The Tranquil Vintessa

A Dream That Wasn’t Mine

Standing before a dark chestnut front door on a beautiful midsummer day, a well-manicured lawn stretches behind me, dotted with freshly planted flowers. I hear children joyfully playing inside. Somehow, I know they’re waiting for me. Taking a deep breath, I unlock the door and step into the foyer.

My heart drops as I hear, “Mommy’s home!” Tiny feet rush toward me, followed by giggles. A beautiful girl, no older than five, comes running toward me, her hair bouncing behind her, chased by a little boy hot on her heels. They both wrap their arms around my legs, saying how much they missed me. I smell dinner being made in our large kitchen, and a handsome man comes in wearing an apron. He kisses me on the cheek.
“Welcome home, honey,” he says. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

Awakening

I open my eyes and shoot up from my bed, breathing heavily. I’m back in my moonlit apartment, blankets disheveled, my furry companion lying beside me, watching curiously as I try to catch my breath. Once I calm down, I lay back and touch my stomach. The only thing there is the pasta I had for dinner. A sigh escapes me as I rub my hand over my belly in a soft thank you, and an anxious tear falls from my eye. That was terrible.

The thought of becoming a mother and living in suburbia fills me with dread. Why? Isn’t that supposed to be the American dream?
No. Not for me.

When I Knew

I’ve never been one to enjoy kids. I tried when I was younger, but it just never clicked—like trying to befriend someone you have nothing in common with. When I was twelve and on the cusp of losing my virginity, I sat down and asked myself if I wanted kids. I decided against it (read more about that here). I wasn’t interested. Still, I thought something must be wrong with me, like I was supposed to want this. But I didn’t. I can see the cuteness of kids, but the desire to have them simply isn’t there.

When I envision my dream life—the life I would want if I could press a button and make it real—kids aren’t in it. No one really is. I even had to force myself to imagine a partner, and even then, he was sleeping.

The Breaking Point

When they overturned Roe v. Wade, I began to wonder what would happen next. Would I still be able to get my birth control? Preventative care? What else might they take? I didn’t know. I even explored the idea of a full hysterectomy but learned it could trigger early menopause. It felt too permanent at the time—what if I changed my mind? So, I waited.

Then, one night, after my partner finished in me for the first time, I panicked. I yelled. I cried. I took a sketchy pill I’d ordered online. My only thought was, This can’t happen. Not here. Not like this. My reaction, the hate, the anger, the anxiety, was feral. Something deep inside me was clawing its way out to save me. This wasn’t just about motherhood. It was about control—my body, my choice, my life. Without that, I felt I would die.

Reclaiming Control

I became celibate shortly after (read about that here). I knew I didn’t want kids, but after that night, I also began to wonder—what kind of mother would I even be? Would that child feel loved and cared for? Probably not. That rage was primal, survival-driven.

As the years passed, I became even less interested in motherhood. Talking to women who dreamed of kids and marriage felt foreign, like we spoke different emotional languages. And I’m sure they felt the same about me. Despite being on birth control for years, my anxiety never eased, especially in today’s political climate, where access feels uncertain.

The Decision

So I sat myself down again, like I did when I was twelve, and asked: What do I really want?
Am I ready for something permanent?
Could I ever be convinced to have kids—and do I even want to be?

I know I don’t want to be forty-three, fifty-three, or sixty with a preteen. Could I handle sterilization? I think I can. And as I thought about it, a small smile formed on my lips. Even now, that thought makes me breathe easier. I don’t want kids.

Motherhood, for all its beauty, isn’t a path that calls to me. Even with the “right guy,” it wouldn’t, because he wouldn’t truly be my right man. He’d want a family. And the thought of coming home to happy kids makes me feel like something went wrong in the timeline, like I ended up in someone else’s story.

I weighed the pros and cons, and at the end of the day, the only thing that mattered was what made me smile and brought me peace. Tying my tubes did. Every single time. It meant freedom. Liberation. My biggest fuck you to anyone who ever told me my purpose in life was to be a mother.

11/11 — My Gateway to Freedom

After that, everything fell into place easier than leaves in the fall. I found a doctor. It was fully covered. It felt like magic—like the universe had been waiting for me to choose myself. Even telling my mom was easy. She said it seemed right for me, that she supported my decision completely, and would be beside me the entire way.

She even shared her own story: how, years ago, her doctor refused to tie her tubes because she needed her husband’s approval. It’s insane to think a grown woman with two children wasn’t trusted to decide for herself. I almost felt like I was doing this for her too—for the generation of women who weren’t given that freedom.

When the date was confirmed, it was for 11/11, a number symbolizing intuition, spiritual insight, and awakening. It felt like the universe was telling me this was the gateway to my higher self, my truest self.

Becoming Her

As I sat in my hospital gown, waiting to be wheeled into my first surgery, my mother said a prayer over me, and I cried. Not because I was scared, but because I was becoming the woman I’ve always wanted to be—sovereign, free, aligned with my truth.

As they rolled me in, I whispered goodbye to my former self.
Goodbye to the girl who said maybe I’ll change, maybe one kid.
Goodbye to lovers who wanted them.
Goodbye to lying about who I was and what I wanted.

And hello to becoming my higher self.