No Perfect Time

I've been meaning to write.

So hello.

I had plans to write a letter a few months ago, and well… life happened.

I’ve been wanting to post a note or do anything here, but the longer I waited, the more I avoided it—like hiding under the covers and hoping the scary monsters would go away.

So I put it on my calendar that this week was the week I’d rip the Band-Aid off and open Substack—an app I’ve loved so much over the last year. It’s led to me meeting so many people and has inspired me in so many ways. But it’s also an app where I’ve always felt like the only way to show up is to be myself. And I had a pretty big thing going on in my life that I wasn’t ready to share.

The thing I’ve realized more in the last few months than ever is that there is never the perfect time to do something. It’s just about doing it.

Thanks for being here. I promise I’m slowly coming out of my cocoon.

All roads lead back to Costco

A few months ago, on a beautiful spring day, I was walking to my favorite place, obviously Costco, talking to one of my closest friends.

She had been on a several-year journey to get pregnant, and the week before she’d had an embryo transfer. I had it marked in my calendar that this might be the day she’d find out if she was pregnant.

As I walked toward the Costco entrance, she picked up the phone and said, “I think I see a line on the test, but I’m not sure.”

I was overjoyed. I asked her to send me a picture so I could be an objective third party. I could confirm that yes, I also believed it was a line, even though she wasn’t convinced yet.

It was such a wonderful moment, and I was so happy for her.

She then mentioned she’d been having vivid dreams, and in the latest one we were both pregnant together.

I’d been having vivid dreams too. Mostly about a timer ticking loudly while I had to pick paint chips, which feels significantly less meaningful, but also not something I’d experienced in years.

We hung up, and I wandered through Costco. I stopped at the prepared foods section, where I spent an unusually long amount of time staring at a pasta salad with salami. It’s something I’d never actually buy because of the sheer quantity but would absolutely devour at a barbecue.

All I could think was, This is disgusting.

At the same time, my brain went through some kind of Severance-like shift.

Something fucking weird was going on.

I got home and remembered I had a couple of pregnancy tests tucked into the back of an ovulation kit. I thought maybe I’d take one.

I took the test, put away groceries, got distracted by an urgent work email, and completely forgot about it.

About thirty minutes later, I realized the test was still sitting there.

I stared at the bathroom counter in complete shock.

There it was.

A very similar thin pink line.

I immediately texted a friend asking them to reassure me that this very faint pink line was an error, even though just a few hours earlier I’d confidently told my friend hers was definitely positive.

The shock wasn’t the kind it would’ve been if this had happened at a different point in my life. It was more that I’m at an age where, in maternity terms, I’m considered geriatric—or, as they now call it, “advanced maternal age.”

I’m incredibly grateful, but I wasn’t prepared for things to happen so quickly. We had decided to start trying, but in my head I’d imagined we’d have months, maybe years, before I was staring at two pink lines. There’s a strange cosmic shift that happens between deciding you’re ready to try and actually seeing the test sitting in front of you.

I always thought a clock would magically go off in my brain at exactly the right age and say, “Oh! It’s time to have a baby now. Yippie! I’m so glad I’m ready. What a relief.”

That clock never went off.

I did, however, have what felt like a bit of divine intervention. Breast cancer runs in my family, so I started an intensive screening process and had a breast cancer scare a few months prior.

During the pretty awful waiting period, I realized that when you’re waiting for difficult news, your brain goes to a more honest place.

What do you actually want out of this life?

The answer that kept coming back to me was:

If everything is okay, I want to at least try.

I also realized I’d probably never feel ready.

I wish we lived in a matriarchy that figured out hundreds of years ago how to have babies in your sixties because, honestly, that feels like the perfect age to do it. Or maybe just lived in a country that valued women’s health and the ability to be both a parent and have a career. I know I’m really reaching for the stars here.

Alas, this existence isn’t currently the reality.

Deep down, I knew you’re never really ready for anything big. It’s just something you eventually have to do if you feel a pull toward it.

So after that fateful day, the shock settled in for a few weeks.

I’d be standing in line ordering a bagel, and they’d ask what I wanted, and I’d completely forget the English language.

“I think... I want... a BAAAGELLLLL?”

“Are you okay, hun?” the cashier asked.

I just smiled and shrugged, equally unsure.

Or I'd become convinced that dogs and women over the age of fifty were suspiciously staring at me, somehow knowing my secret.

I truly believed they did.

More than ever, I became convinced women are powerful witches.

Then came the actual symptoms of pregnancy, which I have now realized were probably named by a man: the bullshit term “morning sickness.”

For me, it was all-day exhaustion mixed with bouts of extreme heartburn that took over my whole body. Did the copious amounts of spicy tomato pasta help?

I just don’t know.

I wouldn’t even nap. I’d just lie completely lifeless on my bed for forty-five minutes until my next meeting started.

actual photo of me from early pregnancy

At the exact moment my entire existence was changing, I'd also never been busier with my design business. It was almost like the second I found out, the floodgates opened and said, “Molly, this is your life. Get on the bus or get out of the way.”

So I’ve been trying to do both.

The more pregnant I get, the busier I become, which is all because of really good things. But it’s bringing everything into focus in a way I’ve never had to face before.

I’m doing my best to find my way through it.

At the same time, a beautiful thing has happened.

This little collection of cells—aka the alien living inside me—and I have become friends.

We’ve run a half marathon together, traveled to foreign countries, handled big presentations, all while they quietly kept growing. Now they’re starting to introduce themselves through little kicks.

The thing that felt so foreign is becoming familiar.

At a recent sonogram, they didn’t want to wake up. They seemed perfectly content sleeping in a position that made it impossible to get a good picture. The technician spent what felt like forever poking and shaking my stomach from every angle, and they didn’t budge.

Just as she was about to tell me we’d have to reschedule, they suddenly sprang to life—wiggling their butt, kicking their legs, and giving us the perfect model pose for the camera.

Already, I’m getting a sense of who this little creature is.

They’re going to do things on their own time.

Seems like a trait we have in common.

As I finish typing, I’m relieved to be back and excited to catch up on everything I’ve missed.

I’ll be here on a more regular schedule, and as always, I’m so grateful you’re here reading this.

In the meantime, I'll be getting my maternal education courtesy of J.C. Wiatt.