Growing up, I was always extremely close with my mom. I have so many memories of talking to her for an hour at a time, while she was cooking in the kitchen every night. I would tell her every small thing that had happened at school, and she would help me to reflect on who I am and what my observations and opinions said about my values. Even though I moved away from home after high school and proceeded to live in different states, countries, and even continents than her, I always maintained a very close relationship with my mom. After she was diagnosed with cancer in 2013, I made it a priority to visit her regularly, in order to spend as much time with her as possible; I did not want to feel any regret after her passing. I wanted to make sure that she felt loved and appreciated by me, and selfishly, I also wanted to make more memories with her before it was too late.
When my mother passed away in 2018, it was the end to five years of surgery and treatment. She had missed physically being present for the birth of my son and her first grandchild (in 2016), because she had been undergoing chemotherapy at home. By the time she passed, she had been confined to her couch and bed for a while; she had grown incredibly thin and could not stay awake for long stretches of time, and it was terrifying to wait for the last goodbye that could come at any time. In that slow, excruciating journey of loss, we had said goodbye both explicitly and emotionally so many times, that I felt there was simultaneously nothing left unsaid, and yet everything still to be said, once she was actually gone. When I read Michelle Obama's Becoming, one of the parts that hit me in the gut with raw emotions was her description of the loss of her father. The slowness of that loss, the incredible resilience of her father, and the way that loss forced her to reflect upon her own mortality and legacy, were very real experiences that I had myself in experiencing the loss of my mother. When my mother passed, besides feeling a deep sadness and trying to smooth over a gaping hole in my family, what I felt was an immediate question about my own life choices. When it came to the end of my life, would I feel satisfied with how I had lived my life? The loss of a parent forces this question upon you. In uncertain times like the one we are living in now, I both draw strength from the strength that I witnessed in my mother, and question sometimes my own decision to have children. I have a feeling that I might not be alone in questioning this. Well, I share my thoughts on that reflection here, to perhaps assuage your guilt in being a parent. 1. Human kind has always faced great adversity in different periods -- famine, war, poverty. If our ancestors had decided that they would only have children when everything seemed smooth-sailing, I can be fairly confident that most of us would not be here today. To have and rear children is both an act of radical hope and a commitment to pass on our humanity. I think there was a dystopian novel The Children of Men, where the premise is that no more children were being born on earth? I never read that book, actually, but I think it is true that children serve a very important purpose in our society. They are both a symbol of radical hope and they bring more hope and joy -- not only to their parents and family members, but to the greater community, whoever gets to witness that hope and joy. Until the last generation of humans on earth, I believe that each generation will continue to make and raise babies, against all odds. As they should -- else, what are we fighting for? 2. Humans are resourceful. My extremely optimistic husband believes that humans have the tools necessary to solve the great challenges we are facing currently. No, it is not all solvable by one person. The climate change problems we are facing are huge and complex. They require hundreds and thousands, or hundreds of thousands, of people working collaboratively to solve. They require a tide of public pressure for the government to change its agenda and priorities at all levels. And even then, it will likely take generations of work, in order to reverse the harm that has been done. If today, all of the left-leaning, science-believing friends decided that they will not raise children, we have already lost that fight. It is our job to raise human beings who are willing and able to move that dial and to continue that fight into the next generation. 3. Maybe this is just me being sentimental, but I think the three main components of my own humanity are: my relationship to my parents/sibling; my relationship to my greater community; and my relationship to my own created family (eg. my marriage and my relationship with my children). Through those three elements, my life gains meaning and is worth living, which comes back full circle to losing my mother and the reflections that I have had since. In being part of this long line of human existence, we are like a butterfly that goes through its own life cycle. It seems silly to question why a butterfly should procreate, simply because we don't know what life will look like for the next generation of butterflies? It was my hope that this post could bring you at least some comfort in these uncertain times. I am not sure if it accomplished that or was actually a downer, but I wanted to say simply that I see you, all the struggling parents out there. It is not easy balancing work, marriage, our own mental health, our idea of justice, climate worries, a pandemic, and trying to raise healthy and happy kids. I see you doing your best and holding on to radical hope. You are not alone.
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About MeBorn in Asia, I have spent more than a third of my life living outside of the U.S. thus far. I currently reside in the Pacific Northwest with my techie husband and two biracial children. Categories
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