“Do you think you’ll get married, Aunt Lindy?” my 7-year-old niece inquired as we crossed the street holding hands. “I don’t know,” I replied honestly, knowing she really wanted to be a flower girl. “I wanted to, but I haven’t yet met my person.” As I squeezed my niece’s hand, words of advice my dad offered me when I was 17 years old and grappling with the death of a friend and classmate crossed my mind: “Everyone is dealt a hand of cards in life. You have to play that hand the best you can.”
My niece had no idea that only a few months prior, at 39 years old, I’d frozen my eggs, a process that helped me realize having kids was not in my hand of cards.
My friend Whitney died from natural causes when we were 17 years old, only a few days from the first day of our senior year of high school. At the time, my dad’s advice didn’t relieve my grief or anger, but it did offer me a pathway toward accepting that much of life is out of our control. Some people will live long, healthy lives, whereas others, like Whitney, will die young. Some chalk this up to fate or God’s will; others believe it is random. As I sat at Whitney’s funeral, my dad’s words reverberated through my body. I vowed to my friend that I would live life fully and courageously — I’d play my hand of cards the best I could.
Since then, I’ve lived, lost, and gained more than I ever expected, and I often recall Whitney and my dad’s advice. I believed my hand of cards would include “married, with two to three biological kids by my mid-30s.” Yet, my mid-30s came and went without finding a partner. Family is extremely important to me, so when I turned 36 years old, I explored freezing my eggs. I chose not to for several reasons, including financial, along with a quiet voice that whispered, “You don’t need to.” I didn’t know what that meant — would I meet a partner and conceive naturally, or would my choices lead me down a different path?
Ironically, my employer expanded their fertility benefits three years later, so I decided to move forward with the procedure. The process of freezing my eggs was empowering, exhausting, and eye-opening. Each step along the way, from every doctor’s appointment (of which there were many) to each hormone shot and blood test, I told myself I’d stop the process if it no longer felt “right.” I also offered myself permission to be open to other feelings that surfaced, including the desire to have a child on my own or explore adoption. As much as I thought I wanted kids, my actions led me elsewhere. I was fortunate to have excellent relationships with my nieces and nephew. I felt peace when my niece nestled her body against mine to read a book and frustration when trying to negotiate with her during a meltdown.
After a successful egg retrieval, my doctor recommended I undergo another round. While I knew she was right — more eggs equals better odds — I had travel plans scheduled with my young nieces. I chose to spend time with them instead of pausing my life again and injecting my body with more hormones, which impacted me physically and emotionally. Many women would have chosen to do another round. However, I opted not to; I chose to keep living and see what unfolded.
For me, the privilege of experiencing the egg-freezing process allowed me to release the death-clad grip I had on living one type of life: to be married and have biological children. Many women are never given the choice over their fertility, their bodies, and the many ways their lives could unfurl. I became open to the possibility of other ways of building a life versus the prescriptive way life was supposed to be. Letting go of these expectations was not easy; I still live with ambiguous loss and unexpected moments of grief. Yet, in realizing one way of living wasn’t better or worse, simply different, I allowed myself to contemplate the type of life I wanted to live, the values I held most true, and how I wanted to grow and contribute to the world. The process spurred me to open up to myself in a way I had not entirely given myself permission to do: who would I — could I — be, without labels?
Getting married and having children, whether biological, adoptive or through marriage, remains the traditional path for Americans. Even so, it’s evolving: women marry older, and many delay having children for careers or other personal pursuits. Polyamory and other forms of partnership are rising in popularity. Many women are unable to conceive for a myriad of reasons, many of which we don’t understand, as research on women’s health and fertility is woefully underfunded. As states are restricting reproductive rights, feminist movements (such as the South Korean-initiated 4B movement) are picking up steam in the U.S., and women are reflecting on their identities, values, and roles in the world.
Being an American woman is far from perfect, with our experience impacted by the color of our skin and socioeconomic status. Yet, many of us have options and choices over how we live our lives — and there are many ways to build a life based on love, value, and meaning without marriage or children. If you’re reading this and thinking, “Yes, but I want to be married and have kids,” I’d ask you to pause and explore these questions: Have you peeled back the layers of your needs and desires? What if being single or unmarried was the norm? Are we limiting our dreams, connections, and impact on the world by focusing on one path? These are many of the questions I wish I dared to ask myself in my 20s.
There are multiple paths to having family and love in life. In my case, I realized I chose myself over a future child. Even if I decided to pursue having a child on my own or adoption, there would be no guarantees. Many of my friends continue on their personal journeys to be a solo parent. When I released the need to have a child, I welcomed a different type of freedom that has led me to where I am today. I’ve run marathons and traveled solo internationally, including hiking to Everest Base Camp in Nepal. I’ve experienced amazing professional opportunities, including starting my own LLC and prioritizing my health and creative pursuits. And I am grateful for all types of love in my life, including from my nieces, nephew, and goddaughter, all of whom offer light in my life in ways I never expected.
My day-to-day life differs greatly from many of my closest family members and friends, yet we share common values and experiences. I don’t juggle kids’ naps, bedtimes, or school schedules. But I am navigating professional decisions, my personal finances, and the glory — and challenges — of being a single woman in a world telling me marriage and kids remain the most legitimate destination. My hand of cards has not yet revealed the “happily ever after” ending to me. But as I promised my friend Whitney and myself, I will continue to live fully and courageously and play my cards the best I can.
Lindy Mockovak is a social impact professional and writer based in San Francisco. Her writing has been published in Refinery29, the San Francisco Chronicle, and The New York Times. She publishes weekly on her Substack: Love, Lindy.