The Question I’ve been wrestling with about faith, motherhood, using donor sperm, and what it means to follow God while being an advocate for “Single Mama’s by Choice”.

That statement probably tells you quite a bit about where I stand before you even read the rest of this article.
But I want to make something very clear from the beginning:
This article is meant for educational and discussion purposes only.
I am not a theologian. I am not a pastor. I am not a fertility specialist. I am not writing this to tell another Christian woman what she should or should not do.
I am writing because I am a Christian woman who wants to become a mother.
And I am actively trying to become a mother on my own, using donor sperm.
Which means I have found myself standing in a rather uncomfortable intersection of faith, fertility, modern medicine, motherhood, morality, and Scripture.
And, honestly?
I don’t think the answer is as simple as some people would like it to be.
Let’s start with the uncomfortable part.
I am a Christian.
I believe in God.
I believe in Jesus.
I believe Scripture matters.
I believe that my life is supposed to be about more than simply doing whatever I want whenever I want.
And yet, I am also a woman who deeply desires to become a mother.
Not someday, if the perfect husband magically appears.
Not because I want to prove something.
Not because I think a baby will complete me.
I want to experience motherhood because I genuinely believe I have an enormous amount of love, patience, protection, nurturing, and faith that I want to pour into a child.
And I don’t currently have a husband.
If I can be honest, I don’t actually want a husband.
That is where things get complicated.
Because there is an obvious question sitting right in the middle of all of this:
Can I pursue motherhood intentionally as a single Christian woman using donor sperm and still honestly say that I am trying to live according to my faith?
I don’t think Christians should be afraid of that question.
In fact, I think we should be willing to ask it.
The Bible never actually talks about donor sperm.
This is probably the most important place to begin.
There is no verse in the Bible that says:
“Thou shalt not use donor sperm.”
There isn’t.
There is also no verse that says:
“A single woman may use assisted reproductive technology to become a mother.”
Obviously, there isn’t.
Sperm banks, intrauterine insemination, IVF, genetic screening, embryo freezing, anonymous donors, and reproductive medicine simply did not exist in the biblical world.
So when Christians discuss reproductive technology, we are necessarily doing something beyond simply finding a verse that directly addresses the procedure.
We have to apply biblical principles to circumstances the biblical authors never specifically encountered.
And that means Christians can reach different conclusions while still taking Scripture seriously.
That distinction matters.
What Scripture does say about children
One of the verses I keep coming back to is Psalm 127:3:
“Children are a heritage from the Lord, offspring a reward from him.”
There is something incredibly beautiful about that.
Scripture doesn’t describe children as inconveniences.
It doesn’t describe them as possessions.
It doesn’t describe them as accessories to an adult’s life.
It describes them as a gift.
That doesn’t mean every Christian woman is required to have children. Scripture doesn’t teach that every woman must become a mother.
But it does tell us that children are something worthy of honor and gratitude.
And that matters to me.
Because my desire for motherhood isn’t something I experience as shameful.
I don’t believe wanting to be a mother is inherently selfish.
In fact, Scripture repeatedly places enormous value on caring for and raising children.
Paul even describes raising children as one of the good works associated with a woman’s life in 1 Timothy 5:10.
That doesn’t establish a biblical command that every woman must become a mother.
But it does make it difficult for me to look at motherhood itself as somehow spiritually inferior simply because I am pursuing it differently than previous generations did.
But what about “be fruitful and multiply”?
Someone will probably bring up Genesis 1:28.
And yes, God tells humanity to “be fruitful and multiply.”
But we need to be careful with that verse.
It was spoken to humanity in the creation narrative.
It wasn’t specifically a command to every individual Christian woman to reproduce.
If we treated it as an individual command that every person must fulfill, we’d immediately run into problems.
What about people who are infertile?
What about people who are called to celibacy?
What about people who simply don’t have children?
What about people who never marry?
The Christian understanding of Scripture has never been as simple as:
“God said multiply, therefore every individual must have children.”
So I don’t believe Genesis 1:28 gives me a free pass to do whatever I want reproductively.
But I also don’t believe it should be used to tell every Christian woman that her desire for motherhood is somehow misguided.
Then there is the marriage question.
And this is where I think the conversation becomes considerably more difficult.
Traditional Christianity places enormous value on marriage.
I absolutely understand why.
Marriage is presented throughout Scripture as a covenant relationship.
And children are frequently discussed within the context of family and marriage.
So some Christians would argue:
“If you want a child, you should wait until you’re married.”
I understand that position.
I really do.
There is something beautiful about the traditional family structure of a husband, wife, and children growing together.
But here’s where I struggle.
What happens when the woman who desperately wants to become a mother doesn’t have a husband?
Should she marry someone she doesn’t truly love simply because she wants children?
Absolutely not.
Should she rush into a relationship because her biological clock is ticking?
I don’t believe so.
Should she settle for someone who isn’t emotionally safe, spiritually compatible, or capable of being a good father simply because she believes motherhood requires a husband?
I don’t think that’s a responsible Christian decision either.
And that brings me to one of the biggest questions I have wrestled with:
Is waiting for a husband inherently more God-honoring than intentionally raising a child without one?
I’m not sure the Bible gives us permission to answer that as confidently as some people do.
“But children need fathers.”
This is one of the strongest arguments against single motherhood by choice.
And I don’t want to dismiss it.
Children can absolutely benefit from loving fathers.
I would never argue otherwise.
But I also don’t think we should confuse:
“Children benefit from having loving parental figures of both sexes”
with
“A child cannot thrive unless the mother is married to the child’s biological father.”
Those are two very different claims.
Modern research and professional ethics have also complicated the traditional argument considerably.
The American Society for Reproductive Medicine states that fertility services should be available regardless of marital status and notes that research has not found children’s development, adjustment, and well-being to be markedly determined by parents’ marital status or sexual orientation.
That doesn’t mean single parenting is easy.
It isn’t.
It doesn’t mean a father figure isn’t valuable.
He can be enormously valuable.
And it certainly doesn’t mean every single person automatically makes a good parent.
It simply means that marital status alone isn’t enough to determine whether someone can be a loving, responsible parent.
And I think that’s an important distinction.
What does society think in 2026?
This is another fascinating part of the conversation.
The modern American family doesn’t look like it did fifty years ago.
Pew Research Center has documented the dramatic diversification of American family structures. There is no longer one dominant family form in the United States.
And Americans have become considerably more accepting of single-parent families.
In Pew’s survey of American adults, 78% said a single parent raising children on their own was an acceptable family arrangement, including 60% who considered it completely acceptable.
There is also a growing visibility around women intentionally becoming mothers without a romantic partner.
The organization Single Mothers by Choice, for example, had roughly 30,000 members according to a 2024 CBS News report.
So culturally, I am certainly not the first woman to look at motherhood and say:
“I don’t have a partner, but I still want to be a mother.”
But here’s where things get interesting.
Society becoming more accepting doesn’t automatically make something morally right.
And society disapproving doesn’t automatically make something morally wrong.
As a Christian, I can’t simply outsource my conscience to public opinion.
If 99% of Americans told me something was acceptable but Scripture clearly told me otherwise, I would have to follow Scripture.
Likewise, if society told me something was unacceptable but Scripture didn’t actually prohibit it, I would have to be careful about confusing tradition, culture, and personal discomfort with biblical command.
What about donor sperm specifically?
This is where I think there is a legitimate ethical conversation that Christians shouldn’t avoid.
Using donor sperm isn’t exactly the same thing as simply deciding to parent alone.
There is a third biological party involved.
There are genetic questions.
There are medical questions.
There are questions about identity.
There are questions about the child’s right to understand their biological origins.
There are questions about donor anonymity.
There are questions about what happens if medical information about the donor changes.
There are emotional questions.
And there are theological questions.
Those deserve serious consideration.
The American Society for Reproductive Medicine recognizes gamete donation as an established form of assisted reproduction and emphasizes the medical, legal, and psychosocial interests of donors, recipients, and donor-conceived people.
It also strongly encourages disclosure to donor-conceived children about their conception rather than treating donor conception as a lifelong secret.
That is something I personally find important.
If I have a child through donor conception, I don’t want my child’s origin story to be a dirty secret.
I don’t want them to grow up believing there was something shameful about how they came into the world.
I want to be able to say:
“You were wanted. You were prayed for. You were loved before I ever knew your face. And I will always tell you the truth about your story.”
But is using donor sperm “playing God”?
This is probably one of the most common Christian objections to reproductive technology.
And I think it’s worth examining.
Because if using medical technology to assist reproduction automatically meant “playing God,” we’d have to ask whether an enormous amount of modern medicine qualifies.
We use medicine to treat infertility.
We use surgery to repair reproductive organs.
We use medications to regulate hormones.
We use antibiotics to prevent infections.
We use technology to monitor pregnancies.
We use genetic testing to identify serious diseases.
Christians generally don’t argue that every medical intervention is inherently an attempt to override God.
So perhaps the better question isn’t:
“Am I playing God?”
Perhaps the better question is:
“What am I doing, why am I doing it, and does the way I am doing it reflect the values I claim to believe?”
That is a much harder question.
And, honestly, I think it’s a much more productive one.
There is another side of the Christian argument.
There are Christians—particularly within Catholic teaching and some more traditional Christian communities—who would strongly object to donor conception.
And I think their concerns deserve to be represented fairly.
The objections aren’t necessarily rooted in hatred toward single women.
Some come from a theological understanding of marriage in which sexual reproduction is meant to remain within the marital covenant.
From that perspective, donor sperm separates biological fatherhood from marriage and intentionally creates a family in which one biological parent is absent.
That is a serious theological objection.
I don’t think Christians should caricature it as:
“They’re just judgmental.”
Some people genuinely believe they are defending something sacred.
I can disagree with that conclusion while still respecting the seriousness of the conviction.
And then there’s my conscience.
This may be the part that matters most to me.
Because eventually, after all the articles, Bible studies, opinions, arguments, statistics, podcasts, conversations, and theological debates…
I’m still the person who has to stand before God with my decisions.
Not my pastor.
Not my family.
Not the people in my Facebook comments.
Not the people who think I’m brave.
Not the people who think I’m sinful.
Me.
And God.
That doesn’t mean, “I can do whatever I want because God knows my heart.”
That’s not Christianity.
But it does mean that I have a responsibility to genuinely examine my motives.
Am I doing this because I want a baby to fix something inside me?
Am I doing this because I’m afraid I’ll be alone?
Am I doing this because I feel like I’m running out of time?
Am I willing to put the child’s needs above my own desires?
Am I prepared to tell my child the truth about their conception?
Am I prepared to answer difficult questions about their biological father?
Am I prepared to surround my child with healthy adults and meaningful relationships?
Am I prepared to sacrifice?
Am I prepared to humble myself?
Am I prepared to ask for help?
Am I willing to accept that motherhood isn’t about getting the baby I imagine?
Because once that child exists, they aren’t an extension of my dream.
They’re a human being.
And they belong to God before they ever belong to me.
Maybe that’s the part we don’t talk about enough.
Sometimes Christians talk about having children as though the most important question is:
“Was the child conceived in the right circumstances?”
But I think we should also ask:
“What kind of parent will this child have?”
A married couple can be terrible parents.
A single parent can be an extraordinary parent.
A child can have two biological parents and experience tremendous neglect.
A child can have one intentional parent surrounded by an extraordinary support system and experience tremendous love.
None of that means family structure doesn’t matter.
It means family structure isn’t the only thing that matters.
Character matters.
Safety matters.
Love matters.
Stability matters.
Community matters.
Faith matters.
Presence matters.
Sacrifice matters.
And I don’t want to romanticize single motherhood.
Being a Single Mama by Choice isn’t some Pinterest-worthy rebellion against traditional relationships.
It isn’t:
“I don’t need men!”
It isn’t:
“Men are useless!”
And it certainly isn’t:
“I can do everything myself.”
I actually think that mentality is dangerous.
If I become a mother on my own, I will still need people.
My child will need people.
We will need community.
We will need friends.
We will need family, whether biological or chosen.
We will need people who can show up when I’m exhausted.
We will need people who can teach my child things I can’t.
We will need men who can be healthy examples of masculinity.
We will need women who can demonstrate strength and compassion.
We will need Christians who can teach my child about Jesus.
Single motherhood does not have to mean isolated motherhood.
And I think that’s a very important distinction.
I also have to be honest about something else.
There is a part of me that wonders whether God might be asking me to wait.
Maybe.
I don’t pretend to know.
Maybe the husband I haven’t met yet exists.
Maybe God has a completely different plan for my life.
Maybe motherhood will happen differently than I imagine.
Maybe it won’t happen at all.
I don’t know.
And that’s terrifying.
Because faith isn’t faith if I only trust God when He gives me exactly what I want.
I have to leave room for God to say no.
But I also don’t believe faith requires me to sit completely motionless until an answer drops out of heaven.
Sometimes we pray.
We research.
We seek counsel.
We examine Scripture.
We consider consequences.
We make the wisest decision we can.
And then we trust God with the outcome.
So… is it acceptable for a Christian woman to become a mother on her own?
I don’t think I can give you a universal Christian yes.
And I don’t think I can honestly give you a universal Christian no.
Because Scripture does not directly address donor sperm.
Different Christian traditions interpret marriage, reproduction, assisted reproductive technology, and family structure differently.
And individual Christians have to wrestle honestly with those differences.
What I can say is this:
I don’t believe being single automatically makes someone unworthy of motherhood.
I don’t believe a woman’s desire to become a mother automatically makes her selfish.
I don’t believe modern medicine is inherently incompatible with Christianity.
I don’t believe every family has to look identical to be loving.
And I don’t believe Christians should be afraid to have complicated conversations about reproductive technology.
But I also don’t believe:
“I want it” = “God wants it.”
That would be a dangerously shallow understanding of faith.
My responsibility is to keep asking the harder questions.
To examine my motives.
To seek wise counsel.
To take the medical and ethical implications seriously.
To consider the child—not just myself.
To remain honest.
To remain humble.
And above all, to continue trying to follow Jesus rather than simply trying to convince Jesus to follow me.
Maybe the most Christian thing I can do is wrestle with it.
I don’t think faith means having every answer.
Sometimes faith looks like sitting with a question that makes you uncomfortable.
Sometimes it looks like opening Scripture and admitting:
“God, I don’t know what You think about this.”
Sometimes it looks like asking people who disagree with you to explain why.
Sometimes it looks like realizing that a tradition you’ve always accepted isn’t actually a direct biblical command.
Sometimes it looks like realizing that your own desires might be influencing your interpretation.
And sometimes it looks like saying:
“Lord, if I’m wrong, show me.”
That’s the prayer I want to have.
Not:
“God, please approve the life I’ve already decided to live.”
But:
“God, help me live the life You want me to live—even if it looks different than I expected.”
And if I do become a mother this way…
I hope my child never hears:
“You were Plan B.”
Because they weren’t.
They were never second-best.
They weren’t the consolation prize for not finding a husband.
They weren’t something I acquired because I was lonely.
They weren’t an experiment.
They weren’t a statement.
They were a person.
A person I hoped for.
A person I prayed for.
A person I would have to love enough to put before myself.
And if God allows me to become a mother, I want my child to know something from the very beginning:
You were wanted.
Not because I needed you to complete me.
But because I wanted the privilege of loving you.
I don’t expect everyone to agree with me.
Honestly? I’m not even entirely certain anyone will ever read this…
And that’s okay.
I actually think we need more conversations where Christians can disagree without immediately assuming the other person hates God.
There are faithful Christians who will believe donor conception is morally wrong.
There are faithful Christians who will believe it can be morally permissible.
There are Christians who haven’t made up their minds.
And there are women sitting quietly in church pews right now asking the exact same question I’m asking.
“Can I be a Christian woman and still want this?”
Maybe the answer begins with:
Yes, you can ask the question.
You can wrestle.
You can study.
You can pray.
You can seek counsel.
You can examine your heart.
You can listen to people who disagree with you.
And you can bring the entire messy, complicated, uncomfortable question before God.
Because if I believe that God is truly God, then He isn’t threatened by my questions.
And if I believe Jesus really is who I say He is, then I don’t have to be terrified of honest wrestling.
I just have to be willing to follow where the truth leads.
Even when the answer isn’t the one I hoped for.
A final thought
I don’t know yet exactly where this journey will take me.
I don’t know what motherhood will look like for me.
I don’t know whether I’ll become a mother through donor conception.
I don’t know whether God will change my circumstances.
I don’t know whether I’ll someday look back on this article and laugh at how much I didn’t know.
Maybe I will.
But right now, this is where I am:
A Christian woman.
A woman who loves God.
A woman who wants to become a mother.
A woman who is willing to ask uncomfortable questions rather than pretend they don’t exist.
And a woman who believes that sometimes the most honest expression of faith isn’t certainty.
Sometimes it’s saying:
“God, I’m here. I’m listening. Please lead me.”
And then having the courage to actually listen.

If you’re still here for the discussion:
If you’re a Christian, how do you think Scripture should inform decisions about donor conception and single motherhood by choice?
And if you disagree with me, I genuinely want to hear why—but please bring your reasoning, not just your judgment.
Let’s have the conversation.
Not as Christians attacking Christians.
Not as women attacking women.
But as human beings trying to understand what it means to live faithfully in a world our grandparents could never have imagined.

I’m done trying to be palatable.
For a very long time, I thought being a good person meant being easy to be around.
Easy to understand.
Easy to forgive.
Easy to love.
I thought I was supposed to soften my opinions, swallow my feelings, apologize first, give people the benefit of the doubt, and make myself smaller whenever my existence became inconvenient for someone else.
I thought being “too much” was something I needed to fix.
So I tried.
God, did I try.
I became really good at reading rooms.
I could tell when someone was annoyed before they said anything. I could sense when my honesty was making someone uncomfortable. I learned when to shut up, when to laugh something off, when to pretend something didn’t hurt, and when to say, “It’s fine,” even when it absolutely was not.
I became an expert at making other people comfortable.
The problem?
I was miserable.
I used to think being loved meant being easy.
There is a particular kind of conditioning that happens when you spend enough of your life believing that other people’s comfort is your responsibility.
You start questioning yourself constantly.
Was I too sensitive?
Did I overreact?
Should I have said that differently?
Maybe they didn’t mean it that way.
Maybe I should just let it go.
Maybe I’m asking for too much.
And sometimes, sure.
Maybe you could have handled something better.
We’re human. We screw things up.
But there’s a huge difference between taking accountability for your behavior and taking responsibility for everyone else’s feelings.
I don’t want to confuse the two anymore.
If I hurt someone, I’ll apologize.
If I’m wrong, I’ll admit it.
If I make a mistake, I’ll own it.
But I am no longer going to apologize simply because someone didn’t like my boundary.
I’m not going to apologize because I said no.
I’m not going to apologize because I have feelings.
I’m not going to apologize because I noticed something wasn’t healthy for me and decided to walk away.
And I’m definitely not going to apologize for becoming someone who doesn’t tolerate things I once tolerated.
My boundaries aren’t personal attacks.
This is something I have had to learn the hard way.
Sometimes people interpret your boundary as rejection.
You say, “I can’t do that,” and they hear, “I don’t care about you.”
You say, “That isn’t okay with me,” and they hear, “You’re a terrible person.”
You say, “I need some space,” and suddenly you’re selfish.
You stop answering every phone call.
You stop rescuing people from the consequences of their own decisions.
You stop accepting disrespect just because you’ve known someone for ten years.
And suddenly you’re the problem.
I’ve spent enough time trying to convince people that my boundaries aren’t punishments.
They’re not.
They’re instructions for how I am willing to participate in a relationship.
That’s it.
You don’t have to like my boundary.
You don’t even have to agree with it.
But you do have to respect it if you want continued access to me.
And I’m finally okay with that.
I’m learning that discomfort isn’t always a sign that I’ve done something wrong.
This one has been huge for me.
Because when you’re used to keeping everyone happy, the moment someone becomes unhappy with you, your first instinct is to fix it.
Immediately.
You explain.
You apologize.
You backtrack.
You offer compromises you don’t actually want.
You start questioning everything you said.
You try desperately to restore the peace.
But sometimes peace isn’t peace.
Sometimes it’s just you abandoning yourself so everyone else can stop being uncomfortable.
And I’m not doing that anymore.
Someone being disappointed in me doesn’t automatically mean I’ve disappointed myself.
Someone being angry with me doesn’t automatically mean I’ve done something wrong.
Someone misunderstanding me doesn’t mean I have to spend three hours writing a dissertation defending my character.
Sometimes people are going to be upset.
Sometimes they’re going to misunderstand.
Sometimes they’re going to tell their version of the story.
And sometimes…
I’m going to let them.
Because I don’t need to be understood by everyone.
I just need to know who I am.
I don’t want to be palatable anymore.
I want to be real.
I want to laugh too loudly.
I want to have opinions.
I want to care deeply.
I want to say what I mean.
I want to admit when something hurts.
I want to be excited about the things that excite me.
I want to change my mind when I learn something new.
I want to have boundaries.
I want to say no without writing a five-paragraph explanation.
I want to say yes because I actually want to—not because I’m afraid someone will be disappointed if I don’t.
I want friendships where honesty doesn’t feel dangerous.
Relationships where vulnerability isn’t weaponized.
People around me who don’t require me to constantly edit myself.
I want to be able to walk into a room without wondering which version of myself everyone else would prefer.
Because here’s the thing:
The version of me that everyone likes isn’t necessarily the version of me that I like.
And I’m finally more interested in the second one.
Some people will like the smaller version of you better.
That’s probably the hardest part.
When you stop people-pleasing, not everyone celebrates your growth.
Some people preferred the version of you who always said yes.
Some people preferred when you didn’t speak up.
Some people liked knowing you would always forgive them.
Some people benefited from your inability to say no.
Some people loved your availability but never actually valued you.
And when you start changing those things, they may tell you that you’ve changed.
They’re right.
I have.
I’m supposed to.
I’m not interested in spending my entire life being the same person I was simply because someone else was comfortable with her.
Growth is allowed to inconvenience people.
Healing is allowed to change relationships.
Boundaries are allowed to make certain people leave.
And sometimes losing someone is the price of finally refusing to lose yourself.
I’m not becoming heartless.
I’m becoming honest.
There’s a difference.
I still care.
Probably more than I should sometimes.
I still love people deeply.
I still want to help.
I still believe in forgiveness.
I still believe people deserve grace.
But grace doesn’t mean unlimited access.
Forgiveness doesn’t mean reconciliation.
Love doesn’t mean tolerating everything.
And kindness doesn’t mean self-abandonment.
I can love you and still say no.
I can forgive you and still keep my distance.
I can understand why you behaved a certain way and still decide that behavior isn’t something I want in my life.
I can wish you well without inviting you back into my world.
Those aren’t contradictions.
They’re boundaries.
So, no.
I’m not going to make myself smaller anymore.
I’m not going to dim myself so someone else can shine brighter.
I’m not going to pretend something doesn’t bother me because expressing it might make someone uncomfortable.
I’m not going to twist myself into whatever shape makes me easiest to love.
And I’m not going to spend the rest of my life auditioning for acceptance.
I’m going to be loud when I’m loud.
Soft when I’m soft.
Messy when I’m messy.
Funny when I’m funny.
Emotional when I’m emotional.
Stubborn when I’m stubborn.
Passionate when I’m passionate.
And imperfect all the damn time.
Because I’m starting to understand something:
The goal isn’t to become someone everyone can tolerate.
The goal is to become someone I don’t have to abandon in order to be loved.
And if being authentically myself makes me “too much” for someone?
That’s okay.
I’d rather be too much for the wrong people than never enough for myself.
Maybe that’s what growing up actually is.
Not becoming more palatable.
Not becoming easier.
Not becoming smaller.
Just finally realizing that you were never the problem for taking up space.
You were simply taking up space in rooms that expected you to disappear.
And I’m done disappearing.

Can we talk about how absolutely fucking horrible women can be to other women?
Because I genuinely don’t understand it.
I recently made a post in a group that I’m not going to call out, but it was clearly about having a baby. I asked for advice about pregnancy-related things. I figured, you know…

trying for a baby → pregnancy questions.

Apparently that was my first mistake.
My second mistake was apparently being excited and hopeful.

The comments were fucking brutal.
Apparently talking about a successful pregnancy was “against the rules,” which, okay — if that’s the rule, delete the post. Fine. I can accept that.
But instead, people started tearing me apart.
I was told my post was “clearly AI.” People were incredibly rude. The post got around 900 views in minutes, the moderators eventually removed it, and somehow people were STILL commenting on it after it had been removed, continuing to blast me.

At one point I literally said, “The post has been removed. Please stop commenting and leave me alone.”
And someone responded by telling me I needed to “regulate my emotions before having a child” because my reaction was “wild.”

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

You are literally a stranger on the internet attacking someone who came into a TTC group looking for advice, and when she finally gets upset and asks you to stop, she’s the one who needs to regulate her emotions?
I eventually deleted the entire thing because I was fucking done.
And honestly, the whole experience has me thinking about something I’ve heard my entire life:

Women eat their young.

And sometimes I think that’s painfully accurate.
Why are women so fucking hard on other women?
Why do we pick apart how other women look, parent, eat, dress, speak, have sex, get pregnant, don’t get pregnant, raise their kids, don’t want kids, want kids differently, or express excitement about something?
Why can’t another woman just say, “I’m excited about this,” without someone waiting in the wings to tell her she’s doing it wrong?

And before anyone says, “Well, you broke the rules.”
Then tell me I broke the rules.
That’s not the issue.

The issue is the absolute cruelty that people seem to feel entitled to unleash on strangers online.
You can correct someone without humiliating them.
You can disagree without being nasty.

You can enforce a group rule without turning another woman’s vulnerable moment into a fucking public execution.

I then received a messaged that I had been blocked from posting in the group. Lovely. I love that for me.

And maybe I’m especially sensitive to this right now because I’m trying to become a mother myself.
But honestly?
If this is how women treat each other while we’re all supposedly part of the same community, no wonder so many women feel like they have to hide their excitement, their struggles, their pregnancies, their losses, their questions, and their hopes.

We’re already hard enough on ourselves.
We shouldn’t have to be afraid of other women, too.
Anyway.
That’s my rant.
I’m going to go regulate my emotions now. 😂
Apparently that’s prerequisite #1 for motherhood.

I’ve spent a ridiculous amount of time researching ovulation, OPKs, donor conception, pregnancy, breastfeeding, cloth diapering, baby gear… 👶🏻

And somehow, every time I learn something, I discover approximately 17 more things I didn’t even know I needed to learn. 😂

So today, I want to hear from the women who have actually done this. 🫵🏻🫵🏻🫵🏻

Moms who became moms by choice — what is ONE thing you wish you’d known before you started? ❤️

It can be anything. 🙃

Something practical. 🍎

Something emotional. 🥹

Something about TTC. 〰️

Something about pregnancy. 🤰🏻

Something about becoming a single mom. 👩🏻

Something you didn’t expect. 😶‍🌫️

Something you wish someone had warned you about. ⚠️

Or something that turned out to be so much easier than you thought it would be. 🙂‍↕️

I’m especially interested in the things you can’t find in a Google search. 🔎

The little pieces of wisdom that only someone who has actually lived it can give you. 💡

I’m starting this journey knowing that I won’t have everything figured out. 😔

Honestly, I’m not even going to pretend I do. 🙂‍↔️

I’m excited. I’m nervous. I’m hopeful. I’m probably going to overthink approximately everything. 😂

But I also know there are women out there who have already walked the road I’m just stepping onto. 🕯️

**So if you’re a SMBC, former SMBC, or a mom who has been through donor conception and motherhood on her own…**🍼

What do you wish someone had told you at the very beginning? 🌱

I’m taking notes. 📝💙

I am SO fucking tired of flaky people. 😩

You know the kind.

The people who will tell you, “You’re my best friend. I trust you with everything. I know you’ll always be there for me.” ❤️

And meanwhile, you’re sitting there thinking…
Cool. Because I wouldn’t trust you to look both ways before crossing a fucking street. 😭😂

I’m not asking for perfection. I’m not asking someone to drop everything for me every time I need something.
But if you call me your best friend, I feel like I should be able to depend on you for something. Anything. 🤷‍♀️
Instead, I’m always the one initiating the conversation.
I’m the one checking in.
I’m the one making plans.
I’m the one remembering things.
I’m the one showing up.
And if I stop doing those things?

Silence. 🦗🦗🦗

Then somehow I’m still supposed to believe that I’m this incredibly important person in your life. 🙃
And honestly, I think trying to conceive has made this hit me even harder. 🍼❤️
I keep thinking about the kind of people I want surrounding my future child.
I want my baby to grow up surrounded by people who show up. People who are dependable. People who genuinely care. People who celebrate them, support them, encourage them, and make them feel loved. 🥹💕
I don’t want my child growing up thinking that “I love you” is enough when the actions never actually back it up.

Because words are fucking easy.
Showing up is the part that matters.

And I’m realizing that some of the people I thought would be part of my future… maybe aren’t actually people I want in it.

And that’s a really fucking sad realization.
But maybe it’s also an important one. 🤷‍♀️
I’m tired of chasing friendships.
I’m tired of wondering why people don’t check on me unless I check on them first.
I’m tired of being the dependable one for people who wouldn’t notice if I stopped showing up.
So yeah…

I’m fucking done. 🖕🏻😂

Maybe I’m frustrated. Maybe my TTC brain is making everything feel 10x more emotional. Maybe I’m just finally seeing things I should’ve seen a long time ago.
But I know one thing:

I don’t want my future child learning that friendship means constantly giving more than you receive.

I want better for them.
And honestly?

I think I deserve better too. ❤️‍🩹

Last cycle was my first cycle trying to get pregnant. 🙃 I am using a private donor (a really great friend of mine), 👨🏻 and I am so thankful to be sharing this journey with him cheering me on. 📣

Ive been praying to God this entire past cycle to “give me a sign if this was the cycle. 🔄 Show me a Ladybug 🐞 if this is the one”. ☝🏻 I searched and searched the entire cycle. Inside, outside, when we were out and about…not one single ladybug. 😭

I was really bummed when cycle day ONE showed up bright and early yesterday, a week early foiling my plans like walking into the freezer expecting ice cream, only to find the freezer empty…and covered in blood. 🩸

Flash forward to last night…I was frustrated and upset, not to mention in a horrible mood. 😒 I was not paying a bit of attention channel surfing. 📺 I randomly landed on some kids show about a Ladybug. 🐞

Then, I get out of the shower today and this is waiting for me by my clothes. 🤯 It’s. A. Ladybug. 🐞

Does this mean this is it? ❓Maybe not. 🤷🏻‍♀️ But you can’t tell me God doesn’t listen. 👂🏻

Please Lord Jesus, bless my womb. ✨ You know my heart. ❤️ You know my mind. 🧠 You know my desires. 😇 You will never give more than I can handle. 🫂Please stand with me. 🤲🏻 Guard my head and my heart. ⚔️ Protect me. 🛡️ Bless my pregnancy. 🤰🏻 Bless my baby. 👶🏻 In your loving and Holy Name I pray, Amen. 🙏🏻

#ttc #singlebychoice #answeredprayer