The Middle

“I don’t know if I want kids,” I spill to a three-week-old fling. We have been hitting it off, and I love to self-sabotage. “Also, I don’t know if monogamy is for me,” I continue to add fuel to the fire. I’ve been through several committed relationships by the ripe age of 30, and these lines have abruptly ended many of them. This time around, however, I feel the weight of these words breaking my heart. Why do I keep telling guys these statements? Better yet, why do I keep telling myself these statements?

When I was in high school, I would tell people I was atheist. A girl, coming from a wholesome, Lutheran family, who attended church on a weekly basis. I think my rebellious side enjoyed evoking reactions. But when I take a deeper look at my motives, the teacher in me has always liked to provoke people to question...question why they believe what they believe, question societal norms, question in order to create a more progressive, inclusive world.

“Well, Margot, I don’t think our values align, so it’s probably best we go our separate ways now.” Ouch. Cue the instant regret and FOMO on the Christmas party he just invited me to, plus any chance of sharing a New Year’s Eve kiss together.

“You’re probably right,” I reply. I call my mom and let her in on my secret. “But Margot, don’t you want these things?! You’d make the most wonderful mother.” I mean, I feel that’s true. I’ve found my calling working as an elementary educator and have a special way of connecting with kids. More often than not, my students accidentally (although adorably) call me ‘mom.' A frequent reminder of what could have been.

Eight years ago, I was fresh out of college and pregnant. I made the decision to choose freedom over this seemingly confining path and never looked back. I moved to Austin, Texas and lived out my 20s vivaciously and carefree, in contrast to the other life I imagine only existing in a parallel universe. Now, with my 31st birthday around the corner and a “robust” egg count according to my gynecologist, I debate which path I want to choose.

You see, I always thought there was a solid degree of my destiny that was already determined. Maybe I can blame the astrology apps I’ve invested time and faith in or the palm readings I’ve received from strangers and coworkers alike. According to these sources, I’m not built for traditional relationships, and the tiny little crease on my right palm means that the only child I’ll have in this lifetime won’t be born. Sounds on par so far.

Either way, I’ve begun to realize that the narratives I’ve been telling myself don’t need to be my reality. I have the power to choose my own path – regardless of how the stars appear to be aligned. Afterall, that’s what I’ve been doing all along, right?

“Margot, when are you visiting us?” my sister inquires. She has become one of my biggest support systems these past few years. I can be unguardedly open with strangers but closed off with those closest to me. Not until recently have I accepted that it’s better to let kin in than to stay surface level.

“I’ll see you next week!” I respond with a warm heart. As I board the plane to Chicago, I think of the countless times I’ve made this trip back and forth – between the home I’ve chosen and the home I’ve come from. Along the way, I seem to find myself in the middle.