A place doesn’t begin to feel like a home until it contains people you care for.
In the first weeks after my arrival in Taipei, I ate more of these eggs than I’d like to admit.
I wish I had been warned—not because it would have changed my mind about the procedure, but because I might have been more prepared.
What I forgot, for years and years, were the details of what my body experienced at the time. But my body did not forget.
I didn’t know, anymore, how to date like a normal person—how to give a potential relationship the space to grow into the family I dreamt of.
I flew to Taiwan the year I turned thirty-six, a trip I’d booked solely for the purpose of freezing my eggs.
Sometimes I joke that I’m already primed for motherhood because I’m already well-versed in guilt, blaming myself for things over which I have little control.
I wanted to know more about my fertility because I thought it might help me prepare for a someday I wasn’t willing to give up on.
The desire to be a mother is now something that lingers inside of me, an omnipresent hunger.
“There is a difference between a choice and a wish. We were never asked what we wished for.”