At 35, I tried to force motherhood. At 42, I'm glad it didn't work.

by Marsha Badger

I knew I was ready to have a baby when I grew increasingly attracted to the maintenance man. 

Four years into my seven-year relationship with a woman, I suddenly noticed Derrick, the man tasked with fixing my kitchen sink. It started with an innocent thought: He would make beautiful children. I brushed it off, but by his second visit, I became intrigued. 

By the end of the week, we were sending innocent texts back and forth, but something deep down inside gave me the ick. "Am I straight now?" I thought to myself, disturbed at the possibility. I was too young to be having a midlife crisis. So, where were these thoughts coming from? As I sat with myself, I realized that the common theme, from daydreams to random thoughts, was parenthood and children. I was drawn to him because my brain was ready to explore motherhood. 

I was in a relationship that had been stagnant for the last 2 years. We went from lovey-dovey soulmates to bestie roommates who kept up appearances. It was time for the "where is this going?" conversation, which ultimately led us to go our separate ways.

I was a single, 35-year-old lesbian who didn't want to throw myself back into the dating pool. My desire to become a mother grew so strong that I wasn't willing to invest the time needed to get to know someone and eventually reach the "let's start a family" stage. I also knew children were expensive, and I could barely afford myself. So, with a dollar and a dream, I decided to dedicate the upcoming year to finding someone to co-parent with and explore motherhood.

Plan A, B and C: Find a co-parent

I started with casual DMs to the gay men on my Facebook friend list. Gay men felt like a safe option. They'd probably want to explore their paternal instincts, and together we could create a winning equation. Unfortunately, most of the men weren't interested, so I moved on to plan B.

I met Greg, a 20-something bisexual model from the South, through a friend. He was breathtakingly gorgeous, and he knew it. Greg also wanted kids and was willing to explore co-parenting with me. Before making any major decisions, we decided to hang out more often so we could get to know each other better. A few months into our budding friendship, Greg changed his mind, pushing me back to square one.

I realized I was tying my worth to becoming a mother. Pressure came from all angles. If it wasn't my cousins asking the dreaded "when are you going to have a baby?" questions, it was constant invitations to baby showers, which itched the part of my brain that coveted motherhood. I was in too deep to stop now.

On to plan C.

I didn't have many male friends, so I was running out of options. I asked my best friend’s brother, Saul, and we got the ball rolling. I planned insemination days around my ovulation date. Saul would come to my house and leave his sperm in a sealed jar. Immediately after, I'd inseminate myself with a medical syringe. We did this three times, but I never got pregnant. I was certain getting pregnant would've been easy for me, but by the third pregnancy attempt, discouragement took over and we stopped trying.

On to plan D.

My last resort: Draining my savings to do it on my own

My last resort was to try on my own, abandoning the emotional and financial support I knew I needed from a co-parent. I went online, bought sperm, and had the uterine insemination procedure. My insurance covered some of the cost, and I paid the rest out of my savings. It was a bold move, especially because it drained my account. I've always considered myself financially responsible, but this was a calculated risk that could leave me broke with no guarantee of conceiving. 

After blood work, a uterine biopsy, and frequent trips to the doctor's office for vaginal sonograms every other day, it was finally time to introduce the sperm that had sat in a refrigerator for the past month to my eggs. Two weeks after the procedure, I got my period.

I felt defeated. I didn't see the roadblocks as glaring signs from the Universe that this wasn't the road for me to travel. My need to control the outcome caused mental, emotional, and financial stress. I exhausted every option, and I no longer had the emotional capacity to try again.

I put a lot of pressure on myself to become a mother. So much so that I dated the wrong people and drained my bank account, hoping they'd align with my goal of having a baby. Because I was knee-deep in desperation, I didn't see that the Universe was saving me by not giving me what I thought I wanted.

I've lived nine lives since 2019. And in each of those lives, I couldn't imagine being a parent. Six months after my last attempt to conceive, the world shut down because of a global pandemic. My pregnancy would've been during a time when services were heavily restricted. I wouldn't have had access to my community.  

I recovered financially, but only because there was one mouth to feed. Saving money was easier when baby formula, childcare, and school trips weren't part of my budget. And when I became one of the 600,000 Black women laid off in 2025, I was relieved that no one depended on me for their survival. 

As the cost of living continues to rise and the average person struggles to meet basic needs, I appreciate the freedom of being responsible only for myself. There were days when taking care of myself was optional. I had plenty of "girl dinner" nights, consisting of Hot Cheetos and iced coffee.

I romanticized motherhood without acknowledging the financial investment

Now, my luxury is knowing I only have one mouth to feed. Many mothers lose their jobs and face hardships, but their responsibilities don't disappear. They make a way out of no way because they have no choice. I've come to accept that choosing to be responsible for myself, and myself alone, is a radical act of self-love.

At 42, I’m no longer interested in traditional motherhood. Instead, I redefined how it looks for me. I don't have to bear children to share my maternal instincts. I have nieces, a nephew, and godchildren in my life that I could pour into, and adoption or fostering were also options. I wasn't going to let my age or relationship status disrupt the ease I worked so hard to find. 

If I could talk to my 35-year-old self, I'd encourage her to relax and trust the process. I'd tell her that this unnecessary pressure never belonged to her, but to an age-old ideology that teaches women that purpose is found in motherhood. I'd remind her that her worth isn't tied to the art she creates or the position she holds, but to who she is at the core, how she shows up in the world, and her ability to live in her truth.