“But when I closed the literary collection and dusted off the baby box full of heirlooms-in-training, I thought about the choices I had left to make. It’s clear why my parents and I have memory-hoarded the mounds of beginner art and formative writerly projects, but why these tiny relics? The Cabbage Patch dolls, the custom-made dollhouse furniture, the jewelry box, the softest, smallest, sweetest blankets? Where will they go? Who are they for?”
Today is the first day of my third trimester.
Time has made almost no sense since we arrived home from Italy in May and found out a miracle baby was on the way. What do you mean 2026 is almost here? It’s still 2024!
But if we must refer to facts, I have been pregnant for 196 days, with 84 more to go. (Baby is the size of a head of lettuce, a food I’m not interested in because it is not Oreo ice cream.) In this very moment, I am filled with unquantifiable joy, excitement, sheer trepidation, and sugar. This sweet baby girl often joins in on the Spectrum of Emotions Celebration by doing her Elaine Benes-inspired dance inside my belly; the most spectacular proof of life.
We are flying back to Seattle right now after a five-day trip home to Houston to see my family, eat an ungodly amount of Tex-Mex and BBQ, and do an epic organization and purging of some of my childhood keepsakes. (We also went to my nephew’s varsity football game, enjoyed 70-degree November afternoons, and got one of those insane 4D ultrasounds—our baby is a stunning ball of smoosh with perfect baby lips and my nose.)
While I’ve shared a lot of videos and pictures on Instagram about my pregnancy, I haven’t published much prose. (Maybe you’ve noticed?) I’ve been quietly prioritizing other writing projects with looming deadlines instead: a memoir about the child-free parts of my life and my mom’s valuable (and vexing) influence. (I signed with a literary agent in late September, and she’s just as excited as I am to get this narrative into the hands of editors.)
It’s strange, embarking on such a huge, incredible, life-changing phase (motherhood), while also digging deep into everything that led up to this moment (spinsterhood). But I have taken the time to keep good a record of my hopes, thoughts, and extraordinary changes throughout this chapter, and writing mini letters to our daughter each week, too.
(And, to be honest, after having to live through this miscarriage, and also this one, I’ve attempted to keep my oversharing in check, to temper expectations. But that kind of restraint never lasts long with me. So once I get my book-writing schedule in order, and my nursery-planning finished, and figure out how exactly to have a baby, expect to see some more Substacks from yours truly.)
One big thing this memoir has prompted is my need to obtain the 30+ obsessively detailed journals and diaries I kept from first grade until junior year (when I took my juicy secrets online). This is part of the reason we went to Houston—to collect those from my dad’s art studio, as well as some of the baby items my mother kept: blankets, toys, books, yellowing garbs. Items that, just 3.5 years ago, I was questioning whether or not I’d ever need.
In an essay I shared on Medium in January of 2022, I detailed my feelings about being a 37-year-old without any long-term prospects, without knowing if parenthood even stood a chance. The piece highlighted an “in between” so often overlooked: having the desire for a loving partner and children in your late 30s, while also preparing to grieve those desires, if necessary. When I shared the post with followers, so many women reached out to say this was exactly how they felt about “oscillating between two universes” and the mental toll of not knowing what a thirtysomething future held.
I’ve shared the piece in full again below, as a reminder to myself, and to others, both how quickly life can change and how important it was to prepare myself for the emotional work of either direction.
Even through all the uncertainties life presents, it helps to hang onto hope in some way—because sometimes hope is shaped like a naked, dusty, balding doll shoved in a plastic bin.
The Uncertainty of Motherhood When You’re the 37-Year-Old Fun Single Aunt
Oscillating between two universes / Medium / Jan 6, 2022
Every five years or so, when I am home in Houston for the holidays, I declare the need for a nostalgia deep-dive — excavating several large, plastic time capsules that reside in the back of my dad’s sprawling art studio; tangible reminders, poignant remainders of early life.
This year, I FaceTimed my mom so she could join dad and I on this dusty trip down only-child memory lane, and we ooh-ed and aww-ed through the sentimental souvenirs, absorbing the extensive archive of my burgeoning creativity: every non-digitized word, every graphite line I pushed across paper, every article or story I wrote from 1984–2006 — fruitful side effects of having encouraging and inspiring artists as parents. We agreed, as we had many times before, based on the prolific amount of content that spanned countless journals and notebooks, I really had no choice but to become a writer.
But when I closed the literary collection and dusted off the baby box full of heirlooms-in-training, I thought about the choices I had left to make. It’s clear why my parents and I have memory-hoarded the mounds of beginner art and formative writerly projects, but why these tiny relics? The Cabbage Patch dolls, the custom-made dollhouse furniture, the jewelry box, the softest, smallest, sweetest blankets? Where will they go? Who are they for?
My mom was diligent about making sure we didn’t keep literally everything I ever touched, and over the years, handed down clothes and toys and practical pieces to friends with young ones. And so, as I held up the exquisite dollhouse living-room set, she asked, earnestly, “Why don’t you pass those on to your friends’ kids? Or your cousins’ kids?”
I looked beyond the tiny furniture at the dolls and hand-painted Noah’s Ark animals, who stared up at me like they wanted to know why, too; feeling like this inanimate infantry was moments away from coming to life and interrogating me about my choices — my own twisted, thirtysomething Toy Story.
“Not yet,” I replied, putting everything back one by one, feeling the hesitation and heaviness and hope that hung in those two words, not knowing if I’d take them out in this lifetime to pass them along to a child of my own.
I was never the type to say something like, “I want to be married by 28, kids by 30”— I have lived much of my life always leaving the door open for universal “milestones” to waltz in as they please, prioritizing personally meaningful creative and career successes, while having as much fun and freedom as humanly possible. I have created an epic life that is so fulfilling and unburdened and wonderfully wild that when I bring up the idea of having children, so often people say, “I just assumed you didn’t want any.”
Despite the beauty of relentless independence, despite my age, despite finding joy and worth in endeavors that can’t love me back… I am still trying to navigate my feelings about creating a life that isn’t my own.
I am surrounded by procreators — many tired, drained, defeated parents — who never fail to use their last bouts of energy to light up and say: “I promise you it’s worth it.” I believe them. I do. But I struggle with what constitutes “worth.” I love being the fun, care-free aunt that gets to blow through the door at playtime and barrel out of there when the tantrums start, with nowhere to be except wherever the hell I want. I love that I get to sleep and write uninterrupted or jet off on a whim or place all of my value in being a good friend and a good daughter and a good writer because, I promise you, that’s worth it, too.
My mom was 37 when she gave birth to me — the age I am now. She is a stronger woman than I’ll ever be, and I wonder sometimes if I’d have the strength and selflessness and patience to raise a child the way she did. But there are many days where I think, I want to know I am capable of loving someone in such a way. And so I convince myself this is still a viable path, pressing snooze once again on the alarm of my biological clock, holding out for a partner who just happens to have his book open to the same page.
And that’s okay— to live in this state of “What if?” and “I hope” and “I honestly don’t know,” even in your late thirties. I am allowed to wake up and say, “I love this perfect life, and I want it forever.” And go to sleep filled with thoughts like, Should I be trying harder to make motherhood a priority? Stories of wanting and waiting and wavering are never clear-cut; they are confusing and convoluted and so often accompanied by heartache. And I never want anyone to feel sorry for me — to think, “Oh, she wanted a child, it just never happened.”
I’m willing to admit I protect myself from that preconceived noise by letting uncertainty and neutrality about such heavy matters serve as a defense. But I also drown it out by drowning myself in rom-com fantasies and grand romantic notions of meeting an inevitable long-term love. (My heart upstages my uterus once again!) I am more consumed by that particular chapter than I am of procreating — even knowing, even hoping, they might go hand in hand.
I realize pregnancy and parenthood are painfully subjective experiences, and that there are so many non-traditional paths to both. I know it is a privilege to even have these ongoing debates with myself because for many, heartbreakingly so, there is no debate. I know that I could’ve put my eggs on ice years ago, or even now. I know that modern medical miracles abound and that adoption is a lovely option and that one day, I might even make a great step-mom. But in this very moment, I simply oscillate between waiting for the universe to show me what I need, and watching the same clip play quietly in the back of my head, one where a small human (a spitting image of yours truly) is laughing and swinging my formerly imprisoned Cabbage Patch doll by the pigtails; the love of my life by my side saying, “Can you believe we made that?”
Then I watch that sublime scene fade — no, jolt — to black when I think about the contorted face I make every time I hear a baby’s deafening scream-cry. Or how some of my friends with kids haven’t been on a vacation or had a good night’s sleep in years. Or how the fate of our entire planet is positively dubious and no longer designed to withstand even the current population. I think about how I’ve been on an ungodly amount of dates in the last year alone, volleying between men who have children already and men who never want them, not once sitting across from someone thinking, I can see myself changing diapers with this motherfucker.
My therapist, who is helping me try to date more intentionally, recently asked if I think I’ll feel “left out” at 60 or 70 when all my friends are surrounded by doting children and grandchildren. And without hesitation, I said “absolutely not!” thinking — knowing — the last thing I want to be at that age is plagued by FOMO. But it’s natural to look back or look around and ruminate on all the curious ways life could’ve unfolded differently, without dousing it in regret, without setting where you ended up aflame.
There is still time for me to figure it out, and also no time at all. So, despite my soupy longings and rollercoaster yearnings, I stay rooted in reality. My buoyant lifestyle and lofty dating standards might delay the possibility of experiencing the family dynamic I’ve deprioritized for so long, and I’ll have to be content with that. I’m training myself now for any outcome, to not be disappointed if I am unable to replicate and redefine the kind of incredible parent-child love I experienced firsthand — hoping, at the very least, my mom and dad get to see me love someone in a way that still defies all odds.
While most people my age know exactly what the next few years might hold for them — marriage, more children, offspring milestones, commitment after commitment — I can’t possibly know what’s ahead for my heart (or really any of my parts). It’s intimidating and invigorating all at once. So for now, I exist in two universes. One where “late” motherhood still seems hopeful, feasible, around the corner. And one where I might be Aunt Sara forever. And if they collide, that’s going to be wild in a wonderful way. And if they don’t, well, the detained dolls might revolt. And what a great story that will be.
It is so exciting to hear that you are writing a book, I love reading your words.
Sara, you are not alone as a "geriatric" mom. I had Rachel 6 days after my 40th birthday. Though I was lucky enough not to have to go through the miscarriage nightmare you did, twice and I send my love and great big hugs for your having to go through that to get to this place. Just know that 17 years later with a kiddo about to graduate college, I regret nothing. I'm glad I waiting for my husband, Matt to show up in my life. I'm glad we got married with the agreement that if we couldn't get pregnant, it was going to be ok, if it was just us and the dog, I brought Fezziwig into the marriage and he was 12 when Rachel was born. Know that I have your back and if you have any questions or concerns, I will always be here for you. Just ask your dad or Charlie for my contact info. And no worries, I'm still the fun Aunt. And you will be too along with being an amazing mom. All my love, Rebecca