I’ve never known a world without birth control. That might seem like a trivial observation, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. I’ve always had the ability to spearhead my own reproductive destiny — for the first time since humans have roamed this Earth. I didn’t have to strike a deal between enjoying my sexuality and pursing an education and career. I didn’t have to forsake my future for chasing toddlers around the kitchen. I didn’t have to worry about the financial implications of a potential child every time a male partner and I… well, you know. 

The pill is the single greatest development in women’s progress, hands down. We’re no longer slaves to biological destiny. Yet, as this New York Magazine article points out, the pill has also created a fertility problem. Theoretically, you can stop talking the pill on Monday and get pregnant on Tuesday. Yet so many women take the pill for so long — often from their teenage years through their thirties — that when they finally “wake up” from the pill and decide they’re ready to start a family, their fertility, thanks to age, is long gone.

I am 27 (and a half, if we’re counting). Biologically, I am already heading away from my prime child bearing years. According to medical science, my fertility will take a drastic nosedive by 32.  

But while my body may be more than ready to start producing little Friedlandfetuses, in every other way, I’m probably a decade away from children.

There’s something sort of cruel and ironic about all of this. I’m lucky enough to have options, and to delay pregnancy until I’m ready; for me, that means continual career success, buying a big house, saving a pile of cash, paying off student loans, seeing the world, selling a screenplay or two, living abroad… oh, and finding that guy (or an acceptable sperm donor). But by the time I’m at a point where I feel like I’m ready to devote the rest of my life to the needs, whims and demands of someone else, I’ll likely be past the point where my body can accomplish such a task (at least, easily). 

But do I even want children? The idea of a cute little baby bump and a cuddly, sweet-smelling newborn sounds fun. Yet once I really think about what motherhood entails, it’s enough to make me want to get my tubes tied.

I’m an only child. I’ve lived alone (well, minus a few years when I lived with a boyfriend) my entire adult life. I come and go as I please. I leave town when I want. I can sleep in as long as I’d like, or wake up early and hit the gym. Frosting and cheese puffs are an acceptable dinner. If I feel like changing jobs or changing cities or changing partners or changing my mind, I can and I do. With the exception of my cat, I have a responsibility to no one. 

I very much like this. Sometimes when I think about the things I have yet to accomplish in life, I get butterflies and sweaty palms. It’s so fucking exciting to think of how many times I’ve already reinvented myself, and how many more reinventions are still to come. Quite literally, the world is mine for the taking and, quite literally, I am the only one who can make it happen, or not. 

If you throw a kid into the mix, things have to change. Oh sure, I realize there are families who buck tradition and live like nomads. Or there are those super moms who take guitar lessons and practice ballet and run marathons and spend two weeks in Asia and also manage to raise a family, have a hot meal on the table at five and give their husband regular blow jobs. But that’s not the norm.

I have no doubt that motherhood has rewards and moments of absolute tenderness that I can’t possibly imagine. But I’m not entirely sure I want to give up any of my ambition to raise a child. Not even a single, tiny compromise. A child requires sacrifice. A child requires tireless devotion and dedication and the abandonment of your own needs (at least some of the time) to (rightfully) raise this new human. Quite frankly, that sounds like an incredibly depressing prison sentence.

Might I change my mind when I meet the right guy? Perhaps, although I find it insulting when married people insinuate that my thoughts, opinions, dream, wishes and goals will somehow — poof! — shift shape when my Night in Shining Armor finds me. Besides, when I do find this guy, wouldn’t it be fantastic to be able to spend our time conquering and exploring the world together, building incredibly rich experiences and making our mark on this planet? Why do I need to add yet another human being to the overpopulation problem? It seems excessively wasteful.

I suppose that no matter how much I and other women of my age may whine about this “fertility” problem, it’s a luxurious problem to have. I feel so fortunate to be living in a time where I can make any decision I want regarding potential children… and all thanks to the pill. What a world.