Dear Future Daughter,
As I pen this letter at the age of 27, I must confess that I still grapple with the basics of parenting, like changing a diaper. The world around us is unpredictable—planes crash, love doesn’t always prevail, and I often consume foods laden with pesticides. My neighbors occasionally quarrel under the influence, while friends face serious health battles. Sadly, the harsh reality is that this world may not be the safest place for a child.
Currently, I gaze at a lovely bouquet of flowers on my kitchen table—gifts from your potential father just days ago—but they’ve wilted because I neglected to change the water. My home is cluttered, and the recycling bin carries an unpleasant odor. It’s not an ideal environment for a child.
Yet, the idea of meeting you fills me with joy. I can envision the colors of your room, and I already have a middle name in mind. I imagine the font I would use for your birth announcement, and I know you would be surrounded by love—more than you could possibly experience in a lifetime. However, I hesitate because I feel unprepared. The thought of not remembering to change the water in the flowers, keeping up with your activities, and ensuring a nurturing environment terrifies me.
I believe I would shower you with compliments daily—perhaps 67 times in one morning, or just once as you drift off to sleep. I would let you express your creativity with manicures, allowing you to choose any color, from chartreuse to electric blue. I might even put you in tap shoes before you could walk, but I would fear that you might end up like me.
This fear stems from the mess I’ve created in my life, which I wouldn’t want you to witness. Little girls deserve to grow up in a space free of their mothers’ chaos. I have years of self-improvement ahead before I feel my life is suitable for you.
As a child, I faced criticism—too chunky to play a role in a musical I adored. This led to unhealthy habits, and I often restricted my eating to cope. I don’t want you to experience the same struggles I did. I would encourage you to eat freely and enjoy food, ensuring that you see it as a source of nourishment rather than restriction.
While I might not indulge in desserts too often, I’d teach you the joy of physical activities like walking, swimming, and playing sports. I would prioritize your comfort in clothing and avoid keeping fashion magazines that promote unrealistic standards. I pledge never to speak negatively about myself in your presence, hoping to instill body positivity in you.
However, I worry I might slip one day, inadvertently teaching you that self-criticism is normal. This fear of failure haunts me. How could you ever forgive me for not living up to your expectations? I envision us having fun shopping for makeup when you’re older, teasing your father, and redecorating your room together. But what if I fail to meet the mark as a mother? What if you grow up feeling unloved, eating soggy cereal, and hating your reflection because I couldn’t reach you in time?
This is why I hesitate to bring you into this world. The reality is daunting, with drugs and unhealthy influences lurking in schools, and I fear for your safety throughout your life. Your twenties could be filled with challenges—debt, unfulfilling jobs, and heartbreak. I wouldn’t know how to protect you from these hardships, and the thought of that failure weighs heavily on me.
Through my experiences, I’ve learned that true happiness must come from within. External circumstances can’t define your joy. This is a lesson I wish to impart to you—that you shouldn’t rely on others to fulfill your happiness. I can’t burden you with the responsibility of making me feel whole. It would be unfair for me to expect you to complete me.
Yes, I could love you fiercely and strive to make you happy. But inevitably, as you grow and leave home, I might revert to my unfulfilled self, grappling with my insecurities. I wouldn’t want to rely on you for support, especially when you have your own life to navigate.
However, I know that I would adore you. I’d indulge in every moment—teaching you to tap dance, sharing pride in your accomplishments, and ensuring you knew your worth. But I can’t bring you into a life where I’m still seeking answers and struggling to create a stable environment.
Your potential father always advises that choices should stem from love rather than fear. Ironically, this letter is an expression of love, yet my fear dominates my thoughts. I am overwhelmed by the idea of what it means to have you in my life and what that would entail.
In summary, I love you already, more than you can imagine. I envision a future where your room is a blend of baby turquoise and rich plum, with a middle name honoring my grandmother. But for now, I choose to hold onto my uncertainties. Until I can sort through my feelings and create a better space for you, I ask for your understanding.
With all my love,
Mom (potentially)
For further insights into fertility and home insemination, you can explore resources like this guide on couples’ fertility journeys. Additionally, for male fertility enhancement, consider learning more about this fertility booster for men. For comprehensive information on reproductive health, you can visit the CDC’s resource on infertility.
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