tick tock, clock is ticking: a 28-year-old woman between motherhood and meaning

currently-questioning
Written By Nina B

Sometimes I lie awake at night, hand on my lower belly. An unconscious gesture of both longing and fear.

At 28, my body knows there is a clock, and it's ticking.

My desires (finding purpose and experiencing motherhood) compete for the same resources: time, energy, focus. And money.

There's a weird shaming I've felt when I admit that I would love to be a stay-at-home mom on a big farm in the middle of nature, with animals and my babies, instead of a CEO drinking champagne on a yacht. As if this desire somehow betrays generations of women who fought for workplace equality. As if wanting the ancient experience of motherhood makes me less visionary, less ambitious.

But here I am, writing about motherhood while living in my parents' house with zero income nor boyfriend.

The irony.

THE INNER LANDSCAPE OF MY DESIRES

After two years of intentional inner work starting at 26, untangling childhood patterns and shedding layers that never belonged to me, two essential objectives emerged. Both feel equally essential to my wholeness:

  • I want meaningful work that expresses my purpose and provides financial stability.

  • I want a family. I want the human experience of motherhood.

Honestly, the first objective is what I'm actively exploring through writing. Understanding my service to the world, finding my voice, discovering what wants to be expressed through me.

So yes, there are prerequisites to check. My unofficial motherhood prep checklist looks something like:

☐ Find purpose

☐ Make money (like, actual money)

☐ Meet amazing human co-parent

☐ Love each other deeply and play gods to create life

☐ Create stable home

☐ Continue to grow as a human

No pressure.

(I can hear the universe laughing at me)

Am I romanticizing motherhood?

Possibly.

Is this desire partly a reaction to my own damaged childhood?

Almost certainly.

Welcome to one of my nocturnal musings.

the ghosts we inherit

So, what does it mean to become a parent? A mother?

I long for this with my whole heart, but I also acknowledge a fear in me.

Why?

My understanding of parenthood began with watching my parents navigate their own impossible equations.

My mother modeled not motherhood but disappearance. Vanishing into service. Becoming a ghost in your own life. Her dreams existed only in the negative space around my father's presence and our needs. She had no friends, no external identity. I became her only friend.

My mother's pattern burned itself into my understanding of what becoming a mother meant: complete surrender of self. A beautiful, terrible sacrifice that felt both frightening and somehow holy.

Meanwhile, my father carried his own burden. The expectation to provide, to know, to fix, to never falter. A culture that equated vulnerability with weakness had stunted his emotional vocabulary before I was even born. He numbed his lostness and pain with alcohol, became selfish with his desires, absent when we needed him, angry in ways that made the house feel dangerous, unfaithful in ways that broke trust at its foundation.

These patterns weren't just about gender. They were about how two humans coped with expectations neither could fully satisfy.

The system trapped them both, just in different cages.

She loved us beyond words and did her absolute best with the tools she had. He loved us in the only way he knew how, even when that way caused harm. I say this with compassion, not blame. They were both drowning in their own ways, and drowning people can't save anyone else.

But here's the plot twist that gives me hope for my own future: both my parents are now my best friends.

The people who once seemed trapped in patterns that hurt us all have evolved and continue evolving. My mother has found her voice. My father has learned to feel, to apologize, to show up consistently.

Sometimes the most beautiful transformations happen in life's third act.

To anyone reading this who carries wounds from their own parents: healing these relationships isn't always possible, and it's not always safe to try. But sometimes, depending on your story and their willingness to grow, it is possible. The parents who shaped your wounds can, in rare and beautiful cases, become allies in your healing.

Transformation isn't just possible for you. Sometimes it's possible for them too.

THE GHOST OF RELATIONSHIPS PAST

These inherited patterns shaped how I moved through romantic relationships, creating a contradiction between what I consciously wanted and what felt unconsciously familiar.

I consistently chose unavailable men (shocking, I know). Already in relationships, emotionally unavailable, significantly older. Men who couldn't fully "choose me."

Two bosses, both twice my age, both in relationships. My first boyfriend, 10 years older, who hid our relationship from his mother when we were living together.

Picture this: 23-year-old me, stuffing my things inside his closet like contraband. My toothbrush hidden under the bathroom sink like evidence of a crime. Carrying my tote bag to McDonald's to wait while his mother visited, sitting in a booth under fluorescent lights, eating fries while texting him updates about when the coast might be clear.

No self-respect. No self-love.

And somehow, I'd convinced myself this was love. That being someone's secret was better than being no one's anything.

In that McDonald's booth, under those lights, I was living the most honest representation of how I saw myself: disposable, hidden, taking up space only in the margins of someone else's life.

But sometimes you have to see yourself clearly in the worst light to understand what needs to change.

As a child, I learned that love and attention came when I performed certain functions. The family entertainer, making them laugh acting like the she version of Hulk, the emotional caretaker, becoming my mom's friend. I was valued for what I did, not who I was.

My first relationship changed everything despite the obvious red flags. Being genuinely listened to, having someone believe in my intelligence. It challenged my entire self-concept.

But it was his family that really changed my brain.

They were functional.

They went to dinners, played board games, never fought or yelled. They were responsible humans who went to regular doctor appointments like it was... normal.

Their house smelled like cinnamon and safety.

This was what healthy looked like? Families could actually... enjoy each other?

When that relationship ended, the loss was complex. It wasn't just losing a person; it was losing proof that families could be places of actual joy, that love could be shown through consistency.

The pain triggered protective patterns. I remember declaring with pride, "No, I don't want a family. I want to be a traveling rave boss girl, be free, have casual sex just like a guy."

Of course that wasn't true.

It was armor.

Protection from disappointment.

I have always dreamed of a big family, children laughing around a table, a healthy relationship where we both choose each other daily. Growing old with my kitchen full of stories and grandbabies.

The culture says choose:

Your ambition or your womb.

Your freedom or your child.

Your purpose or your children's needs.

As if women are inherently incapable of integration. As if we're not the sex that literally grows humans while maintaining our own heartbeat.

the impossible timing

These questions around purpose and motherhood wouldn't feel so urgent without the reality of the biological clock.

That physical sensation of time passing that men simply don't experience in the same way.

The only thing I truly envy about men is the luxury of time. They can explore through their 20s and 30s, then decide at 40 or beyond to become fathers. For women, possibility narrows with each passing year.

It's not just cultural programming; it's biological reality that fertility declines, especially after 35. According to the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, women's fertility starts to decline in their early 30s and decreases more rapidly after age 37. They call pregnancies at 35 "geriatric pregnancies."

Geriatric. At thirty-five.

But Nina, you've got plenty of time, you're just 28.

Yes, but the math is tight: meet someone at 30, date for a year, move in together, get stable... suddenly I'm 33 and just starting to think about pregnancy.

You get the picture.

The biological clock doesn't tick in isolation. It ticks alongside financial pressure, career uncertainty, and the reality that motherhood costs money I don't yet have.

Childcare can cost more than college tuition ($15,000-$30,000 annually in major cities). No wonder so many women feel like motherhood is a luxury they can't afford, even when their hearts are breaking for it.

So….here I am, living in my parents' house with my own little space. It's a setup that feels both protective and precarious. I have the gift of solitude for reflection while being supported, yet I'm acutely aware of my financial dependence.

This is why finding purpose that generates income isn't just about self-fulfillment.

It's about creating the material conditions that make motherhood sustainable.

In my ideal life, I get to be present as a mother while maintaining my own source of income, with a partner who's financially stable as part of our mutual security.

My current situation makes motherhood both a blank slate and a warning sign.

Freedom without resources isn't really freedom at all, but it's more important to me to understand how I can be of service to the world than to sell my soul at a high-paying job.

But….What if building my purpose takes too long and the window for motherhood closes? What if these desires truly are mutually exclusive not by choice but by timing?

These fears live in me alongside the hopes.

Both are real.

Both matter.

Both are keeping me awake at 3am.

FROM HEALING TO INTEGRATION

When I imagine living from my most integrated self, neither my work nor my desire for motherhood disappears.

My desire for motherhood isn't separate from my purpose. It's integral to it. The same impulse to nurture, to witness growth, to pour love into potential runs through both desires. The same need to create something meaningful that outlasts me powers both longings.

And to be very honest with you, this was my most important realization: if I ever want to be a good mom to the souls who choose me as their mother, I need to become the absolute best version of myself. That desire made me want to do the work.

I can't be selfish. And if I ever want to attract that awesome co-parent to play gods and create life, I need to open up the basement of my mind.

I love my babies. I want to show up for them. I want to be there for them. I want to make them proud. And if they ever read this, I want them to know: I love you beyond words, thank you for making me want to work on myself long before you arrived at earth school, you are without a doubt the greatest blessing of my life.

Understanding integration as a concept is one thing; actually doing the work to get there is another entirely. To create a life that holds both purpose and parenthood, I had to address my core patterns of seeking external validation and people-pleasing.

The foundation was developing internal worthiness that doesn't depend on being chosen by someone else. Here's what has worked:

Daily foundation practices:

  • Morning affirmations ("I am worthy of love simply because I exist")—yes, even when it feels ridiculous and you want to roll your eyes at yourself

  • Journaling to process emotions without judgment

  • Boundary practice starting small: saying no to social events when I needed rest, building up to bigger boundaries like having no phone

Intentional inputs:

  • Consuming content from conscious women (Martha Beck, Esther Perel, Brené Brown) and heatlhy men figures (Andrew Huberman, Lewis Howes, Rich Roll) instead of mindless scrolling

  • Joining growth-minded online communities like Ness Labs and Foster

Celibacy: Understanding desire separate from validation. Learning the difference between wanting someone and wanting to be wanted.

The hardest part: Recognizing that healing isn't linear. Some days I'd feel integrated and whole, others I'd slip back into old patterns. The key was treating setbacks as information, not failure.

Integration isn't some mystical balance. It's the daily practice of not choosing sides in my own life.

life right now? confusing/messy/happy

The path forward feels uncertain but certain simultaneously.

I don't know if I'll find that perfect balance between purpose and parenthood, or if I'll meet someone who's done their own inner work around partnership. I don't know if my timing will align with my desires.

What I do know is that breaking out of either/or thinking has already brought me closer to wholeness .

I'm learning to hold the tension between my ticking clock and my evolving purpose, between my desire to create life and my need to create meaning.

Maybe the longing itself is sacred. Maybe the ache of wanting something you can't control is what keeps the heart open, tender, alive.

Tonight, I'll place my hand on my belly again. But this time, maybe I'll hear the ticking not as a countdown but as a heartbeat. My own. And possibly, someday, another's.

questions for your own journey

If you're reading this and recognizing your own impossible equations, know this: the willingness to sit with uncertainty is how we make space for something new to emerge.

  • What would financial security actually look like for me? Do I have an emergency fund for pregnancy and early motherhood? What income would let me feel genuinely secure raising a child?

  • What patterns am I ready to heal? What childhood wounds still drive my choices? Am I choosing partners from wholeness or from need? How do I actually handle conflict and stress?

  • What do I need in a co-parent? What does emotional maturity look like in action? How do they treat service workers, handle disappointment, show up for friends?

  • What's truly mine vs. inherited programming? Which parts of my desires come from family expectations? What would integration (not sacrifice) look like in my specific life?

How to actually explore these questions:

  • Start with one question that sparked something in you. Don't try to answer it immediately. Instead, carry it with you for a week. Notice what comes up.

Journal prompts to go deeper:

  • "The story I tell myself about money/motherhood/partnership is..."

  • "When I imagine my ideal life, whose voice am I hearing? Mine or someone else's?"

  • "What would I choose if I knew no one would judge me?"

AI conversation starters:

  • "Help me explore my relationship patterns. I tend to choose [describe pattern]. What questions should I be asking myself?"

  • "I'm conflicted between [desire 1] and [desire 2]. Help me identify what underlying values each represents."

  • "My family taught me that [belief]. Help me examine whether this belief still serves me."

The goal isn't answers—it's awareness. Most of us have been running on autopilot for so long we don't even know what we actually want versus what we think we should want.

Nina B https://theharmonylabs.com
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