okay” enough to raise a child. Even if I do get to that point, how long will it take? What if that day never comes? And if it does—don’t I deserve the time and space to just focus on myself for once? To figure myself out, fully. To heal.
I don’t love the idea of being an older parent either—not just because of the risks, but because it feels like even more pressure and even less time. So I sit in this in-between space, where I just don’t know.
In a perfect world, I didn’t have shit parents. I didn’t get abandoned. I wasn’t left behind by everyone who was supposed to love me. I wish people saw the pain underneath my anger. I wish they understood that what looks like selfishness or coldness is something else entirely. And perhaps I would be in a stable healthy enough position to have children.
Through therapy, I’m slowly meeting the child in me—the one that never really got to grow up properly. The only child I’m trying to raise is myself. She’s the child that is with me right now.
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