Black. Female. Childfree.

My list of identities will never contain the word “mother.”

Black. She/Her. Cis. Hetero. College-educated. Cancer survivor. Blissfully married. 30.

That list of identities will never contain the word mother.

It’s the pandemic, you’re tempted to rationalize. It’s climate change, you muse.

Ah, it makes sense now; it’s all that racialized trauma.

You’d be right. But this decision transcends the external and lies deep within.

From the word Black, you’ll bring expectations to this piece by association. I expected that.

Black. Woman. American. If you can, strip your eyes of the film of caste, of indoctrination, or association. Shed that burden. This isn’t a commentary on the political. This is personal, and it is my story.

It’s one I’ve been creating for all of my existence.

That I would be thirty, college-educated, married, and happy is not an outcome I ever thought I would compromise on.

I am not surprised by my life. That I would be thirty, college-educated, married, and happy is not an outcome I ever thought I would compromise on. The threads of this tapestry…