Not Womanly Enough, Whatever That Means

"How do you define womanhood?"
"It's mostly getting labelled hormonal and learning not to flinch. And, reserving the right to change that definition any day."

They said procreation is blissful. That giving birth is closest to magic I would ever feel. Growing up, I believed that if there were any certainties in life, this was one of them.

I was told it's something innate to womanhood, and that I would hear its calling, loud and clear, when the time came. But even as the years passed, I never longed for it. In my mind, it always remained an idea not worth pursuing. Not threatening, not repulsive, just irrelevant.

My best friend spoke of an inexplicable bond with a biological child. Others claimed it was the most rewarding experience a woman could have. My mother said growing a life inside you is nothing short of a miracle.

But all I knew was, if I ever had to endure prolonged pain and discomfort to grow something inside me, I’d prefer it to be self-worth. Or maybe a second helping of self-confidence. For me, it was certainly not a human being.

When my biological clock was apparently ticking, and my husband remained as indifferent as I was, people reminded me that it was my decision to make. They said, it's the woman's lead. My husband agreed and said, "yes, it's absolutely your call, even if it means saying no."

When the noise got too loud, I turned to literature to understand why this celebrated phenomenon never spoke to me. I also looked for answers in online communities, hoping I wasn't alone.

It took a lot of emotional unraveling, rejecting secondhand feelings handed to me like heirlooms, and scavenging what I wanted in my heart of hearts to finally make peace with my decision. To finally know that my womanhood doesn't have to include the essence of procreation.

It's not easy to reject something the world revers. You can never grow a skin thick enough to keep guilt and doubt from seeping in. It's hard to defy a universal expectation like this, and still show up in parties, without looking like a cautionary tale.

There are moments when I witness others embracing parenthood, drenched in the joy of creating a little version of themselves. I glance at my husband then, searching for any traces of longing or unspoken blame in his eyes. Usually, I find none. He watches them as a mere spectator, celebrating their joy, yet imbibing nothing from it.

There were only a couple of times I thought I saw a flicker of judgement. But it turned out he was just sulking because I wouldn't let him order something deep-fried, cheese-stuffed, and aggressively unnecessary.