There was a time I feared motherhood more than I feared heartbreak.

Not because I lacked love — but because I knew the kind of love I hold in my chest is not light, not fleeting. It’s the kind of love that swells and floods and consumes. It’s the kind of love that builds whole worlds and would shatter me if I couldn’t give it right.

And that’s what terrified me.

I used to shy away from the idea of being a mother — not because I couldn’t imagine loving a child, but because I could. So vividly. So deeply. And that depth of love comes with a sacred responsibility that I refuse to treat lightly.

Most people talk about motherhood in practical terms:

You should have kids before a certain age.

You should be financially stable.

You should settle down with someone “good enough.”

Tick the boxes. Secure the future. Follow the plan.

But I was never wired that way.

I’ve always known that for me, motherhood could never be an obligation.

It had to be a divine choice.

A sacred unfolding.

A soul contract.

I don’t fear diapers or sleepless nights.

I fear bringing a soul into this world before I am ready to truly honor them — with presence, not pressure. With love, not projection. With wholeness, not resentment.

I fear looking into the eyes of a child who didn’t ask to be here and realizing I had not yet done the work to heal what they would inevitably inherit.

I fear becoming a woman who looks back and wonders, “What if I had waited until I was really ready?”

Because I want to be a mother who has chosen her child from the fullest part of her heart — not because time was running out, not because society expected it, not because everyone else was doing it, but because I knew:

This soul and I have something beautiful to learn from each other.

And until then, I cannot pretend.

I’ve had people try to set me up, hinting at what a “good husband” should look like. I’ve sat across the table from polite, well-dressed men who smiled at the right times, said the right things. But my heart remained still. No rhythm. No resonance. No whisper of “home.”

Because my body knows.

My soul knows.

And I’ve stopped apologizing for it.

The man who will walk this path with me — if he exists — will be one who speaks to my heart in a language no one else can hear. He will not be intimidated by my depth, my fire, my softness. He will see the way I love as strength, not burden. And with him, I will feel safe enough to expand.

Safe enough to give life.

Because to me, bringing a child into this world isn’t about passing on a name or a lineage. It’s about passing on love — the kind that nourishes, not depletes. The kind that allows a child to be exactly who they are and know that they are never, ever alone.

I want my child — if I ever have one — to grow up not just with stability and structure, but with stories and stillness. With gentleness and grace. With the quiet knowing that they were not an accident or a rushed decision, but a soul I waited for. A soul I chose with devotion.

And if that sacred moment never comes — if the universe has other plans — I know I will still love deeply in other ways. In my work. In my friendships. In my words. In how I show up for the world.

But if it does come…

I will hold that child close — not just in my arms, but in my energy. I will love them through every shadow, every storm, every season. I will make sure they know:

You are not here to complete me.

You are not here to fulfill a duty.

You are here because love wanted you here.

And I chose you.

With all of me.