The Ones Who Don’t See It
Today is a hard day.
Today, I’m sitting in the impossible contradiction of longing and fury.
I keep watching people have children — effortlessly, carelessly, endlessly — while I wait, and plan, and pour everything I have into the hope that I might get to do the same.
There are people in my life right now who are expecting children — again — despite already struggling to meet the needs of the ones they have. And I want to be clear: this isn’t about money. Being a good parent isn’t about wealth or having a Pinterest-perfect home. It’s about presence. It’s about care, consistency, effort.
It’s about asking hard questions like: Can I show up for this child, truly? Do I have the capacity to meet them where they are? Am I willing to change, to grow, to prioritize them over my own comfort?
And too often, I see people skip those questions entirely — choosing instead to bring more children into chaos, dysfunction, or unchecked patterns, as if love will somehow patch over everything.
And it makes me angry. Not because they’re poor or struggling, but because they don’t seem to recognize what they’re handing down.
Now listen, before anyone comes for me — no, this is not a call for some terrifying dystopian “parenting permit” system. I'm not trying to audition for the role of womb cop. I don’t want anyone regulating who can and can’t have children. I just wish — really wish — that the ability to create life came with at least a tiny ounce of the sacrifice that Drew and I have had to make just trying to get close to it. Maybe then, more people would take it seriously.
And maybe that's what makes this grief so unbearable. It's not just the pain of what I don’t have — it’s the pain of watching people toss around what I would treasure.
It’s the jokes about “having another one,” made in passing while I sit here, days away from possibly being told that I might never get the chance. They laugh, while I hold my breath.
I feel guilty for this rage, for this bitterness. I don’t want to be someone who resents others for what they have. But it’s hard. It’s so hard. Because I am ready. I have prepared. Emotionally. Mentally. Financially. Spiritually.
I’ve fought for this. I’ve waited and worked and sacrificed for this.
And still, somehow, it might not be mine to have.
This isn't about wishing anyone harm. It’s about screaming into the void because it all feels so unfair. It’s about wondering why readiness doesn’t matter and why care seems to go unrewarded.
It’s about grieving the way no one around me seems to see what they’ve been given.
And I would give anything to have what they don’t even notice.
