By Camilla Richardson 
“Do you guys want kids?” asks my new neighbor during dinner as she helps her 1-year-old take a bite of crusty bread. I know she means well. I’m sure she’s trying to get to know me the same way I’m hoping to learn more about her. I don’t mind the question, but it’s a hard one to answer.
I thought I would be a mom by now. I thought I’d be ankles deep in wooden blocks and sharp LEGOs and watching Bluey like all my parent friends do with their kids. I thought I’d be at soccer games sitting sidelines, cheering as my little girl cartwheels instead of noticing the ball rolling by. I thought I’d be packing allergy-friendly lunches and pulling all-nighters with sick kiddos. I thought I’d be sweating by the pool as they took swim lessons and feeling my stomach flip over picking their first school.
I thought.
Reality has a funny way of sneaking up on us. I’m 36 now. A quick internet search will tell you all the risks that come with babies after 35, and I feel the pressure to get on with it if I’m going to have children. But life hasn’t gone according to Plan A, Plan B, or even Plan Z. I’m on the make-lemonade train for a case of when-life-gives-you-lemons.
I know so many couples have infertility issues and that’s its own pain, one searing and deep. That’s not my story. Sometimes I wish I could give a better answer than the truth. But life is complex.
The true, vulnerable reality is I struggle with my mental health, having battled anxiety and OCD since preteen years—and those battles can make raising children very challenging. My own parents struggled with addiction, panic attacks, and depression. I know what growing up in a hurting home looks like. I don’t want that for my kids. Potential kids.
And it wounds me to say that. Because after years of working on it, I want to be healed from my mental health struggles and to take on the huge responsibility and honor of motherhood. In many ways, I’ve come so far. I have 10 years of sobriety and feel great in so many areas. But I’m in therapy still because I can feel in my anxiety dips that I have a long way to go yet.
So, I’m not ready. Because children deserve everything, and they deserve a mom who is able to be present with them. I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever get there.
I don’t write this to shame anyone with mental health issues who became a mom. I don’t write it to sound hopeless for myself. I wholeheartedly believe God has each of us on our own journey, and if you were gifted a child through pregnancy or adoption, I believe that’s His plan for your life, and He will take care of both you and your child.
I write to expose my own vulnerability and say to others in my shoes, that it’s okay to not be ready, even in your mid-thirties. There is a plan for me. For you, too, if this is your life right now. And though each passing year feels scary, like a door might be looming ahead to close before we reach it, living in my values—to become someone I would want as a mom before being a mother—is so much more important than forcing something because the timeline isn’t looking right.
I might never become a mom. I hope that’s not true. I hope I reach a place—and soon—where I can say that some battles are behind me and now is the time to start trying for a baby. But either way, I’ve come to believe that my life is important and worth living, no matter what the future holds.
