On Motherhood, Freedom, and Living Unscripted

Whether you’re a mom, not a mom, or somewhere in between—I hope this makes you feel seen.

This piece is about reclaiming fullness, freedom, and the quiet power of living as a woman on your own terms. Not waiting. Not explaining. Just becoming.

The Sacred Script

They say, “The days are long, but the years are short.” It’s something mothers pass between each other like a sacred truth. A gentle reminder to savor the sticky hands, the sleepless nights, the thousand tiny sacrifices. And when I hear it, part of me leans in. There’s something noble in that kind of love. Something eternal.

But I live on the other side of that story.

I don’t have children.

And the world often treats that as a less celebrated life.

It’s subtle: sometimes sweet, sometimes sharp. I hear it in how women speak of motherhood like it’s the final destination. I see it in the glossy posts, the baby photos, the birthday parties. The Facebook profile pictures I barely recognize anymore, because they now show their children instead.

The word mother gets wrapped in gold foil. And anything else? Feels like less.

And for a while, I believed them.

Until I didn’t.

(It didn’t take that long.)

Two Women in Aisles

My sister and I go shopping from time to time. She scans the shelves for what her kids need—clothes they’ve outgrown, snacks they’ll actually eat, some cleaner that lifts crayon off the walls. I, meanwhile, wander through the aisles like a cat. I touch soft fabrics. Pick up obscure teas. Flirt with desire instead of duty. What do I possibly want today?

The Luxury of Self

In the evenings, she cooks. Cleans. Makes sure the kids brush their teeth, reads them stories, tucks them in, then collapses in bed, often with a small body draped across hers.

I order fried chicken, eat it in bed, and watch a trashy movie. I stay up late just because I can. No one calls my name. No one needs my body. I am mine.

And yes, I go to bed tired too.

But it’s the kind of tired that comes from living exactly how I wanted to.

I Am My Own Child

There are days I ache for something else. Days I wonder if I’m missing a deeper purpose. When the silence feels less like freedom and more like absence. But those moments pass. What stays is this:

I am my own child now. And I take care of her.

I feed her well. Challenge her. Let her dream, let her play, let her sleep in on weekends. I keep her safe—but I also dare her to run wild. I’m raising a woman who is deeply herself, who doesn’t need a title to feel like she belongs.

She is already complete.

Before the Children

This isn’t a story of envy. Or rejection. I admire mothers more than I can say. I see their strength. Their surrender. Their grace. But I want to whisper something gently back:

You were already enough before the children.

You were a whole person—flawed, radiant, full of potential—not just a waiting room for someone else’s needs.

The Other Side of Glory

And to the women like me, who are without kids, maybe by choice, maybe not.

You are not behind.

You are not missing out.

You are incredibly awesome.

Cool. Magnetic. A little dangerous.

I love the way you glow without asking for permission. The way you laugh—fully, freely—as if there’s nothing else you need to prove.

Two Sips, Two Lives

So my sister and I sip our drinks.

She checks her phone—it’s time to pick up her kids.

I turn off my phone because I don’t want to be found.

No one here is less holy.

My Own Child