Is It What You Really Want?

I used to think that wanting something was simple. You see it, you desire it, and you go after it. But now, after everything, I’m not so sure. For years, I wanted motherhood with a kind of tunnel vision that blinded me to everything else. It wasn’t a want—it was the want, the cornerstone of every plan, every dream, every decision. I shaped my life around it, sacrificing time, energy, and parts of myself I didn’t even realize I was giving up. And when it didn’t happen—after the countless appointments, treatments, hopes, and heartbreaks—I found myself asking a question I’d never dared to before: Is it what I really want? Or is it what I’ve been told I should want?

We don’t often stop to interrogate our desires. We assume they’re ours because they feel so deeply ingrained, as if they’ve always been there. But what if some of them aren’t truly ours? What if they’re hand-me-downs from the expectations of family, friends, culture, or society? For me, the realization came like a whisper, quiet but persistent. It asked: If motherhood was never on the table, would you still want it? Or is it the story around it—the promise of belonging, purpose, and a place in the world—that you’ve been chasing?

That question terrified me. It felt almost blasphemous to admit I might have wanted it because everyone else seemed to. Because “the happiest moments of my life” were supposed to hinge on first steps, scraped knees, and graduations. Because not wanting it made me feel like an outsider, like I was rejecting something sacred. But as the dust of infertility settled, I began to see the cracks in that narrative. I started to ask myself what I wanted—not the me who was conditioned to believe that worth was tied to motherhood, but the me who was left standing when that possibility was taken away.

The truth is, I didn’t know at first. My wants were buried beneath years of expectations, and unearthing them felt like digging through layers of someone else’s life. But as I started to peel them back, I realized that some of the things I thought I wanted were only shadows of what I was really craving. I wanted connection, not necessarily through parenting, but through friendships and love that felt expansive and true. I wanted to create—not children, but ideas, experiences, and spaces that could bring people together. I wanted freedom—not the freedom of an empty nest one day, but the freedom to explore myself now, without guilt or apology.

What surprised me most was how freeing it felt to let go of the things I thought I wanted but didn’t. It wasn’t an admission of failure, as I’d feared, but an act of self-honesty. A reclamation of my right to decide what matters to me. And in that process, I realized something radical: it’s okay to change your mind about what you want. It’s okay to release a dream that no longer fits or never truly belonged to you in the first place.

So, is this life what I really want? Some days, I’m still figuring that out. But what I’ve learned is this: wanting isn’t static. It’s fluid, messy, and deeply personal. What we want evolves as we do, and sometimes, the only way to find clarity is to let ourselves question everything we thought we knew. It’s not always comfortable, but it’s where the truth lives. And the truth is worth it.