Who am I without the possibility of motherhood?

Words by Holly Perkins

When I was 15, a gynecologist asked if I had a boyfriend and told me that if I tried to get pregnant now, I could probably give birth over summer break and have a hysterectomy by my junior year. I didn’t have a boyfriend, but I stood in the hallway and thought about which of my male friends might be willing to impregnate me and how fast I could make it happen. This was the first time a doctor would suggest that I go ahead and get pregnant because my time was running out. 

Fertility has always been at the forefront of my mind. I’m 32 now, and when I was 10 years old, I was diagnosed with stage four endometriosis and PCOS about a year before I got my first period. I was a medical marvel at the time, the youngest person diagnosed with stage four endo before menstruating. My doctors were consistently encouraging, and I was too young to consider the concept of infertility. I figured that since my mom had endometriosis and still had two kids, I’d be able to have kids too. I remember leaving the office of an endometriosis specialist when I was 11, and as he said goodbye, he called out, “Come back when you’re ready to have babies!” That one comment lodged itself in my preteen brain, and suddenly I was consumed by two thoughts: a) I needed to start thinking about when I might be ready to have babies, and b) I’d need a doctor’s help when that time came. 

However, I would of course have babies. And after years of multiple surgeries, endless medications, and excruciating periods, maybe I was naive to have believed my doctors, but there was never a doubt.

That was until late last year, at 12:47 a.m., when my results came back from my annual fertility testing. My world shattered. Pregnancy was still possible, but my egg count was lower than low, and the other numbers were not good. Google was the only place I could turn to interpret the email. I got no helpful information, and one particularly rude website told me that I had the egg count of a woman in her 70s (which was not scientifically accurate). My doctor was much kinder in interpreting the results. She walked me through what each number meant and provided information on egg freezing and IVF. Those are expensive options, and despite having been working since I was 14, ones I cannot afford. I don’t have generational wealth to assist me, or tens of thousands of dollars immediately available- especially for something that I may have to do multiple times. I looked into options- perhaps I could use the modest savings I did have to fly to Greece or Mexico, where it was more affordable to freeze my eggs, but that would still take weeks of travel and the risk of health complications abroad. I applied to jobs at companies that offer fertility benefits and looked into private loans. But ultimately, I knew I wouldn’t be able to afford egg freezing or IVF, so my doctor advised me to think about getting pregnant sooner rather than later — because later may not be an option. Her suggestion transported me back to that doctor’s office 17 years ago, and I once again felt like a scared teenager with no options. 

My mind raced. If I don’t do it now, maybe I’ll never be able to. What if I lose my chance? Maybe I should’ve just done it at 15 and carried out some sort of Juno/Gilmore Girls fantasy. 

Then the really painful realizations hit.  Who am I if I’m not somebody’s mother? Who will I be if I’m not a mom? If I don’t have kids…what’s it all for? Many women feel they lose their sense of identity when they become mothers, but in not becoming one, I have completely lost mine. 

I have always wanted to be a parent. Partially because my parents were so good at it and found such joy in raising my sister and me. My mother loves being a mom; she’s set the most beautiful example of what motherhood can be. On career days growing up, the professions changed but there was always one constant: I want to be a teacher and a mom,  or an artist and a mom, and after a brief stint with tap dancing lessons, a tap dancer and a mom. The “and a mom” part always stuck. In adulthood, the dream has cemented into comedian, writer, and mom. I was never unsure about motherhood, and I have dedicated much of my life to caring for other people’s children with the belief that I would one day have my own. In my teens, I managed after-school programs and summer camps. In my 20s, I was a nanny and a schoolteacher for junior high and high school kids. I also had a job at a nonprofit where I taught parenting classes for new mothers in rehab, led child development classes, and trained foster parents. 

Even now, as I balance my pursuit of a comedy career with my day job, I babysit for friends a few times a month. I took the American Red Cross babysitting course when I was 12 and there hasn’t been a year in two decades that I haven’t changed a dirty diaper. Does it feel weird to be the 32-year-old babysitter? Yep. It is a strange feeling to be babysitting for parents who are your age. But I love doing it. I always thought I’d eventually quit babysitting to have my own child. That one day, I’d be sharing advice with my own broken-hearted teenager or seeing my own baby take their first steps or arguing with my own stubborn middle schooler.

Around the time I got my fertility results, my relationship was nearing a breaking point. My partner was empathetic and kind when discussing it, wiping my tears and listening carefully. Still, my fertility issues felt like a “me” problem and not an “us” problem, which was unintentionally hurtful. He wanted children someday, but my partner had made it clear that he was nowhere near ready for the responsibility. The pressure I felt now that my window was closing caused me to have a Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny “my-biological-clock-is-ticking-like-this”-style meltdown. And although this was not the cause of our breakup, it contributed to us knowing that it was time to end our six-year relationship. I used up the money from my savings that I’d considered using for egg freezing to move out and get my own apartment. 

I am now single for the first time since my mid-twenties. Los Angeles is a city that’s notorious for dating horror stories, and I am not betting on meeting someone that I'll try to have children with immediately. But for the first time in my life? That is not my focus. Being from the Deep South and coming from a close-knit family, I had always dated with the intention of finding the person I wanted to marry and start a family with. Now, maybe I’ll date for fun, or at least for the stories. Either way, fostering a serious relationship is not my main focus for the first time in years, perhaps my whole life.

I always prioritized my relationships and making money in my day job over creative pursuits and long-term career goals. I invested so much time in my relationships to make sure they were strong enough, that I was setting a foundation for building a family. I dedicated myself to a 9-5 job for security of health insurance, maternity and sick leave, a steady income. My best friends in the entertainment industry who don’t want children, or do not prioritize having them, have worked much harder and dedicated themselves to their careers in a way I have not. I’d never look at their successes as my failures, and I am the loudest person cheering them on, but it does sting to know I have let my actual career goals take a backseat to focus on things that ultimately have not, or will not, come to fruition. 

When I moved to LA with these big dreams of becoming a comedian, it was always in the back of my mind that even if I failed, it would make for a great story. If I ended up back in Mississippi as a failed comedian, at least my kids would think it was cool their mom had lived in Los Angeles to be a standup comedian. But now, if I fail, do I just fail? Maybe it is a great story, but who am I telling it to? This may seem sad, but it makes me have to try that much harder to succeed. Not that “failing” at anything is unacceptable when you don’t have kids and acceptable when you do, but for me, I‘ve always used motherhood as a crutch. If I am not successful at anything else, at least I know I’ll be a good mom. Being a wonderful mother would be sufficient. Not knowing if I will ever even be a mom means I am faced with the challenge of not having a crutch, of having to stand on my own. It’s equally fucking terrifying and invigorating. 

I want to be clear. There are many ways for women to experience motherhood and mothering without biologically giving birth. They are equally valid and I am open to alternatives for myself in the future. I also acknowledge that I am speaking from a hetero-normative experience about a situation that people who do not live that experience also often face. I can only speak to my personal experience and I have always seen my path as pregnancy and giving birth, so I am still grieving that. Although my odds are grim, I also acknowledge that I am not completely infertile. I might get pregnant in the same way as I might win the lottery. Both could happen. However, in the same way, I cannot plan my life around suddenly winning millions of dollars, I can no longer plan my life around having a baby. 

I don’t know what my future holds. Maybe my body will once again defy science, or maybe I will find a way to afford to freeze my eggs and IVF and they’ll be successful. Maybe I’ll get to be a stepmom, or maybe I’ll just continue being a mom to my dog. Who knows? I can’t control that, but what I can control is how I’m showing up for myself and doing everything I can to pursue my happiness and career. I can keep pushing forward and living for me. I can take care of myself because I love myself, not because I’m preparing to one day care for another person. I can have fun and experience new things, not to be able to share memories with my future children but to be able to hold them myself. It’s terrifying to feel like now I am living my life for myself, and I still mourn the loss of the life I thought I’d have, but I'm excited to get to know who I’ll be in this new phase of my life.

I love my life here. I love my studio apartment, and that I can see palm trees and a glimpse of the Hollywood sign from my windows. I love walking to get coffee or grab a drink with my friends. I love my dog. I love that I have the freedom to travel easily whenever I want, or sit on my couch and watch Real Housewives, or scroll TikTok for hours. I love performing in basements and backyards, anywhere I can get a laugh. I often say aloud “I’m so happy,” which sometimes scares me because that’s exactly what the characters on TV say before they get t-boned at an intersection. But I am happy. I do not feel unfulfilled. So, if this is it, maybe I’m realizing that I'm okay with that. 

Holly Perkins is a comedian and writer in Los Angeles by way of Mississippi. She shares personal stories with heart and humor, both on stage and on the page. She lives in LA with her dog Albert and writes a weekly pop culture newsletter on Substack called Perk Culture. You can find her on Instagram @perkalerk