the art of being late to everything
on rejecting the rush to marry young, have kids early, and freeze your face at twenty
If the algorithm makes me watch another video titled POV: Spend the Day with Me as a Low-Income SAHM of 5, I’m going to lose my mind.
The homes are filthy. The children are slovenly. Women having children with multiple men, then turning to social media to panhandle for cash and sympathy. It’s chaos packaged as “relatable content,” and I’m tired of seeing it.
Some of these women seem to breed small football teams because, deep down, they know they’ll never pursue anything else. No degree. No homeownership. Not even a stable marriage. In a world where adulthood has certain markers, they’ve chosen the only one they can still claim.
On the opposite end of the spectrum are women who avoid adulthood entirely—clinging to youth as if it’s a lifeline. And you have to drag them into the future kicking and screaming.
the cult of forever young
We refuse to grow up.
We live in a state of forever-youngness.
And when our youth fades—when the lines spread across our face—we’re terrified.
Terrified of time wasted.
Longing for a life long gone.
As a woman, it feels as though this fear is built in.
Over the last five years, this need for immortality has only gotten more desperate.
And truthfully, it’s beginning to frighten me.
the cosmetic arms race
It’s frightening to see young women with disposable income parade themselves across social media with extensive cosmetic work—filler, Botox, BBLs, liposuction.
Spend a day with me as a 22-year-old…
I’m 21 and I get preventative Botox…
There are young women with nose jobs and skin pulled back to achieve a beauty look that will fade from the public eye within a decade.
And oddly, I feel like my mother. Or my grandmother.
I’m only a few years older than some of these girls—yet I feel worlds apart.
racing the clock to thirty
Of course, thirty seems like the end for a college freshman.
But as a twenty-five-year-old, it feels like it’s only the beginning.
That’s why I’ve always found it odd—the desperation to marry and start a family before thirty.
Not to be that guy, but… you don’t want to do anything else first?
Travel? School? Live alone?
Especially when marriage and motherhood often mean trading freedom for servitude.
why add to the chaos?
Your twenties are awful.
Like being a toddler again—you trip and stumble until you figure out how to walk straight.
Why add the emotional chaos of a child into the mix?
Or worse, a lazy man-child?
These are the women who, at forty-five, find themselves restless once the kids leave and the husband stops talking to them.
They forget who they are.
And somehow, it’s everyone else’s fault.
motherhood as a permanent decision
When my peers get married or pregnant, I try not to judge.
I don’t know their lives. I don’t know their stories.
But signing my life away to something I might regret in five years? That terrifies me.
Once we make a decision—especially one as permanent as motherhood—we can’t take it back.
the myth of too late
That’s why I think timing matters more than we admit.
I live and die by the belief that “geriatric pregnancy” is a scam run by conservative media.
Pregnancy is a parasitic experience and a risk at any age.
If you skip your vitamins, your teeth can literally fall out.
And yet, right-wing talking points tell the twenty-one-year-old: your career means nothing.
Your purpose is to serve a husband and God.
Don’t bother building a life because “high-value men” don’t care what you do for a living.
On your deathbed, your degree won’t keep you company.
As if it isn’t well known that men are far more likely to die alone than women.
aging is a privilege
I’m still young.
Still learning myself.
I’m teaching myself the art of meeting someone’s gaze and not shrinking.
Of daring to stare back and say, Well, I see you too.
There’s no way I’m ready for a child or a marriage.
Aging is a privilege.
I want the lines.
I want the long gray hair.
I want my grandchildren to see wisdom and comfort in my face—not the remnants of lip filler I got at twenty.
late motherhood, on my terms
I dream of late motherhood.
Maybe I adopt.
Maybe I’m lucky enough for IVF.
By then, I’m well-traveled, highly educated, and settled in a beautiful home.
I have my friends—my village.
Maybe we raise our children together.
Maybe I’m thirty-seven, having my first baby.
Motherhood, to me, is a choice that doesn’t require a man’s blessing.
a life worth living
Aging only terrifies you when you believe you haven’t built a life worth living.
I love my parents—as every child does—but they often say, You’re the greatest thing I’ve ever done.
And I think—really?
Something literally anyone can do is the greatest thing you’ve ever done?
In the same breath, my mother and grandmother talk about their fear of gray hair and wrinkles.
But those are proof of a life well-lived.
Signs you’ve earned your place in time.
Wouldn’t you want the world to see that?