Changing Seasons, Changing Professions

Alas, it is September 30th! It has been a full three months since last I wrote for this personal blog. I can definitively say that rest periods, particularly for ME during the unbearably hot summer months, are utterly essential to maintaining my well-being. I’m still as angry as I’ve ever been over Republicans withholding life-saving reproductive healthcare from people like me of roughly my age, but now that we’re entering the dark winter months, I think my tone will shift to sadness rather than rage. Without the sun to solar charge me, I won’t be able to sustain the blaze of fury that strengthens with the long, bright days. It may become tradition to “vacation” during July and August. Perhaps even June. It depends on how many more losses of freedom American citizens (you know, the ones with uteruses) endure and how well I can keep myself either silent or well-articulated. At any rate, I’m glad I took time away.

I’ve been writing this blog for about a year, since July 2021. It had ambitious beginnings. I wrote two blogs per months at first. Then in the New Year of 2022 I dropped it down to one per month. I think this pace is sustainable and worthy of a summer vacation. Visitation to this site is low (I like it that way) and page clicks on this personal blog are even lower, giving me a public space relatively free of judgement to make observations and share personal experiences.

The company I used to work for had to close its doors after six years in operation. I found out about the closure in early August and by August 31st collected my final paycheck. I am no longer an Environmental Compliance Specialist and I no longer assist local cannabis farmers through the permitting processes at the state and county level. Nineteen months of the coolest, chillest professional job I’ll ever hold. It was a great team of (mostly) women and one, sometimes two, men. The team is what I miss the most. The jokes, the blend of talents, the high-quality work we all cranked out toiling in tandem. I’m glad we’re all friends enough to still seek out time for gatherings, away from the office. We didn’t say a hard good-bye, but on most days, it feels like we did.

I’ve been job-hunting this month of September. And let’s be honest: I’ve been sleeping a TON. Every day I’ve been unemployed, I’ve slept in. I’m talking 9:30, 10:00 a.m. And I go to bed pretty early, too! Around 10:00 p.m., usually. The sleeping has probably been my favorite part of losing my job, but the job-hunting has proven itself fruitful!

I was offered a Conservation Planner position, which works with the Natural Resources Conservation Service (NRCS) under the management of the Trinity County Resources Conservation District (TCRCD, sometimes RCD for short). It would have been a great fit for me, working with private landowners to fire-harden their properties, mainly by thinning hazardous fuels on their properties. Three women and one man interviewed me. If it hasn’t been made clear from all of my other posts and my overarching feminist attitude: I love working with women. An office full of women, in my personal experience, almost by default feels more productive and peaceful. Working for three moms at Trinity River Consulting (TRC) meant my needs as a human were always recognized, and there was enough compassion and empathy to reassure me that we are not robots and that some days would be more productive than others. This same point was emphasized by the team at RCD. We are all human, and our goal is to mesh well together to achieve common goals. It was a slam dunk.

My interview for the Associate Planner position with Trinity County was an entirely different story. The interview went well overall although the interviewers couldn’t give me a clear description of what the job responsibilities actually were. We stared awkwardly at each other as I clumsily tried to decipher WHAT exactly I’d be doing. Turns out it has nothing to do with the General Plan or with Planning in the broader context, but would focus on reviewing CEQA documents for cannabis farmers. Great! I wrote MANY CEQA Environmental Checklists, a good percentage of which have been successful and have resulted in licenses issued to clients that are good for five years. The real problems started when it was my turn to ask questions at the end of the interview. I wrote down what happened as best as I could after the fact. The quotes are not exact, but rather approximations and summaries. Behold:

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September 14, 2022 approximately 10:00 a.m. in the basement conference room of the Trinity County Courthouse. MEGAN is being interviewed by ED PRESTLEY, SKYLER FISCHER, and DREW PLEBONI.

The interview questions have concluded. ED PRESTLEY (Interim Acting Director) invites MEGAN KILLEEN to ask questions about the Cannabis Planner position. Megan asks about funding, workplace dynamics, and safeguards in place to prevent workplace harassment, discrimination, and retaliation.

Megan: How exactly is this position funded? We’re $6 million in the hole and I’m just wondering where the money is coming from.

Ed: It’s from the General Fund and from state funding.

Megan: Okay. I’m familiar with grant-funding. The other two positions I’m interviewing for are also grant-funded organizations. And I’m familiar with the financial instability in the sense that the private enterprise I worked for went out of business and the federal government with semi-regularity shut down for weeks at a time. I just wanted to clarify how the position is bankrolled.

Ed: General Fund and state grants.

Megan: Okay, so how would you describe the work environment overall? What has your experience been?

Drew: Well, I’ve only been here for a few months, but I was impressed when I got here. It seems to work really well and is very dynamic. I’ve been very happy as part of this team.

Skyler: I’ve had a lot of cannabis projects dropped onto my plate even though I’m just a general planner. And that’s because there is no cannabis planner, currently. So, I’ve had to work closely with the Cannabis Division to analyze these projects and make determinations. I’d say it’s been a good working relationship so far.

Megan: All right, and I’m assuming that this board is standing in Mr. Connell’s stead today. Has he left for paternity leave?

Ed: That’s off-topic and I’m not going to answer that question. I am here today because it’s my responsibility to hire this position and my decision on who fills it.

Megan: I’m just asking because I’m going to be working for someone I’ve never met and who isn’t here to interview me. I have no first-hand experience with Director Connell, and I appreciate your viewpoint Drew, but you are a male person and I am a female person, so we have different perspectives. I’ve heard that female consultants have had markedly different interactions with the Director. He has never been described as hostile toward women, but something more toward annoyance. It was his practice to refuse to meet with consultants for the last several months. I’m wondering if the county enforces anti-harassment and anti-retaliation policies.

Ed: We follow county policies.

Megan: But do you enforce them?

Ed: We follow the policies.

Megan: Right, but I’m asking if you enforce them, which is different.

Ed: This line of questioning has strayed and is completely off-topic. You’ve come to me looking for work and you’re asking these questions! We’re discussing the job. This is about the job.

Megan: Well of course it’s about the job. It’s about the work. The work needs to get done. But it’s also about the people, and how the team functions. I’ve been working on the other side, on the silent side, where I never even had the chance to meet Director Connell, and I’ve heard mixed-bag reviews on how he interacts with women like me. So, I wanted to know if you enforce anti-harassment and anti-discrimination policies.

Ed: And I told you yes, we do. We do enforce them. And because this line of questioning is not about the job, this interview is over.

Megan: That’s really disappointing. Your answer could have been gentler and less defensive. I’m asking these questions because I want to feel safe and secure in my workplace, and to feel like I’m being valued as an equal member of the team. I meant no offense. I’m sorry I’ve offended you. Good luck hiring. I hope you have many good candidates to choose from.

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So, needless to say, I will not be working for the Good Ol’ Boys Club of Trinity County. The most frustrating part is that Connell recently sent out a “LICENSEING COMPAIRISON” fee study. And yes, I had to write that in all-caps because Squarespace keeps auto-correcting to “Licensing Comparison” which is how it is properly spelled. Now, I don’t begrudge people who can’t spell. Spelling isn’t the only indicator of intelligence, and I know plenty of brilliant humans who simply can’t spell complex English words. They are still excellent workers and make valuable contributions. But it is my firm belief that people who cannot master the written form of their native language do not deserve to hold power and make weighty decisions over other people’s lives. Smart people who can think in complex, systematic, interconnected ways deserve to hold power. And smart people, even when they make spelling mistakes, are able to see the red squiggly line underneath the misspelled word(s) and make corrections.

I should be holding Ed or Sean Connell’s jobs. But a county that cannot collect revenue cannot hire and pay people for their work. The county is a sinking ship and if Jack and I have to move away due to the dysfunction and misogyny, we will. There are many escape routes we may yet take.

All of this is to say that the third and final interview was my “Goldilocks” moment. After my FIRST EVER lunch interview, I was offered a position crafted to my unique talents and skill-sets. I was head-hunted! It happened. I’m talented! This upcoming Monday, I will begin working as an Executive and Program Support Associate for a natural resource management non-profit that I will keep unnamed for my own safety. I will report directly to the Executive Director and I will produce various written products (newsletters, reports, environmental compliance documents, blogs, etc.) for all twelve resource management programs operated by the company.

Now is a great time to write this disclosure: “The postings on this site are my own and do not represent the organization’s positions, policies, strategies or opinions.” To re-iterate: this right here, “Climate Grief in the Digital Age” is a PERSONAL blog. These sentences have come directly from my brain. I speak for no one other than myself. This holds true for all of my public writing. When I exercise my freedom of speech, I am acting as an individual citizen, NOT as a representative for my workplace.

Gosh, I remember doing all this when I still worked for the NPS. Even though I have a miniscule readership, I just want to hammer hard that the fiery writing I expel onto these webpages serves as a catharsis, nothing more. These are not policy suggestions, they are not calls to action, and they serve only my own ends as I learn to cope with collapsing biodiversity, scorching heat, and the violent breakdown of society.

All’s well that ends well. I have a new job. The work culture is healthy and vibrant, and the shimmering vision of a sustainable stewardship economy aligns with my future goals for this massive, forested mountain range. I’m even getting a small raise! I’ll be working out of my old office, so my commute and routine will remain unchanged. The team will be new, but I’m looking forward to making new connections and completing new projects. It’s helpful to remember that change is inescapable and that chaos can provide us with opportunities to envision, shape, and enact the future we want to see. Nothing stays the same, and that means everything can always get better. Onward and upward, dear readers.

Constant, Endless Rage

I wish more than anything I weren’t so angry. I can feel myself radicalizing, thinking, “I don’t think I should have a gun, but I also don’t think lots of people should have guns and they have many. Maybe I really do need to arm myself for protection.” I hate this. I wish I didn’t have these thoughts. I don’t want to have to rely upon weapons to feel safe. This used to be a place of relative peace. But of course, it was only peaceful for the few, my privileged self amongst that number. It was always oppressive for people of color, immigrants, people with disabilities, members of the LGBTQIA community, any and all marginalized populations. We have picked up full-speed on this colonialist, capitalist track and it’s hastening us swiftly toward hell, toward a boiling hot planet incompatible with life as it exists today. We are reaping what’s been sewn for centuries, accelerating for the last few decades.

I want to be compassionate. “I see why you feel that way, but I hope we can find solutions that take your considerations, my considerations, everyone else and their grandmother’s considerations, and the objective facts with equal weight.” There’s got to be a middle ground somewhere, right? I should state clearly that the Hulk is a good analogy for me: I am constantly enraged, triggered even more so these past days with the overturning of Roe v. Wade, the hobbling of the EPA and its ability to regulate GHGs, the overreach of states into tribal sovereignty. You know, the judicial coup going on right this very moment. I want to be compassionate, but I am so livid, so infuriated, so full of hot lightning formerly without malice but with a newfound sense of paranoia, like my only option soon will be to acquire my own firearms. I don’t want to live in an armed country. I don’t want to live in an armed house. Maybe it’s the incessant heat roasting my brain, sharpening my uncivil tongue. What are we coming to? How far will the right take the culture wars and when will we be far enough over the cliff?

In the world at large there are brief and faint glimmers of hope, but never a sustained upward trajectory of improvement. My life personally remains as good as it can get all things considered, clear evidence from my point of view that the universe is conspiring to keep me here fighting in whatever way I can as long as I’m destined to be here. I wish it didn’t feel like I’m just endlessly beating my head against a wall. What will it take for the elders I’m supposed to honor and respect to see how far we’ve slipped away from safety and freedom, and are now entering a period of violence and destruction? I guess chaos is what we were meant to descend into all along. The religious texts predicting our collective downfall in hellfire were spot on. The Mayans were pretty close with a 2012 doomsday. Each day is a fresh nightmare, a new Pandora’s box of terrors, and yet we all survive to the next day, if we can.

Fundamentalist Constitutionalists, the most curmudgeonly kind of judge. Their viewpoints and legal opinions are akin to having a failing operating system you can never upgrade, a system of infrastructure you can never repair and improve. None of our governing documents were perfect the first time they were drafted and they desperately need amendments and relevant, time-sensitive adaptations.

Why can’t words be enough? Why can’t well-supported arguments win? What evidence would be convincing? Which emotional plea?

When I was 14, I remember learning the definition of misogyny in my freshman year English class, and I thought, “I’ve never experienced hatred toward women. This must be a philosophical concept.” Then when I was 16, I read the Handmaid’s Tale and thought, “What a provocative piece of literature! Surely we’ll never live in such a bleak dystopia, never let it get that bad.” Then I was 17 and Citizens v. United was decided and as I argued with my AP government debate team in Montpelier I thought, “I don’t fully understand the ramifications of how bad things will get, but it can’t be good or helpful to have corporations making endless campaign contributions and building Super PACs. Buying politicians is blatant corruption.” Then I was raped at 19 and saw how little is done in response, how many excuses and counter accusations get made, had my experience validated when I read “Missoula” by Jon Krakauer and realized this was the rule, not the exception. When I was 24 and the results of the 2016 election came out, I wept for two days straight, imagining all the horrors the Supreme Court, packed with Trump’s nominees, would unleash upon us for decades to come. And here we are. I’m 30 and terrified to become pregnant, not because I’m not longing for motherhood, but simply because I may not be able to access basic, life-saving reproductive healthcare. And I want to feel something resembling peace, but all I feel is pure, unadulterated rage. I fear who I’m becoming, the person I’m transitioning into as things grow darker and more desperate around all of us.

If anyone can let me in on the secret to inner calm in a sea of blood and despair, the nightmarish combination of gun violence and withholding of vital, life-saving healthcare, let me know. I don’t think therapy is the answer for individuals grappling with the larger picture of systemic injustice, just like I don’t think voting will ultimately be the tool that breaks the wheel and builds a better, more adaptive, streamlined, solution-oriented system of government.

The Grief is Powerful and Exhausting

Back again, back again, another month past. I live another ~4 weeks. I often reminisce on the happiest, most gorgeous day (and most fun weekend) of my life and smile, blessed and grateful to have experienced it with my loved ones, but my anxiety and dread inevitably got the better of me, as they always do.

I am exhausted. I know many people are completely burned out, unable to acquire resources, and out of options, and I think it’s a clear indication that our society is sick, rather than individuals being sick. Nothing about how we live our lives in this country is sustainable. We sacrifice our health and leisure for work, we sacrifice our environment for material goods. We cannot carry on like this indefinitely. We are being crushed and flattened by the grind, and when we don’t have enough water to drink, wash, and grow food with, the wars will start. There’s nothing I fear more in the immediate moment than armed Americans. Domestic terrorists slaughter innocents by the dozen every day and we do nothing to prevent mass shootings. Multiple mass extinctions are unfolding and we do nothing to reverse the damage. And by “nothing” I mean “nothing significant”. The Republican party is the party of obstruction, not solutions. They stand in the way of passing legislation that would help Americans every opportunity they get. They exacerbate problems like gun violence, teen pregnancy, and hate crimes. And yet my elders, the people I’m supposed to look to for wisdom and guidance, keep voting for them. It’s soul-crushing. It makes me question the utility of my very existence, the extent to which I can reasonably expect to make any kind of positive impact as the world burns down around us.

I’ve written iterations of this general message many times. I have plenty to live for, but the overwhelming uncertainty of what life will look like in another 10, 20, 40 years saps my emotional strength and intellectual energy. Mark Twain wrote that, “Worrying is like paying a debt you don’t owe.” But at the same time, ignoring the very grim, bleak, deathly trajectory we are on, hurtling toward our doom as a planet, is irresponsible. I can’t feign ignorance. Anyone who is even slightly aware of how deeply fucked we are can’t just unlearn that information. And sticking our heads in the sand will only make it worse, not better. So I write and write and write, other people much smarter than me write and advocate and speak and organize, people much bolder than me engage in civil disobedience and lay their bodies and reputation on the line . . . and nothing happens. The machine is too big to be swayed by scientists, and yet whenever we don’t listen to the scientists we end up maimed or dead. So, with this suffocating grief sitting on my chest, I get up, wash my face, style my hair, and walk myself to work, praying that the tiny stones tumbling trigger an avalanche of technological revolution and sweeping energy reformation.

I, like many others, am literally taking things one day at a time. Sometimes I make plans a few months in advance, but mostly I just struggle and scrabble from one instance to the next, glad to have emerged unscathed for another precious moment. Like-minded people have been protesting, signing, donating, and voting, and yet the game is rigged so that the fewest people who represent the viewpoints of less than half the nation maintain their vice grip on power. Fuck the GOP. I will never grow into a selfish, short-sighted, narrow-minded, anti-intellectual conservative as long as I live. More likely, I’ll grow more radically progressive with my advancing age. The abortion bans have me livid, and I’ve never once been pregnant nor needed to acquire an abortion. But I love many people who have needed or wanted an abortion and it infuriates me that women will have their lives threatened, even ended, for not being able to access safe abortions in instances of medical emergencies, rape, and incest. And abortion should remain legal for any and all reasons because it’s no one’s business what one birth-giver does with their body. Bodily autonomy is the sacred gift, the embodiment of sentience, the God-given right that all other rights and freedoms stem from. If one does not have ownership over oneself, one has ownership of nothing. Women will die from pregnancy complications. Men will murder their pregnant partners, it’s the leading cause of death for pregnant people. It’s happening now and will get worse.

The GOP is particularly sick. They voted against an emergency bill that would increase the infant formula supply, so now we can tack on “Starves Babies” to their list of crimes against humanity, which already includes “Forces Pregnancies” and “Enslaves Female Bodies.” Every argument they have about minimizing government influence is horseshit, as demonstrated by their forced state violence in the private affairs of people with uteri. The GOP is the pro-mass murder party, the bully, lie, steal, and cheat party. They do it openly, without fear of repercussions. Every physical, mental, and emotional abuser I personally know is a Trump supporter, and it’s because they like that he, having raped a child, having raped multiple women, having abused his wives and neglected his children, can still be granted the most power in the country, the highest office in the land. They worship and idolize him because if scum like that can live in the White House, then any dirtbag abuser can also reasonably expect to go on hurting other people without retribution. It’s sickening. Maddening. My rage is the flame that cuts through my exhaustion and depression. It’s not a good way to live. And yet things don’t get better, they get worse, and my rage grows.

I suppose I’ll end things here, since I’ve said it all before. I cling to every instance of beauty, every kind gesture, every small joy and delight that can be found, and there are many. But always there is fear and hurt simmering in my mind, and always there are aggressors who use their ideologies to oppress, enslave, mutilate, maim, and kill. I hope the tides of change are coming. We won’t survive if our predecessors keep voting to kill their own offspring.

Hope Like a Hundred Thousand Suns. Calm Like a Mirrored Lake.

As some folks are aware, Jack and I secretly eloped on June 15th, 2020. This past Saturday, April 16th, 2022, we finally held our wedding ceremony and reception at the Lewiston Hotel, Bar and Grill in the remote town of Lewiston, CA, and had approximately 130 people attend from all over the country and all over the world! In my privileged, sheltered, joyous, comfortable life, this day was the absolute happiest. The grandest. The most like a fairytale. Jack and I were palpably swaddled in love from every direction, and I will never forget this weekend, this day, as long as I live.

It took a village to pull off this production. I couldn’t have achieved any of it without help along the way from friends who threw themselves whole-heartedly into every task they were presented with. This is going to be a long list of thank-you’s, so buckle up!

Thank you to my bridesmaids, Kate, Isabella, Mary, Emily, Marissa, and Riya, for helping stay on track contacting vendors and offering design ideas, Kate (and her husband Alex) for running interference with my mother, Isabella (and her piano-playing, opera-singing husband Jon) for singing most gloriously during the ceremony, Mary (and her partner recently turned fiancé!) for constantly checking in and making sure I was all right, Emily for partying Thursday and then driving my sorely hungover ass around all day Friday, Marissa for shuttling vehicles, and Riya (and her kind husband Mayur) for being the go-between for the Earth and Environment Squad and the bridesmaids. You helped me keep my sanity in check and were instrumental in keeping things flowing smoothly.

Thank you to the groomsmen, Robbie, John, Scott, Wyatt, Stephan, and Cannon, for showing up in full force for Jack and icing him as many times as possible in four days, Robbie for stepping into the role of Best Man a mere three weeks before the wedding, John (and his badass girlfriend Nicole) for helping collect cedar boughs and lichens for table decorations, Scott (and his lovely wife Ariel) for giving the best hugs and compliments while taking excellent photos, Wyatt (and his beautiful partner Morgan) for providing boundless love, advice, and extra assistance in the coordination of the entire event, Stephan (and his wife and baby mama Erzsi) for introducing us to Alex Nester and Crowd Theory to provide SPECTACULAR reception music, and Cannon for wrangling THREE dogs, including Milo (85 lbs) and Arturo (currently 75 lbs at only 8 months old) during the ceremony. You all brought so much fun, laughter, pranks, and high, infectious energy to the weekend. It was an absolute blast watching you all riff off each other.

Thank you to my parents, Donna and Kevin, for bringing me into existence and footing the majority of the bill. I wouldn’t be alive without you and I could never have afforded this party on my own, not even close. Thank you to Caroline and Gary for bringing Jack into the world, and for our “steppy” Amy for being such a positive influence throughout Jack’s upbringing, and for providing a delicious meal at the rehearsal dinner. Several extra thanks to Caroline for being a capital M Mother to me, to my mother, and to everyone before her, and also for her generosity in providing the prettiest pink diamond earrings to wear. Something old and something borrowed, which then became a wedding gift. I love them. They are stunning. Thank you to grandma Mary-Anne and Uncle Greg for arriving with high spirits and warm hearts. I’m so glad I got to hug you as many times as I did! Thank you to Bob for officiating when our friends Megan and Sarah realized last-minute they would be captaining a vessel up the coast of British Columbia the same weekend as the wedding.

Thank you to our fabulous photographer Madi Ellis for capturing the most scenic, gorgeous, ethereal couples portraits and vivid, colorful, hilarious wedding party pictures. She kept us on schedule even though my makeup took a full 45 minutes longer than intended, and managed to get every single shot I hoped for and many, many more I didn’t know I needed in my life, all while cracking jokes and making the entire wedding party feel happy and comfortable. Thank you to planner Sarah Royal of Rebekah Dani Events for decorating the entire venue and running a show so smooth I never once worried about a single detail. She carried my train and veil during the processional, keeping pace perfectly as I slipped and slid down a small hill, and released the fabric at exactly the right moment as I reached the aisle. I had forgotten she was behind me, so flawless was her execution. She checked in constantly and kept us on track for each of the events all night long. Her team was so professional, and everything was PERFECT even though perfection technically doesn’t exist.

Thank you to Brittany and Tiffany for singing our first dance song, “Come Rain or Come Shine” as jazzy duet and providing acoustic music and beautiful harmonies during the after-party. Thank you to Taylor, Cameron, and Kelsey for tearing up the dance floor and spreading love all across the venue. Thank you to all the Packer Family for attending: Fitz, Bri, Nikki, Autumn, Curt, John, Nicole, Scott, Ariel, Wyatt, Cannon, and Annyssa, and a special thank-you to Annyssa and Cannon for conceptualizing and stitching together a two-sided consummation blanket. It is hilarious and heartfelt, the presentation was glorious, and Jack and I love the bacon and eggs cast iron skillet side, as well as the sea of hands side supporting us.

Thank you to my Earth and Environment friends, several of whom were SO STOKED to experience their first American wedding: Hasmitha and her boyfriend Jacob, who traveled from Ohio, Shweta and her boyfriend Sai, who traveled from Seattle, and Priyanka for orchestrating the bachelorette party and flying from Massachusetts. Special thanks to Drashti for traveling from Arizona, and thanks again to Riya for introducing me to Drashti. All of these connections are so special and sacred to me, and I would never have made it through the grad program at BU without their love, support, guidance, and friendship. Special shoutout to Kelsee and her boyfriend Chet, who were unfortunately surprised with a last-minute family emergency and were unable to attend. We love you and can’t wait to see you again sometime in the near future.

A massive THANK YOU is in order for Cherish, who spent 3+ hours on my hair and makeup and completely changed my life by introducing me to primer. My face looked the best it has ever looked and my makeup stayed on perfectly the entire night. She even surprised me with the sparkling star and moon hairpins I was hoping to have. My pins never arrived in the mail, and Cherish had them overnight shipped so that I could still have the finishing details I so wanted. Thank you to Hash, as well, for offering to overnight the hairpins a week out from the wedding. Even the tiniest details were tended to by the very large community I am lucky enough to call my friends. Everyone worked their butts off to make this a perfect celebration, and my GOODNESS we were SUCCESSFUL. Thank you to Cherish’s boyfriend, Chase, for helping with after-party logistics and bringing Arturo’s best friend Aspen along for some puppy playtime. They loved it.

Thank you to my childhood friends, Genevieve and Sanne, for coming out to dance and celebrate, and for making me feel like a vertiable princess! It was so good to see you after so many years and I wish I had more time to catch up with you! Thank you to my dear friend from Skidmore, Cameo, for not only being exactly the right friend at the right time for me my sophomore year, but for your presence and your kind words at the reception. You always knew there was someone out there for me who was precisely the man I needed, and it means the world to me that our perfect fit is apparent to you and to everyone else who witnesses it. Thank you to Taryn, who still made the trip even though her pup came down with a stomach infection. I loved seeing how perfectly coordinated your floral dress and Genevieve’s floral dress were. By sheer happenstance! I will do a better job keeping in touch with all of you. It’s wild how fast the time flies and I will make a more conscious effort to schedule more regular phone calls, even if it’s only every other month or something similar. We’re all so busy, and yet the love persists across time and space. You each are a precious gift and I am so lucky to know you all.

Thank you to Uncle Paul, Auntie Monica, and Auntie Pilar (who saved Jack from drowning 28 years ago this past Sunday), as well as all the cousins, Arianna, Sophia, Olivia, Isabella, Patrick, and Andrew for bringing so much energy and enthusiasm to the dance floor and for perpetually hyping everyone up. Extra thanks to Patrick and Andrew for ushering.

Thank you to the Trinity locals who showed up and turned down for nothing: Monique and Logan, Lily and Lily, Jon and Maeve, Melissa (thank you for getting those sweet disco lights, glow sticks, and light gloves), Deidre and JB and their kids, Jenn and her children, Emma and Jude, Josh, Ingra and their girls, Annie and Eric, Brady and Fred, Scott and Tania, Monica, Dan, and Jeff (P.S. thank you for setting up that sound equipment for Isabella and Jonathan!) Samantha and Steve, Sean, Chad, and Christina. Bonus thank you to Christina for arranging the PERFECT bouquets.

Giant thank-you to Katie, Kyle, and the entire Lewiston Hotel staff for serving, bussing, and flipping with finesse and expertise. The service was just excellent and the multiple rounds of food were so appreciated. Bruschetta appetizers, a delicious taco bar, late-night sliders and popcorn. I daresay, not a single attendee went hungry. We still have leftovers! Your detailed, dedicated work is admired and appreciated. The venue was just the right atmosphere and I can’t imagine I’ll ever throw a party as cool as this again in my lifetime.

I can say with confidence that in my 30 years on this planet, I have achieved nothing on my own. I have ALWAYS had help. And for that, I am eternally thankful. I am so humbled and honored to have seen so many beaming, beautiful faces all assembled in the same place at the same time. You can’t know who shows up to your funeral, but from this past weekend, seeing how many people showed up to assist and to party to their highest capabilities, I feel entirely confident that I am on the right path and that this is the life I was meant to live with a man I love more dearly than I can say. I am a mosaic of all of the people I love, nearly every single one of whom was in attendance this weekend. I couldn’t be here without your support and vigorous kindness. I am who I am because I know the people I know. I am eternally in awe of how many wonderful, extraordinary humans in my life, and I cherish and adore each and every relationship. I wish I could have spent at least a week catching up with everyone there. I feel rejuvenated and energized, hopeful, optimistic. Amen for friends!

In a world literally on fire, we were gifted with a multi-day rain and snow storm the five days leading up to the wedding. It even rained on our wedding morning, a sure sign of good luck in a parched environment! Then the clouds lifted and the sun came out in full force, drying the grass and smiling down on us all, gleaming off the shimmering water of the Trinity River. A hawk circled overhead as we exchanged vows and rings. Sunday stayed sunny and bright, and Monday and Tuesday were back to much-needed rain showers. I love how fresh and green everything is. Growth begets more growth. Life thrives when we work together in complex systems. My heart is bursting with love. I will now close with my vows to Jack, and slip back into the beautiful afterglow of a glorious union and life-defining celebration.

“Jack Lienhard, I love you, I have loved you, I will always love you.

Our souls have known each other a very long time. Nothing can convince me otherwise. Looking back on my life up to this point, it’s clear to me that we were predetermined to meet. Destined to fall in love. Fated to become life partners. Meant to grow old together, side by side.

I have questioned the existence of our divine Creator, I have questioned the very nature of our shared reality, and I have questioned my own sanity numerous times. But never, not once, have I ever questioned or doubted whether or not we should be together. Our union is unshakeable. Our love, timeless. 

I promise to be your best friend and confidante. I promise to support you in all of your endeavors, in your personal evolution, in your pursuits of passion and wonder, and in our shared dreams and visions. I promise to hold you, to laugh and cry with you, to make music and dance with you, to grow with you as one.

I promise to hold your hand through pain and happiness, sorrow and celebration, and I promise to greet every challenge and joy we face with bravery and conviction.

And when we finally die, I promise to find you. Our spirits found each other in a vast, growing, shrinking, darkening, beautiful world, and they will find each other again and again, in every iteration, in every environment, and in every timeline.

My heart always belonged to you, and always will belong to you. I am, and always will be, yours. Forever.”

And I Think to Myself, “What a Tumultuous World.”

Back again, back again. We’re now 29 days out from the wedding and I’m spinning tiny plates on top of other spinning plates. I have to write two Climate Corner articles before we wed (as I can only imagine I won’t have the bandwidth to crank out an article over our celebratory weekend) and I also volunteered to write a brief article on local food security for SAFE (Safe Alternative for our Forest Environment). Oh, and I’m choreographing three separate dance pieces for the showcase in June! I like to stay busy.

I suppose I should start by saying a tentative peace has been agreed upon by all parties and that my parents will be in attendance for the wedding. Last weekend my mother asked me what I thought about the war in Ukraine and, as almost always happens, the conversation devolved. She called Biden weak, demented, and disappointing (I agree with the last adjective) and defended Trump’s “Putin is a genius” comment by insisting he meant, “Strategic genius.” To that, I simply said, “Why couldn’t Trump just call Putin ‘strategic’? It is a neutral term, one that doesn’t imply admiration the way ‘genius’ does.” She called me a fascist when I pointed out that the GOP is being pulled further and further to the right by (mostly) white men chanting things like, “Jews will not replace us!” in Charlottesville, and “Hang Mike Pence!” during the violent Capitol insurrection. Then, the cherry on top, she told me to “Move away” if I didn’t like receiving death threats from Truth First. That last comment pushed me over the edge. Rather than condemn the bad behavior of an adult man threatening to shoot me, she victim-blamed me and suggested I up-end my entire life to flee from the deranged monster.

For full transparency, I reacted as badly as I possibly could. She went low and I took it to the floor. I (verbally) punched back as hard as I could, with every bit of frustration and vitriol I could muster. I told her to never call me a fascist again, that I displayed no militant, hyper nationalist behavior, and that I didn’t think her aging brain was as rational as it used to be. To add insult to injury, I linked to a study that ties leaded gasoline exposure to loss of IQ in older generations. It was only a 1-3 points, on average, but for some specific populations, was as high as a 7-point IQ drop. In response, she threatened to skip the wedding. We spent six days in silence, and she has since reneged on the threat. As unwise as it was, I threw that vicious grenade in an attempt to explain away my parents insistence on defending what I believe to be the worst president in history, because without a clear reason for their behavior, the only other conclusion I can draw is that they are choosing to act like this. Choosing to defend a child rapist. Choosing to defend people like “Truth First” who can’t use their first amendment well enough to sway people into seeing their perspective and who resort to threatening people who challenge them with death by the second amendment. People in this nation disown their own children for things that can’t be helped, traits that one is born with, like being gay or transgender. I, by contrast, am absolutely enraged, utterly livid, that my parents choose to cling to a party that is being overrun by flat-out violent, dangerous extremists. Why can they not change their minds? Why can they not shift their loyalties to a third party, since they loathe and despise Democrats more than any other group in the nation?

In that moment, I was a cruel bitch to my own mother, I’ll be the first to openly admit it. But only because I felt attacked by the person who gave me life, the person I always thought I could count on to protect me from the dangers of this trigger-happy country. Oh, how wrong I was and still am. It’s an ugly, brutal task to realize that my parents aren’t nearly as deserving of my unquestioning adoration as I had always believed growing up, and then to have them demand that I still love them unconditionally, despite repeatedly making what I believe to be very bad, damaging choices. The more I challenge them, the more our collective resentment grows. And yet, here we are, all planning to see each other in April to celebrate my commitment to Jack and his commitment to me. Alls well that ends well? Jack recently said, “It’s not a true wedding without some drama.” And now I realize, the drama is coming from my own nuclear family. At least we’re all hard-headed enough to keep talking to each other. None of us are estranged, even though we’ve said things that cut right down to the heart of who each of us are. We’re hard-headed, not hard-hearted. And what we say hurts, deeply. But somehow, we’re still here, still on speaking terms, still usually able to converse about most topics in a civil, productive manner. I think, unfortunately, we will never be able to discuss politics. Ever. Never ever. Never again, never in the future. The gulf between us is too wide and that entire sphere of discussion is closed to us. It could be much, much worse. I will take what I can get. Many families have fully imploded from all of this. It’s a miracle we’re still talking. Regularly. Go figure.

I wish I could understand the appeal of Trump if only to understand my own father, and by extension, my mother who defends his choices… and Trump’s choices. It seems like there is no line that Trump can cross that would change their minds, convince them to back-track, convince them to step away from the lying, stealing, grifting, raping demon. If I spend too long dwelling on it (yes, I recognize the irony of writing this all out), I become consumed with grief and a sense of betrayal. It feels like they’re siding with Truth First, like they believe he has a senior right to be heard, like his freedom of speech, however violent and inciting, is more important than mine. My parents call me intolerant. I agree only to the extent that I am intolerant of hate speech, and even more intolerant of hateful acts and policies that oppress and brutalize marginalized populations. But yeah, let’s just call me the intolerant fascist. It makes my parents feel better knowing how shitty I turned out to be. It frees them of their guilt. “We’re good people and we can think whatever we want!” That’s the best understanding I can reach.

My parents are good people. As are other folks I personally know who voted for Trump. My parents worked in healthcare, my dad a surgeon, my mother a medical social worker. It is grueling, emotionally, mentally laborious work. It requires compassion, intense focus, and unwavering commitment and dedication. They volunteered time, money, and resources to numerous community projects, from musical concerts to art shows. They are good parents who give their best advice, their fullest energy, their fiercest love. Which is why this schism, this yawning maw of a chasm, is all the more confusing and upsetting.

I know I’m not the only person who feels this way. I don't see my parents or any Trump voter as the enemy, but I do believe the policies of the GOP are insidious. I think the enslavement of female bodies is sickening. I think the scheme to cut Medicare and Social Security is evil and going to hurt the very constituents who vote for the GOP, just as ignoring COVID wiped out a lot of older, white, conservative Americans. The lack of self-preservation, the unwillingness to face our very real problems (climate change, the wealth gap, civil unrest, political violence and extremism) and the eagerness to substitute fake problems (Q-Anon is a bullshit factory) to whip up mass hysteria is going to kill all of us, for generations to come. And yet we all have a burning desire to survive, a flame that compels us to keep moving in the darkest of times. My parents aren’t my enemy, but they most assuredly are not fighting alongside me against very real, very angry men who would shoot me without hesitation or remorse. It is for that very reason I look beyond my blood family to find allies, and I count myself among the very fortunate to have found extended family wherever Jack and I go, wherever we live. It’s unfair to my parents to spend so much time airing out these conversations, but this is the way these discussions are unfolding. These are the things being said. This is what’s happening in my personal life during an unprecendented historical period of time. It’s exhausting living through all of these monumental events. Everyone my age is ready for something resembling stability, something resembling peace. But as long as our elders cling to the beliefs that have led us into the lion’s mouth of this unsustainable society, we will only suffer the consequences of its collapse. Things are bad now. They’re going to get a lot worse.

Whatever it takes to maintain the spark of life, the flame of survival, I hope we’re all taking those necessary steps. We need good, nonviolent people to continue living. We need peace-makers and creators to make it to the next generation. We need to stand up against violence and injustice lest it consume every single person in the final apocalypse of this species.

A Departure from Social Media is Justified and Imminent

Ah, I’ve made it! Last year I was able to write two posts per month. This year I’ve cut that in half, and here I am, the second-to-last day of February, making my monthly declaration of opinions, airing of anxieties, and display of personal struggles.

The biggest development to share is that, after Jack and I celebrate our wedding in April, I’m going to delete my social media apps (just Facebook and Instagram, as I don’t use TikTok or Snapchat or any of the rest of them). I just can’t fucking hack it anymore. It is my belief that the human mind was not meant to consume this level of content, and all of it is a never-ending, constant stream that goes on forever. I look forward to the opportunity to focus my attention elsewhere, without the temptation to doom-scroll ceaselessly. I’ve been working on my first novel (“Daylight Fading”) for more than seven years at this point, and if I don’t do a better job managing my time, I’ll be in my 50s before I finally publish it. I hope that this is a successful experiment, where I fill the free time between my obligations and responsibilities with more reading, writing, and editing. And perhaps choreography, too. I have a sequel in the works (titled “Beneath the Mountain’s Gaze” which is currently just over 30,000 words), and frankly, a lot more I want to say as a climate activist beyond my fictional work. Something’s gotta give and I think the best thing for my mental health right now is to scrap social media.

This decision was spurred on by increasingly hostile behavior exhibited toward me in the form of an anonymous madman using the pseudonym “Truth First” to harass and threaten me in the comments section of the Trinity Journal. I’ve felt for years as though I’ve exhausted my usefulness on social media platforms, and the fact that I put myself out in the real world on a regular basis in a dangerous environment, makes me feel the distinct need to minimize my online presence beyond what is strictly necessary to promote my work. Truth First has written things like, “If you’re not on the Trump Train, you’ll be a bloody body on the tracks.” And, “Climate cannabis activists are not welcome in Trinity County. It’s time we start our own revolution. Unite.” This, after threatening to open fire against his cannabis-growing neighbors, after threatening to flame-throw and Paraquat their garden. Right-wing extremists are real, they are domestic terrorists, and they behave in dangerous and irrational ways. They are the scariest element of Trinity County, and of the United States more broadly.

I’m so tired. I shouldn’t have to be fighting this fight, arguing with people who cannot accept the physical and chemical consequences of our actions, the resulting death of the planet. We are an Icarus society, unwilling to see that the wax has melted, our feathers are flying off, and we are plunging toward our doom. Icarus fell into water. We won’t be so lucky. All of this is made worse knowing that some of my predecessors and ancestors and elders are STILL, after everything, still willing to vote for Donald Trump, the child-raping, serial-raping, lying, cheating, tax-dodging, grifting, abusive conman. How can I reason with people who, even with many children and grandchildren to think of, are doing everything they can to hasten our demise and make the future unlivable? Why, even as history repeats itself, are they standing firmly on the wrong side, on every issue?

These are questions I won’t get an answer to, especially not here. And that is by design. I don’t permit commenting on this blog because I don’t want to provide a platform for discussion here. That’s not what this is. I am conscientiously trying to retreat from online “discourse” because it is often abusive and fruitless. This is an open journal chronicling my struggles as a climate activist in the prime of my child-bearing years grappling with the grief and pain of knowing this way of societal living was always unsustainable and is unraveling underneath all of us. I just don’t even want to bother opening the doors to threats, violence, and cruelty. I want to create content in a space free of unsolicited input. I don’t care that my writing won’t travel far. This website exists on my terms and that’s the best anyone can ask for in a world where free will feels more like a faith-based illusion than a tangible result of our own choices.

I have hope that “retiring” from social media will bring more stillness to my mind, more quiet, less buzzing. In many things I am fairly disciplined, but in social media, I just scroll because it’s easy. It’s something to do, something passive, a tick to pass the time. It’s always there, ready and available. A cold-turkey strategy will be shocking, but perhaps the only one that can re-set my central nervous system. In the meantime, I’m still using Instagram and Facebook to communicate with distant friends, especially wedding guests, as it’s easier to reach out via multiple messaging apps. If one doesn’t work, another usually does. Wedding planning is both fun and stressful, and I’m definitely using all the tools at my disposal to share messages and information with as many people as possible until the big day arrives. It will be good, I think, to end my online tenure on a “high note” of love, hope, and friendship shared between the most important people in my life, Jack’s life, and our shared life.

It feels bittersweet, walking away from a technology I’ve used for nearly 14 years. But I know a good number of people who aren’t on Facebook or Instagram and they seem very happy with their decision. I admire them. Each one is an exceptionally great human. Sure, there are other factors at play, but I think they’ve definitely served themselves well by not getting suckered into scrounging about Zuckerberg’s attractive and never-ending rat maze. Ideally, I’ll have more time to catch up with my friends in a more in-depth manner: phone calls and video calls. Hopefully I’ll experience growth pursuing my favorite hobbies. Maybe I’ll even pick up a new hobby. It would be stellar to learn to make focaccia bread. Biscuits. Anything baked, really. I’m . . . not a gifted food-maker in any sense of the word. There’s much room for improvement.

I can’t imagine much more than maybe 10 people end up checking this website out. And again, that’s not a disappointment or a blow to my ego, but rather a relief knowing I can document my messy, frazzled brain, and not feel self-conscious about any of it. The world is so fucked up and scary right now. Russia invaded Ukraine. Thirteen million people in Yemen are heading toward starvation. Shasta and Trinity Lakes are dangerously low right now, so low we might reach “dead pool” and be unable to generate hydroelectricity from lack of water. I’m so tired and angry that this is the planet our forebears have left for us to inherit, but I can’t change the trajectory we’re on by myself. I can only keep on keepin’ on until tragedy or nature strike me dead. And while I still have the energy to wake up and be alert and conscious, I’m going to fight. I’m going to fight to survive, even as we humans welcome Hell on Earth as the inexorable force it is.

New Year, Same Crippling Anxieties!

Happy 2022! Or is it 2020, too? The years really do zip by faster the more years lived, a smaller percentage of the whole. I can barely keep up with it all.

As this beautiful blue marble orbits the sun once more, I’m more aware of the immoveable burden resting on my heart than ever before. It has been sitting on my chest for quite some time, and I am making peace with the fact that it will most likely stay with me for all of my years, however many they may be. As long as I am conscious, I will be pondering the ethical questions surrounding motherhood and childbirth in a time when we are working too far slowly to change our disastrous planetary trajectory.

The fact remains that I am selfish. I have to repeat that fact to myself every time I feel the baby fever rise and imagine Jack and I welcoming a new soul into our lives, a tiny baby bundle of joy, the living embodiment of a love and a soul-bond that I know will never die. “I want to be a mother.” What a weak, selfish justification. Frankly, I don’t know that my child would want to live on this dying planet. And even if there were more reasons to be optimistic about the future, like the advent of safe nuclear fusion (check out MIT’s most recent work using super magnets to contain a nuclear fusion reaction), or the widespread rebuilding of our electrical grid so that it is thoroughly decarbonized, the fact remains that no one is born with consent. The fact remains that, even though I fruitlessly engage with climate deniers and try to get my message of action and collaboration out to as many people as possible, I am not making any headway and I probably never will. And even if I were successful, that doesn’t mean I’m at all worthy of propagating my genes to the next generation. There is nothing particularly special about me. I would simply be contributing to overpopulation.

I sit in an interesting position where most of my female friends and acquaintances either do not want to procreate, or are undecided. Of my six bridesmaids, four definitively do NOT want children (not even to adopt), one is on the fence, and one definitely does want to give birth. If I take a more expansive look at my friend circle, this ratio evens out a bit, but more people still skew toward the childless lifestyle. There are plenty more years ahead for the future to be remade, but looking at this current assemblage of people closest to me, it seems we’ll be aging out quietly, with no noise or chaos of small humans growing to adulthood and fulfilling the important roles we will grow too old to continue carrying out. It makes me sad to think about it, but it makes me guilty for wanting to bring in children of my own just to assuage my generational loneliness. I am selfish, I am selfish, I am selfish.

What can I possibly do to make the world more livable, more cooperative, and more sustainable? I write, I volunteer, I work a position that actively tries to safeguard the environment and the natural resources we need most: water, clean air, biomass in all its many forms. My professional life is dedicated to the cause as is my spare time, my personal choices, and my private internal struggles. And it really doesn’t matter how much effort I put into serving other people today and serving future generations tomorrow. I am selfish at the root of it all. I want to carry Jack’s children in my womb, birth them and meet them Earth-side, watch them grow, give them guidance, love, and affection. But there will be no guarantee of safety, or even a guarantee of access to drinkable water come 2050, especially if we’re still living in the arid west. I can willingly give my life over to my offspring, but I cannot give them an entirely new planet, one undamaged by extractive capitalism and overconsumption. Biosphere 2 demonstrated that the extent of human ingenuity is limited, and that we are too unsophisticated to reproduce something as complex as Earth. We are killing our only home, spreading and consuming like locusts. It’s hypocritical for me to want to continue populating a system that cannot provide for all of us, especially since I very well know better.

I recently re-watched Titanic. Wow, what a film. I personally love it and think it held up quite impressively in the 25 years since its release in 1997. It hit especially hard this time, comparing the disaster to climate change. Our Earth ship is sinking and there are still so many loud, violent, obnoxious (in my personal experience) MEN who are clinging to the railing as the icy water washes over the deck screaming that it’s a pleasant voyage and that everyone trying to avoid a watery grave is a brainwashed idiot. There is no convincing them to be a part of the solution. There is no releasing them of their own fear and emotional immaturity. They staunchly insist they are correct in the face of the very real, overwhelming evidence unfolding before our eyes that no, Earth is not okay. Species are dying orders of magnitude faster than the normal background extinction rate documented in the geologic record. But sure, go off on how I’m a demonic liberal (haha) for daring to use the phrase “climate change denier”. I think “ecocidal future-child murderer” is more accurate. It is significantly more harsh, sure, but drives the point home that their factual incorrectness is costing the lives of all humans who will inherit an overheated, utterly cooked planet. Their decision to repeatedly, shamelessly lie is morally reprehensible. Lying is a choice, not a personality trait, and certainly not a birth defect. I have zero qualms about verbally lambasting these liars. If they don’t want to help bail water, fine. But the least they can do is stand off to the side out of everyone’s way.

These posts really are just an opportunity for me to shout into the void and to vocalize my existential dread. I cry at the drop of a hat. These first three weeks of 2022 have been especially rough for my mental health and even though I show up to work every day, even though I teach my dance classes at night, and volunteer at the fire department, and most recently appeared as a guest speaker on The Everything Else Show with Martin Willis to discuss my message of climate action (while we still have time to act), I feel like none of it matters. None of it amounts to the changes we so desperately need to make as a species. I believe in ripple effects, absolutely, but I am a weak, limited, emotionally fragile woman who will likely worry herself to an early grave. Perhaps I will survive longer than I give myself credit for. It is, after all, written into our very DNA as living creatures that we strive to survive for as long as possible. The ship is sinking, but we’re still trying to avoid the water at all costs, to avoid slipping into the freezing North Atlantic. Refusing to live in the face of certain devastation is not the answer. The answer is to alter the way in which we produce energy. And even though it’s a simple answer, there is no political will or emotional fortitude to accomplish such a change. Any attempt made to alter viewpoints is met with hostility and vitriol, even as the threat looms right in our faces. We cannot work together even to defeat a common enemy. It breaks my heart. It breaks my brain. It saps my energy. I give and give and somehow my cup refills enough for me to make it through the day over and over, but it accomplishes nothing. I accomplish next to nothing.

I suppose it’s unfair to title this post “New Year, Same Crippling Anxieties!” I am not crippled. I still function. I have a support network where many people have no one and nothing to lean on. It is, once again, my privilege that allows me to take time out of my schedule to write these pointless posts. My words convince no one and largely go unread, but here I am, back on my bullshit, talking about my feelings to no one but a glowing computer screen. And even that’s not true. Jack listens to my dread and my anger, holds me when I cry, kisses away the rage and despair. I often pick up my phone and am able to call any number of my closest friends, and always they open their heart to me and lend their undistracted ears. Even though my very worth as a human feels tenuous at best, I have so many people that I love who love me right back. I live for them, I live for my two dogs, I live for the hope of a brighter day when we take longer, stronger strides toward solutions that benefit the greatest number of people in a time when severe weather events become more frequent and destructive. If everyone took it upon themselves to relentlessly speak up about the greatest threat to our existence, perhaps we might have a shot at reversing our actions and stabilizing the atmosphere. We each hold the agency needed to choose a decarbonized lifestyle and work toward passing down this beautiful home to our children and grandchildren. Every voice matters, no matter how small or timid, no matter how broken and raw. I am largely useless in the face of it all, but I will roar (or perhaps I’m just screaming) until I draw my last breath.

Dismantling Female Sexual Shame and Stigma

Let’s speak more broadly. This is a personal blog about parental hesitation, but anyone reading this understands where babies come from. So . . . let’s talk about sex! It certainly sparks attention.

I’ve been grappling with the Puritan moral roots underpinning white America since I was in high school. It is unbearably hypocritical that sexual activity is shamed and stigmatized (for both males and females) but child rearing is revered as the holiest duty of women. It’s the Madonna/Whore complex. Untouchable, immaculately conceiving mothers, or Earthly, sexually reproducing “whores”. There is no in-between. And more than anything, there is nothing more sinful than a woman who enjoys sex. Just ask Eve.

Now, I fully understand why parents tell their kids to wait. They want to protect them from having sex too early, when they aren’t emotionally, physically, financially, or mentally prepared for child rearing. But that’s just it: we fear the consequences of sex, not necessarily the sex itself. But instead of teaching our teenagers how to engage safely, we make it an altogether taboo subject. This has always lead to (and will continue to lead to) irresponsible couplings resulting in unwanted pregnancies. Ignorance leads to mistakes. Even worse, religious indoctrination leads to outright denial of tools (i.e. birth control of all varieties) meant to reduce disease and prevent abortions. And quick side note: I cringe when I hear people say things like, “God decides when you have children.” Like, no. God gave us free will to shape our own destinies. Having unprotected sex is a choice, and pregnancy is the inevitable result for those with functioning reproductive systems. This is biology. This is the law of sexual reproduction. I understand why eager expecting mothers consider their babies gifts from God, but certainly the women who have been raped wouldn’t see it that way. Likewise, barren women shouldn’t feel as though God is punishing them. Reproductive systems go wrong for all kinds of reasons that have nothing to do with one’s morality. To frame pregnancy in terms of divine intervention is all around unfair.

Society has to do a better job thoroughly educating our young people on how to have consensual, protected sex. Are we doing that? No. We most certainly are not. With a few household exceptions, in this country we shame teenagers into feeling dirty and sinful for having normal hormonal urges. We scold them into keeping their hands to themselves. Threaten them with punishment. Threaten them with eternal damnation. Whatever it takes to scare the desire right out of them. But fear-inducing, bullying tactics will always remain as ineffective as abstinence-only education: a waste of time that leads to lifelong regret.

(As a quick aside, I’d like to mention that I was blessed to have a very open, honest relationship with both of my parents. My father is a urologist and has been for more than 30 years. So, whenever I had questions about male reproductive organs, I could count on him to give me a thorough text-book answer. I went to my mother for all questions regarding female reproductive organs, as well as the more nuanced realm of emotions surrounding sex. Both of my parents gave me good advice. They never once shamed me or made me feel bad for being curious about sex. Instead, they gave me the tools and knowledge I needed to make good choices for myself and my future. Not everyone has this type of relationship with their parents. And even if they had a fairly healthy relationship with their life-givers, it might still have been too taboo or embarrassing to discuss sex. I cannot overemphasize how lucky I am to have parents like mine, who gave me the resources I needed when I needed them, without judgement or condemnation. My privilege exists in many forms.)

More recently I’ve been applying a variation of this sexual shaming lens to my own life, and to this particular stage of my life. The shame didn’t come from my parents, but from other moral figures in my life. It should probably be apparent from the way that I write that I had sex before I was ever married. GASP! I know. Sinful, shameful, I’m a ho, etc. But the truth is, having sexual freedom allowed me to find my voice, my agency, my boundaries, and my sexually-specific values in a partner. I was lucky enough to have good relationships that allowed me to learn and grow in safe environments and with people who genuinely, deeply cared about me and my happiness. Mid-paragraph trigger-warning for sexual violence! Yes, I was raped in college and yes, people who know me quite well are already aware of this. So, I undeniably carry emotional baggage about consent and bodily autonomy just like most of the ladies I know. I am most assuredly not alone in carrying this burden.

All that being said, even though I had sexual relationships prior to finding the most wonderful husband and best friend I could have ever hoped for, I’m tremendously relieved and grateful that I’ve never been pregnant. I didn’t get saddled with a lifelong commitment gestating and raising the spawn of an abusive asshole. I didn’t get trapped in an unhappy marriage raising kids with a checked-out, lack-luster partner. I didn’t have my agency taken away from me by any man or any embryo. Millions of women are not so lucky.

It should go without saying that when we stigmatize sex, remove or restrict access to birth control, and then specifically ostracize women who dare take their destinies back into their hands by terminating unwanted pregnancies, we break down as a functioning society. We can’t reasonably treat our females like second-class citizens with fewer rights than cadavers, fewer rights than gun owners, and expect to keep up any semblance of civilization. To strip women of the right to keep their blood and their cells to themselves, to force them to grow traumatizing fetuses using their own nutrients and energy, is to subjugate half the population to sexual slavery. Calling it anything less than this minimizes its severity.

In my opinion, subjecting women to sexual slavery actually diminishes the sanctity of life. What do I mean? Well, I’ll use myself as an example. I have waited and waited, and seriously doubted that I would ever find a suitable husband/man that I deemed worthy of fatherhood. I was convinced I would become a spinster just from my sheer stubbornness and unreasonable standards. But now that I’m nearing my 30th birthday, now that I’ve found a partner who has loved and cherished me through thick and thin and would willingly and steadfastly stand by my side through all of the ups and downs of parenthood, now that I have fulfilled several lifelong dreams of cross-country travel, adventures in Alaska, and endeavors in creative and non-fiction writing, now that I have a stable income in a job within my field, I am at last mentally and emotionally ready to attempt conception. I have no nagging desire to spontaneously travel, no lingering projects haunting me. I just have an abundance of maternal energy and love waiting to be showered upon the child that may one day be borne of mine and Jack’s own flesh. I didn’t “save my vagina for marriage” (which is an altogether stupid and unrealistic request) but I did save my uterus for true love, and I think that that’s more important. I have waited until the opportune time to start a family and to serve it in perpetuity. This behavior protects and upholds the sanctity of life.

Meanwhile, due to our barbaric reproductive policies, any male-female coupling might result in a life that will go unloved, unfed, un-housed, dumped into foster care. Refusing to care for a baby after it is “Earth-side” is the complete and utter opposite of protecting the sanctity of life.

Wouldn’t it be better for individuals and for society as a whole if ALL prospective parents were working from the same strong, well-weaved safety net that I am so privileged and fortunate to have? What if every parent had embarked on their own soul’s journey and acquired fulfilling work that paid them enough to thrive PRIOR to producing biological offspring? And if it seems like a pipe dream to have every couple starting from a solid foundation, then that defeatist mentality only reveals the deep and pervasive cracks in how we relate to one another on a personal, intimate level, and how we relate to the generations that will come after us.

Time and time again we prove that we discount the future and we value our grandchildren less than we value our own unbridled, unreasonable freedom in the present moment. We prove this with our reproductive policies, with our lack of action on climate change, and with our vicious defense of unfettered gun rights.

I haven’t been to church since I was fourteen years old. But I pray every night: Heaven help us all. Free us from our own violence and ignorance. Help us reassess how we value existing human life and help us shed our stubborn unwillingness to provide for the children we forced women to birth. This culture of sexual shame and female sexual enslavement cannot be sustained. We all deserve better.

I Am Selfish For Wanting Children

I recently came across an Instagram post that struck the EXACT chord in me that drove me to write this blog in the first place. Yes, I focus a lot on the slowly unfolding catastrophe of climate change and how our kids will live in a more hostile and resource-scarce world, but more than that I’m struggling to accept the fundamental selfishness at the heart of my wish to conceive, gestate, and birth a human being that is half Jack and half me.

This particular Instagram post comes from Dr. Ayesha Kahn and her handle is “wokescientist”. The first page reads: “Children are the most vulnerable, at-risk population in the world. That is why parenthood is a lifelong ethical responsibility, commitment, and service. Yet, childhood trauma is widespread because people often have kids for selfish reasons.”

BOOM. Yes, precisely. Anyone who can, as I so very crassly wrote in my previous post, “bareback fuck” can become a parent. That doesn’t mean they have stepped up to the demands and requirements of the lifelong task before them.

Dr. Kahn says it better. “Some basic facts we can all agree on: 1) No child chooses to be born. They are brought into this world fundamentally without consent by the laws of nature. 2) Adults in various capacities are solely responsible for bringing a child into this world and hence, are entirely responsible for serving the child’s needs and wants as caregivers. 3) Adults are not doing children a ‘favor’ by birthing them or raising them. Children did not ask to be here and raising them is the bare minimum ethical responsibility of bringing life into this world. Your parents shouldn’t guilt you about your mere existence being a burden.”

But as I continued swiping through the slides of her post, I realized that however well-intentioned I am in my desire to provide a stable, loving environment for a child as my parents did for me, I am ultimately and inescapably selfish for even having the desire to procreate. Dr. Kahn continues: “Why do you want to have children? No matter which way I’ve thought about this or which way people have answered, the answers have always been selfish to varying degrees: Because I’ve always wanted to be a parent. Because I love my partner and want to create a child that is half of each of us. Because my parents want to be grandparents and have me continue my family’s lineage. Because I think the idea of me bringing life into this world is a beautiful thing that I’ve always wanted to do. Because it seems like the next step in life is to have a family. Everyone does it.”

I have, if not literally written those words verbatim, expressed nearly every single one of those sentiments from my second post in this blog onward. I talk about how much I love Jack and want more of his DNA around in the form of a cute kiddo. I talk about my desire to experience the magic of growing life first-hand. I arrogantly presume that I will be a sufficient mother, and when I doubt myself I callously throw other struggling parents under the bus screeching, “At least I won’t fail THIS hard!” Every single “justification” I can concoct fails to stand up to scrutiny. Every single one of them is selfish. It centers me. My desire. My vision for my life. My want for Jack to blend his body with mine into a new human.

I am selfish. It cannot be described any other way.

I could VERY easily fuck everything up as a mother. I could very easily fail at every junction. Traumatize my kid. Fail to prepare them for the trauma of living in an ecologically collapsing world. A dying planet. The existential dread is almost too much for ME to handle. What if I pass on my anxieties to my children? What if their anxieties are even worse? It would certainly be understandable if that were so. Much of what we take for granted now will be gone or unrecognizable in just a few decades. And I want to ask my son or daughter to forgive me for my selfishness? I brought them to a dead planet . . . . because I wanted to play house? How can I be viewed as anything other than a self-centered bitch? I’m truly asking myself this question, every day. Constantly. Always thinking about motherhood and parenting and the swirl of emotion around it.

Then we throw in Jack’s hesitation and his own doubts and fears about fatherhood. More than anything he wants to love, protect, and defend his offspring, but he struggles with his temper in emotionally triggering moments. Hey, the guy literally survived a ton of childhood trauma. Years and years’ worth of it. I don’t blame or begrudge him one bit, knowing what he’s been through. He knows the lasting effects of physical abuse better than I do, and he wants to break the cycle and avoid passing it down at all costs. It will be a tall order. Rigorous. Demanding. Exhausting. Triggering.

But parenthood is also rewarding. Fulfilling. Humbling. Inspiring. Even when parents say they aren’t necessarily more happy than their childless counterparts, they do report overall higher levels of purposefulness and satisfaction when they look back on their lives and the growth and evolution of their children. I understand why people become parents, and I think there should be more financial and social support available for parents specifically to reduce the amount of childhood trauma experienced today. There has to be a way for us to ethically bring humans onto this planet without setting them up for failure and removing their ability to meet their own needs in the future. We obviously haven’t figured it out yet and continue to get knocked-up willy-nilly, so all we can do is work within the messy, inefficient system we currently have in place.

I feel simultaneously obligated to adopt and somehow resentful that it would fall upon me. My boss offered her point of view last week. “I don’t think you need to feel obligated, Megan. It would certainly be kind and altruistic of you to adopt, but there’s no need to feel morally forced into it. Have children if you want them.” Then I think of the literal hundreds of thousands of kids in foster care in the U.S. alone and I’m all the more aware of my own wretchedness, insisting that I have my own because I somehow think I’ll be successful and worthy of the venture.

I’m not a mathematician by any stretch of the imagination, but numbers do hold quite a bit of weight in my mind. How can this country have failed so badly that we have hundreds of thousands of unwanted children falling through the cracks of our broken, abusive foster care system? And why do I feel like the fate of each of those kids rests on my decision to get pregnant or not? It makes no sense. It’s not logical. I try to vote in a manner that increases funding for social programs. I advocate for reform. But it’s not enough and it certainly doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

I’m so emotionally drained, every single day. My brain is hard at work, thinking, bargaining, imagining, speculating, debating, visualizing. I work full-time writing CEQA (California Environmental Quality Act) documents for clients, I teach six dance classes a week, I write for the Trinity Journal, and now I’ve picked up a few writing assignments for the S.A.F.E Newsletter (Safer Alternatives for our Forest Environment). I fill my time because what else am I going to do? If I don’t keep myself running at full bore, I’ll stop and cry for God only knows how many days.

To be a dreamer is to be perpetually broken-hearted, envisioning a world that could be so much better than the one we’re currently in, and finding the strength to cope with the crap that comes day after day after day. I love my jobs. I love every single one of them. I want to be spending my time this way. But the capitalist grind is wearing me down before I’ve even entered the prime of my earning years. I know I’m not alone in feeling this way. I know other people are far more worse off and burned out than I. I know people are still busting their asses for too little pay, with no benefits, no supports, and no safety nets. I’m so grateful for my husband, my parents and siblings, my friends. I’m grateful for meaningful work and multiple creative outlets. I’m grateful to have a roof over my head and food on my table. I’ve crafted a life that, if it weren’t for this damn global warming, is my idea of perfect. My vision. My dream.

But to fulfill the next stage of this dream, to find myself pregnant with Jack’s child, is more selfish than anything else I’ve ever done. And I’ve done a LOT of selfish things in my life. This post is already too long, so I won’t exhaust the list here, but I need to be gutsy enough to openly state how absolutely, inarguably selfish I am. What I want in life (motherhood) centers me, potentially at the cost of my offsprings’ mental health. Their physical health, even! And for the life of me, I just can’t come up with a good reason to have children, a reason that center’s our child and their needs and wants . . . and not us, the parents.

If you think of one, let me know.

My Mother and I Finally See Eye-to-Eye

Yes, the mother-daughter relationship is by its very nature complex. While I adore my own mother, she does often vex and challenge me. My fear and torment over whether or not to become a mother myself always confused her. During graduate school I called her often, usually when I was walking to my next engagement. Being steeped in the global tragedy of climate change at a deeply thorough, academic level really shook me to my core.

“What kind of future are we building here?” I’d cry to my mum. “Everything aspect of our society is unsustainable and I can’t possibly fix anything by myself.” At that point in time, I didn’t know whether or not Jack and I would wed. We’d been apart for months and the idea of child-rearing was still just an intellectual exercise, but one that weighed me down the more I thought about our planetary peril.

“Your time will come. I know you’re scared, but you’ll know which decision is right for you when you reach that bridge. Heck, I waited until the Gulf War was over before we conceived you. I understand.”

“But you really don’t, mom. Foreign wars have next to no impact on day-to-day domestic affairs in the U.S. You weren’t in any real danger back then and neither was I. Global warming is different. War and peace can be waged and forged with political will. Meanwhile, there’s no political will to cut our carbon emissions. We’re killing our future-children today, right now, by refusing to decarbonize our energy infrastructure.”

She’d argue back, change the subject, or fall silent. This went on for months. We’d repeat the conversation just for the fact that I couldn’t let it go, couldn’t think or speak of anything else. If I couldn’t convince my own parents to vote for policies that will slow down and mitigate our own hastening doom, how could I convince anyone else in my life to take the threat seriously? Just as I’ve written before, parents want what’s best for their children, but more than that they want grandchildren. Once you reach a certain age, to produce anything less than a human child is to be viewed as less-than.

These phone calls took place back in 2018-2019. Just a few weeks ago, in mid-October 2021, my mother became the first family member to stay in our new house. We went sight-seeing and window-shopping, we ate delicious food, and we introduced her to our Trinity County friends. Overall, it was an excellent visit.

One night, over our second bottle of wine, my mother turned to me and said, “I finally understand why you don’t want children.”

I balked. “Well, I WANT kids, mom. But I don’t want them to starve to death. I don’t want us to run out of water where we live.”

She laid her hand on my arm. “Let me rephrase. I finally understand why you’re so hesitant to have children.”

“You do?” I asked skeptically.

“Yeah. I can feel it now. Everything is different. It’s tangible. Even I can’t ignore it. Massachusetts never used to get tornadoes and hurricanes and now we need to brace for them regularly. I hate snow, but that’s not why we’re getting less and less of it. Society is restless, hostile. It’s a dangerous time to be alive, just as it always has been, but I can feel it getting worse.”

I gaped in disbelief. At long last we were on the same page. I felt seen. I felt heard. I felt like I wasn’t crazy, wasn’t being shamed for the war between my heart and my brain, which only grows louder the older I get and the closer I creep to the end of my reproductive window.

I cried. As I so often do. “Then what do I do, mom? I’m doing everything I can and it’s only going to get worse.”

“Only you know the answer to that, Megan. I, for one, think that you would make a lovely mother some day. But I understand now why you might choose to live out your life with Jack without any kids to care for. I spend every waking minute worrying about my daughters even though they’re grown. To know what you know, to carry a burden that heavy, will undoubtedly strain your mind and your nervous system to its breaking point.”

Damn, mom. “I’ll feel selfish if I have kids.”

“But you will act selflessly once they’re born.”

“What if they hate me for bringing them into a collapsing world filled with death?”

“Even if Earth were perfectly stable and prosperous, you would always run the risk of having your children resent you. For whatever reason. Could be any reason at all. We all take that risk when we choose to bring a new family member into the world. Some families become alienated and estranged due to poor individual choices, some fall apart due to addiction and mental illness, some can’t even function on a basic level. The best you can do is work as a team with Jack to create a supportive, loving home. And I know you two are more than up to the task. I don’t think your fate is to be hated by your own sons or daughters.”

Ah, the platitudes we cling to in our darkest days. I wanted her to be right, still want her to be right. Everyone is moving forward with their lives as if the world as we know it isn’t literally ending. Babies everywhere. Babies galore. I barely scroll on Facebook anymore because it’s flooded with images of children I’ll most likely never meet. To be clear, I like seeing family portraits where my friends are presenting their newest family members. But so many photos are just of their children alone, and I feel weird looking at it because I come to Facebook to consume content generated by my adult friends and peers, not to consume images of children (yikes). The next chapter is beginning for so many people, the human population continues to boom, and all of it comes at the expense of the biodiversity upon which we depend for our own existence. Our happiness and comfort today will bring much suffering to those recently born before they even reach my present age (29).

And there are no answers.

I certainly have no answers.

People are going to bareback fuck until the end of time, regardless of whether or not they make decent parent material. What’s the harm, really, in gestating and birthing two more humans? Jack and I would work tirelessly to provide a happy life to our next generation. Isn’t that a good enough reason to take the plunge? But of course, multiply that thinking by a billion and here we all are. Too many mouths to feed, not enough land to grow food.

I am not a good writer. I’ve never claimed to be. I am “a writer” merely for the fact that I try to write regularly in the hopes that repetition will one day lead to true, masterful artistic expression. I don’t think hardly anyone reads these posts, and I don’t think they’re particularly interesting to anyone except me and a few select people, perhaps other young women fighting the same internal battle between mothering and not-mothering.

I don’t have enough life experience to offer wisdom, and I don’t have the talent to move people toward combatting global warming on a mass scale. All I have is this blog as a form of catharsis. But, for the first time since writing it, I can say that my mother is on my side. She sees the world through my eyes, sees the grimness of the future, and through all of it is still supportive of me and whatever decisions I might make.

The yearning for motherhood grows stronger all the time, despite myself. I can’t write a single one of these posts without crying through the entirety of my typing. I would love nothing more than to present a newborn baby to my own mother, so that she might hold him or her and say, “My baby has a baby.”

And until that day arrives, all I can afford to repeat to myself is, “You’ve got time. You’ve got time.”

The Clock Ticks On and the Pressure Builds

Ah, don’t you love the crushing weight of parental expectations? Now I have two mothers (unintentionally and 100% without malice) wordlessly scolding me for not being pregnant or already a mother. I’m the younger of two daughters. Jack is the third of four children. Our older siblings have more or less determined that they don’t want to be parents, or if they entertain the life-altering role of parenthood, do not plan to undertake the endeavor for another few years, at least. Jack’s younger brother and his wife already have a child, who is nearing his first birthday. Needless to say, eyes have shifted to Jack and I in a way that says, “Those two have done it. What are you waiting for?”

Normally, I try to keep this blog focused solely on Jack and I, two consenting adults who are fully aware of the topics of discussion being presented. Up until now, I don’t think I’ve really mentioned a lot of detail regarding any family members. But this past week, Jack received a package from his mum. In it were a few stickers, a t-shirt that said “Hit the Road Jack” with a picture of a donkey (jackass) in the back, and a note that read, “Shall I call you dog father?”

I wouldn’t have thought much of it, except for that one question on that one little note. Yes, we acquired a second dog named Arturo. Her first question when hearing the news of the new puppy was, “Ah, so no human babies for you, then?” Ouch. I know the shirt was supposed to be a funny gag, but coupled with that note, it just made us feel like jackasses. “So that’s what you think of us. We’re taking our time making the decision to start a family and somehow WE are the useless assholes, the butt of the joke.” It cut pretty deep, but I know that wasn’t the desired outcome for sending the parcel.

Without any conscious effort and without any intent to do harm, this mindset of “BABIES BABIES BABIES” discounts all that we’ve worked to achieve: stable and fulfilling careers, a nice first home, two cute, fluffy dogs. “Oh. No children? Let me swipe through to the next cutest baby photo.” Even though any family member reading this would ardently disagree, I can feel the gaze on my uterus, can feel the penetrating eyes of mothers who came before waiting for me to take up the mantle, can feel the lack of deep, reverent respect emanating from those who wish Jack would just knock me up already. The expectations and the pointed looks and the frequent questions make me feel as though I’m not a full person, won’t ever be a full person, until I grow another human inside me. And then the moment I do become pregnant, I’m sure strangers who don’t know me will think all kinds of things. Whore. Slut. Conceited. Self-obsessed. What have you.

Now, I don’t actually believe anyone, least of all my own family, is actively disrespecting me, or Jack, or our decision to wait until we’re ready. It’s all subtle and implicit, more likely the result of my over sensitivity. Obviously I have a lot of emotional baggage about motherhood and the state of the world. Seriously, who writes an entire blog about being an anxious climate scientist madly in love with their whip-smart, sexy husband, dreaming of bearing and raising his children all while being horrified by the ramifications of our collective human damages on this life-giving planet? Just me, I guess. Writing into the void, grappling with all that I want and all that I feel lies in the way, preventing me from reaching that elusive summit. Life, even in the wealthiest nation in the world, is just so damn dangerous and feels incrementally worse every morning I wake up. We aren’t making progress, we’re just slowly battling the elements and each other.

How can I be reasonably sure that we will provide safety and stability for our kids when we can’t realistically depend on our food, transportation, and social infrastructure to deliver the goods and services we’ve come to expect? Are we savvy enough to learn to forage and hunt when Big Agro fails and we must turn to more regionalized, localized food webs? Where is the best place for us to move to ensure we have adequate waters supplies in the future? These are all the questions I’m thinking of, but all I ever get asked is: “When are you and Jack having children?”

Well, frankly, there doesn’t appear to be a good time to gestate, birth, and raise children. And because Jack and I hesitate, we are not family members that make our elders proud. Parenthood is, in this culture, the pinnacle of achievement, the milestone that transforms childless coupled adults into respectable partners worthy of praise and celebration. The most cynical side of me thinks, “Just because some jerkwad can successfully ejaculate without a condom doesn’t make him good father material.” But here we are. Anyone can become a mother or father just through the force and magic of biology. Not everyone is well-suited or even interested in the responsibilities and obligations required of them, even after the child has entered the world stage. Folks rush to show support and joy for people who probably should have used protection (looking at you, teenage parents), but skimp on grace, patience, and humility for those who take their time and contemplate the full scope of the journey before taking the plunge.

The fact is, we’re only physically capable of procreating at a young age (seriously, how unsettling is it that girls get their periods around 12 years old?) because live was brutal and deadly before we revolutionized the way we obtain food, shelter, and medicine. Emotional maturity, especially emotional maturity in parents, is a topic that doesn’t get discussed nearly enough. Learning to delve deeply into one’s inner self, to understand how emotions swell and deflate, what internal and external triggers stimulate certain reactions, requires lifelong commitment. It takes a lot to know oneself, to know how best to conduct behavior in a way that benefits everyone. It’s a repeating cycle of dysfunction to have emotionally stunted or immature young humans going on to raise more humans. Who is the role model for anger management? For stress relief? For conflict resolution? For loving, supportive, long-term, committed romantic partnerships? The U.S. has one of the highest divorce rates in the world. Yikes.

I know for a fact that Jack and I will never divorce. We joke frequently about how we got our “slut years” out of the way. (Sorry, mom, if you’re reading this! I honestly have no idea who, if anyone, takes the time to read this blog or any of my other writings). Jack and I both “sampled the wares”, if you will, before finding one another. And when at last we met, we recognized quickly that we were “The One” for each other. The One better than all the others, the best fit, the best friendship, the best camaraderie, the best inside jokes, the best sex, the best snuggles, the best musical duets, the best dancing, the best of everything we each had to offer, given freely and enthusiastically to one another, like a freshwater spring gushing forth in perpetuity. So doesn’t that qualify us for parenthood? Wouldn’t we make a good enough team to be successful in keeping our children fed, housed, and mentally and emotionally stimulated? Haven’t we proven ourselves responsible and thoughtful enough to grow happy, healthy, well-adjusted humans (in theory)? I suppose we won’t ever know until Jack and I find ourselves with child.

Four or five days before writing this post, I had my first ever pregnancy dream. I wasn’t visibly pregnant. In fact, I had no idea I was pregnant in the beginning. Jack and I were traveling internationally, staying in a hostel. One of the other guests, a woman about our age said, “Please excuse me, I don’t mean to make assumptions. I noticed your wedding bands and um . . . your ample . . . um . . . features.” Finally she spit it out. “Are you pregnant?”

I laughed at this dream woman. It’s important to note that I didn’t recognize a single other soul in this dream beyond Jack. “Pffffff, no. I can’t be. I have an IUD. How could I be pregnant?” Then I looked down and remembered the alcoholic beverage in my hand, cursing myself. “Am I really pregnant?” I wondered silently. And, in classic nonsensical dream logic, the woman offered me a fresh, unused pregnancy test. I went to the shared bathroom, closed myself in a stall, and took the test. Lo and behold, a little pink plus sign.

Fuck.

First, I panicked. I had been drinking! Right off the bat, I failed. My fetus was swimming in alcohol. I was killing my own dream baby. What kind of stupid irresponsible idiot drinks while pregnant? I loathed myself in that moment.

Next, I became lucid enough to start questioning my reality. “This can’t be happening. Jack and I aren’t traveling. We had no plans to leave the country.”

Then, the inklings of my waking life became more tangible. “I can’t be pregnant! I won’t fit into my wedding dress in five months’ time!”

I can’t say I enjoyed this dream. It was shameful. Stressful. I felt like the scum of the earth, unknowingly poisoning my own flesh and blood and then being vain enough to give more of a damn about my wedding dress than about the dream consequences of my dream actions.

To reiterate and be perfectly clear: I am not pregnant. I have never been pregnant. I have no idea what it feels like, how the bodily sensations unfold over time, what it feels like with the spine and organs shift to accommodate the new baby. But I'd like to know someday. When I’m ready. If I’m ever ready.

For anyone reading this who reached the end, I’m planning on keeping my IUD inserted for the full duration of its 10-year lifespan. I had it inserted in December 2013, when i was 21 years old. After that, Jack and I may still choose to wait, opting for birth control options that don’t require the presence of painful, T-shaped metal sitting inside my womb. So much effort for so much cultural shame and stigma. For now, I’ll continue to endure the loaded questions, the endless images of everyone else posting multiple pictures and videos a day of their children. Women like me, women who hold complex and critical opinions of our child rearing culture, are not particularly popular. Baby or bust! It’s all about winning the game of evolution. Those who don’t wish to participate by their very nature don’t deserve the best life has to offer.

I Have Some BIG Feelings About Social Media and Parenting.

Many people who have given birth to/sired a child, and I mean the majority of parents in the 21st Century, seem extra keen on posting photos, videos, and even geotagged posts featuring their adorable, cherubic infants and toddlers. Without doubt, this has been going on since long before Facebook or Instagram. I’m sure people used to share photos of their kids in chatrooms back in the 90s. (Yikes, we should know better by now). It’s a compulsion that many folks seem unwilling to question, a cultural norm taking hold in our collective psyches.

Does no one my age remember having our parents sign photo consent release forms? These were for analog photographs, most likely to be used in the local paper. But parents had the right to withhold permission. If they didn’t want images of their kids to be publicized, they wouldn’t be. That was when audiences were much smaller. Nowadays, parents are posting photos of their most vulnerable family members to audiences consisting of hundreds to thousands of people instantaneously! And perhaps more over the course of the post’s life. And these are people their kids might not even meet, distant acquaintances of their parents scrolling past images of them, images they didn’t know were posted and didn’t give consent for.

It feels like the right to privacy was taken more seriously when the internet was new. Now that it is ubiquitous, all caution seems to have been thrown to the wind.

I am often shocked at the sheer volume of baby photos flooding social media. I can understand posting the highlights: important announcements, key events, developmental milestones, family gatherings, birthdays, holidays, reunions, other special occasions, etc., but I absolutely do not comprehend the obsessive day-to-day, play-by-plays of infants, babies, and toddlers constantly streaming on the internet. The perpetual stories, posts, and pictures. A giggle here, a temper-tantrum there, a squirm and wiggle, a poopy blowout, bath time, snack time, play time. It’s like a modern-day rendition of the Truman Show. Can you imagine having had your entire upbringing made public to strangers? I can’t even grasp it, and when I try to imagine, I grow embarrassed and frustrated by the thought exercise. Why is this our cultural standard? Can’t kids just live their lives without it being live-streamed?

Babies are small humans, right? They may not yet have language to express complex thought, but surely their consent to be filmed and photographed for the enjoyment of their parents and the entertainment of their parents’ friends matters. Who gleans the benefit of making their offspring the primary, predominant focal point of their social media account? I would argue, it’s not the kids.

Contemporary social studies indicate that social media tends to make us all, adults and adolescents alike, more depressed. How can we not be? We’re constantly comparing ourselves to beautiful celebrities, holding ourselves to unrealistic physical appearance standards, and comparing ourselves to each other, measuring how much we achieve, how much success we experience, how many “beautiful children” we produce, how many cool places we travel to. Why would we subject our dear, lovable, kissable, squeezable children to the viciousness of the internet from the very moment they’re born? Why would we let them soak in the psychological stew of self-doubt, competition, crumbling self-esteem, and anonymous judgement and commentary before they’re old enough to develop their sense of self? Beyond just the social and mental ways it might screw us all up, it can actually be literally dangerous to our physical selves at times.

It’s no secret that influencers with significant numbers of followers sometimes deal with issues of stalking and harassment. This holds true for influencers who start families and publicize it. You can see who views your stories, but you can’t see who views your posts. Anyone could spot something they recognize in the background, recognize the place, recognize the faces of the influencing family in real life. Anything could happen from there. Skepticism is a useful practice.

This is obviously the most extreme example. Most folks posting pictures of their young family members are just everyday people, with relatively small followings (a few hundred or so). The fear of stalking and harassing from complete strangers decreases. But the issue of obtaining consent from the subject of the content remains, as does the uncertainty of who is viewing said content. So what are the solutions?

First, make sure you have control over how wide your audience is, and try to limit your online connections to people you actually know in real life. Second, communicate with other family members about how many baby photos you feel comfortable with them posting and how many possible viewers there might be. Third, consider posting child content only to your Close Friends list, thus narrowing your audience down even more and ensuring that the people viewing are trusted and excited to be part of the inner circle. Another option might be to make a large, personal digital photo collection, and waiting until your child is old enough to understand what the internet is and how social media works, then posting the album with consent. Yet another option might be to just to post the highlights: special events, holidays, birthdays, “firsts”, family visits, etc. and to cool it a little bit on the every-day posting. Keep it brief, keep it sweet. There also always remains the choice to post pictures online that don’t feature your child’s face, thus protecting their privacy. Additionally, this should go without saying, don’t geotag sensitive photos. It’s always possible someone will recognize a place or landscape even if it isn’t tagged, but it’s preferable to offer up as little information as possible. Finally, do NOT post the first, middle, and last name of your child WITH their birthdate. This is sensitive personal identifying information that can be used for identity theft and fraud.

I know this post will make absolutely no difference because I have readers in the single digits. Everyone will make the decisions they feel most comfortable with, and every has a different threshold for comfort. I do hope that at least a few new parents will take an extra moment to think about what to post, how often, and to which viewers.

It’s a beautiful and wonderful thing to make your babies the focal point of your life. It’s natural that they become your “everything” and that you would want to show them off. Of course you should do everything you can to love and uphold them, to make them feel safe, special, and wholly cared for. But I think it’s unwise to make babies and children the focal point of adult social media accounts. By all means, feature them. But do it safely, and skeptically. The internet is the wild west, and there is no shortage of chaos, insanity, and violence out there. Caution, at this particular junction, would be prudent.

I wonder if I’ll ever be making these decisions for my own children, withholding from public posting, or caving in to the pressure to meet the demand for beautiful thriving families online. Social media is not a representation of reality. We know this is true.

Maybe I’m magnifying the risks beyond what is reasonable. Maybe it’s all just an exercise in imagination. I feel the Earth and society continuing to spiral out of control, and I think to myself: “How do we regain some semblance of agency? How do we protect those amongst us who most need protecting?” For me, that means fighting for a sustainable future, where we don’t crank out more pollution and waste than our Earth can disperse and recycle, and where we don’t consume more resources than are naturally regenerated. For me, that would also mean protecting my child’s privacy and limiting the amount of content I post featuring him or her. But to each their own, I suppose. We’re burning down in fires and drowning in floods. What’s really the harm in back-to-back baby posts? Perhaps there is no harm at all.

Procreating Right Now is Unwise. That Does NOT Make Parents Unwise People.

Earth is undergoing its sixth mass extinction. Fine. Drought, famine, heat stroke. Great.

So why bring more life onto a failing planet? Doesn’t that just bring more suffering? In a hot take on my Instagram story, I admitted I wanted to start a family, but said Jack and I knew “it’s devastatingly unwise to procreate at this historic junction”. Multiple truths can exist at once. Birthing more humans right now, during political and social turmoil in our country, while the end of a geologic era plays out in a string of increasingly violent natural disasters, resource scarcity, and armed conflict, is, objectively, unwise. But birthing a desperately wanted, eagerly awaited son or daughter is also the most beautiful thing in the world, the most fragile, tenuous, labored, worthwhile, humbling, fulfilling endeavor a woman (and yes, a new father, too) can undergo. Both are equally “true” sentiments.

There’s never been a historically “convenient” time to have children. Warfare is as old as humanity. Plagues and epidemics occur with regularity. Resource-scarce (or, more honesty, resource-robbed) countries have pushed ever onward, somehow supporting a population in perpetuity. I think it’s ultimately brave for new parents to step forward and fill the roles that have played out before them, bringing the next generation into fruition. Unwise still, yes. But that’s society’s fault. Not the fault of the individual. I don’t “blame” anyone for wanting to start their own family as it’s naturally, intuitively, evolutionarily the most highly sought-after life goal for billions of people. The ONLY true objective of life is to propagate more life. It’s hardwired into our DNA. All the same, this is why I have so much rage against society.

America, wake the fuck up. Please. Pardon my French, for anyone easily offended. We have historically emitted more CO2 than India OR China. We don’t get a free pass on our past emissions. Carbon dioxide from the 1920s is still warming the planet today. We, the USA, also has the highest per capita carbon footprint of any nation. It’s grotesque. It’s disgusting that we’re so heavily dependent upon fossil fuels, so lazy. So entitled. Why do we sit idly by allowing the world to fall apart?

I have a lot of rage toward the modern day “Republican” Party. They coalesce around their anti-abortion stance while conveniently ignoring the fact that climate change will kill their kids if gun violence doesn’t wipe them out first. Literal cadavers have more bodily autonomy than living human women, according to the policies of what I like to call the Regressive Party. If you don’t check the “organ donor” box on your license, legally NO ONE can touch your body after your death. Even if you were the only match for a transplant patient, no one could compel your next of kin to give up your organs. Meanwhile, FORCED PREGNANCY, WHICH IS A CRIME AGAINST HUMANITY, IS NOW PERMISSIBLE IN SOME PARTS OF THIS BACKWARDS COUNTRY. Sure, let’s let incestuous raping fathers knock up their 12-year-old daughters, then force them to give birth to their own sibling. Yeah, that happens sometimes. Sounds VERY HUMANE, this complete and utter lack of exemptions for rape, incest, or medical complications. What absolute sick bullshit.

I find it really deeply disturbing when men force women to gestate their unwanted sperm. I think men who force women to complete a pregnancy against her will are insecure and uncomfortable in their very souls. They need to ban abortion because they sense no woman would ever willingly carry their fetus to term. I wish these men would get convicted for their sexual crimes and perversions, get locked up in prison. Too bad white men especially almost never have to serve time for the crimes they commit against women. When I was 16 years old reading the Handmaid’s Tale, I had sincerely believed it to be fiction. Now, at 29, I recognize that I live in a hellish nightmare of a nation, one that views women like breed stock, less human than a corpse. I thank the Creator every day that I have Jack. I have never been pregnant in my life. Never had to make the decision to have an abortion. Now I never will, because if I ever find myself with child, I will be glowing with love and joy knowing it is the long-awaited, beautiful, precious gift bestowed upon me by my favorite human of all time, my husband Jack.

Seeing families with 10, 12, dear Lord, 20+ kids and counting is, admittedly, a bitter pill for me to swallow. The parental hubris alone. In my experience, it’s somehow the folks with the MOST children who are also the most apathetic to our degrading, destabilizing natural environment. My family, by contrast, is small, dwindling, and hyper-conscious of our entire Western way of life spiraling out of control, unsustainable and crumbling. My older sister decided years ago she didn’t want children. Too much money, too much responsibility, too little freedom, too many potential complications with her health. All very sound, solid reasons. But that means it’s literally up to Jack and I to carry on “the bloodline”. I shudder to think of my nuclear family just . . . quietly . . . “going extinct”. I have no living grandparents. Once my parents are gone, it will only be my sister and I, and our respective partners. No new family members. No firsts with a new baby, a growing child. To me, it sounds lonely and a little boring.

I can be both supportive of parents who wish to bring new life into the world (however unwise it is thanks to our shitty society destroying the one and only planet we have to live on) AND supportive of women who wish to terminate their pregnancies. I can stoke a tiny flame of hope for starting a family of my own while having huge fears and doubts about it.

Endless hypotheticals circle in my brain. What if my son or daughter resents me for bringing them into conflict, knowing how bad it would get? I should hope they righteously cuss me out. What if they loathe me for the grief and struggle more than they love me for whatever sweetness in life I can give them? I am a flawed woman. I am physically weak and emotionally exhausted. What right do I even have to attempt mothering? And for some reason, my heart keeps whispering that I can do it. That I’ll find the strength and endurance. Maybe it’s just my ovaries whispering.

The bigger obstacle is my own husband. Jack insists that he’s “not opposed” to children, but that’s not the same as wanting them. It’s certainly not enthusiasm. I don’t want to force him to assume a role he’s reluctant to take, even though I’m convinced he would rise to the occasion and soar. He has assured me he would stand by me through anything and everything, upholding our vow to love each other unconditionally and whole-heartedly. But his rationality is stronger than my own. Curse these hormones! Curse my ticking “biological clock”! It’s as futile as raging against the sun.

Anyway, shout out to all the new parents who have undertaken the role of child-rearing in a truly wild, lawless, biologically unraveling time. Eager parents make excellent parents. There is nothing more beautiful than two humans actively participating in the raising of new life. You are brave. You are strong. I’m sorry this country cares more about convenience in travel and work, cares more about guns staying in the hands of abusive white men, than it does about the safety and welfare of our offspring.

If I could single-handedly change our cultural priorities to be those of education, healthcare, nutrition, affordable housing, and jobs formed through the renovation and reconstruction of our infrastructure, I would. That’s why I vote blue. Not because I’m a “Democrat” but because I believe we need to progress to the new world. We need to shed the old world. I, for the life of me, do. not. understand why conservatives want to conserve the fucked up culture we’ve been clinging to. It’s time to let go.

We need to change everything if we want to give our next generation a fighting chance.

It’s Rather Crucial I Express Some Gratitude

Our house still stands, but much of Trinity County continues to burn in the Monument Fire and River Complex. Lots of folks are evacuated and have lost their homes. We count our blessings and are grateful to have been spared thus far. I’m still on edge, but am trying to make the most of the time given, to enjoy every day where the air quality allows for outdoor recreation. I’m reading, writing, going about my work, and generally replicating normality as much as possible. It gets me through the day.

Two weekends ago (August 27-30), Jack and I attended my sister’s wedding to her now-husband and our brother-in-law. Kate and Alex. At long last. I happy-cried throughout the entire ceremony. Kate had wanted to surprise our parents with our unannounced, unexpected attendance, and after a year-and-a-half of no face-to-face interaction with my family, I burst into tears the moment I saw my mother and father round the corner to the newly refurbished, beautifully decorated, and adorned patio on the backyard.

After a long, slow burn and a heated spat during the height of (the most recent) political tensions in this country (roughly 11/04/2020-01/27/2021), I hadn’t talked to my parents as much as I used to before everything changed. I apologized for what I’d said to both of them. They apologized for things they had misunderstood or misinterpreted. We made the kind of patchy peace one can only make over the phone and without a true, teary apology and warm, generous hug.

To hold them and thank them, kiss their cheeks and say, “I’m sorry for what I said when I was angry. You are a wonderful mother and a wonderful father. I’m so happy to see you and love you both forever. Thank you for everything.” was just the soul-nourishment I needed. They are such exemplary parents, dedicated teammates who put in their full, best effort every single day, year after year, into the success of their daughters and the betterment of their futures. Not to mention, they helped a lot of other people through the nature of their multi-decade careers (a surgeon and medical social worker). Both of my parents worked rigorously to help those in crises and those in medical jeopardy. Although I didn’t take after their line of work, I admire them endlessly.

It was pure magic to see my sister in white, a gold forest crown on her head, at long last marrying her boyfriend of 5 years, fiancé of 2, and now husband. It was thrilling to see them wearing their wedding bands, beaming at each other in their renovated new home. Their ranch-style house looks entirely their own, stylish and modern, with very subtle nods to former decorative accents. They’ve been pouring in their time and labor to repaint the walls and replace the floors. It already looks like a brand new home from what I saw in early January 2020. There were white tulle curtains as a backdrop for the ceremony, blowing gently in the breeze wafting through the backyard. Ivy covered the columns. Bouquets were scattered about the patio, paper flowers up on the far wall, party lights strung along the perimeter. It was enchanting. After living in arid California this summer, I relished the humidity and coolness of Massachusetts. Everything about the visit was exactly what I needed.

Jack and I zipped down to Cape Cod with my parents after the ceremony and reception. We realized we were there on a Saturday night and rallied for a few hours of dancing and fancy cocktails on Main Street in historic downtown Hyannis. We slept for a few hours, and then drove to western Massachusetts to help determine which of my accumulated items needed to be donated, thrown away, or packed up and shipped out. (My parents just sold their house in Pittsfield). With help from my dad, my aunt, and Jack the Most Amazing Husband of All Time, we organized my entire lifetime, from childhood to the present day, into distinct piles each bound for a different fate. That same day, we returned to my sister’s house, slept, and flew out that Monday. Phew!

But wait, there’s more!

This past weekend (September 3-7) I went on the most amazing visit to the Adirondacks with my friends from Boston University and beyond for a joint bachelorette party! Priyanka, Kelsee, and Hash planned a full, weekend-long bash for me and Riya to celebrate our upcoming weddings! Also in attendance were my college friend, Mary, and Riya’s friend from six years ago, Drashti.

We traveled from Boston to Wilmington, NY (just east of Lake Placid) in a giant, black, GMC Yukon XL where six of us (Mary met us at the AirBnB) could stretch out luxuriously and enjoy the road trip. Upon our arrival, Pri, Hash, and Kelsee sent me, Riya, Mary, and Drashti out to picnic by the lake. We did so gladly, enjoying the mirror reflections of mountains towering above the smooth water, and when we returned, there were balloons, sparkles, shimmering curtains, and bright ribbon curls everywhere! It was the perfect party background in a cozy, quintessential upstate New York cabin. We ate fresh, homemade veggie tacos, played trivia- and card-based drinking games, and ended the first day with hot-tubbing.

The next morning began with a brunch of French toast, scrambled eggs, and berry salad. All but Pri went out for a two-hour nature walk through the forest and along the river. An impressive charcuterie board occupied our early afternoon, followed by champagne decorated with edible pink glitter (yes that is a real thing). Then we relaxed with face masks on and cucumbers over our eyes, painted our nails, prepared our hair and makeup, and hit the town of Lake Placid in our cutest outfits. We had dinner at a delicious Italian restaurant and took fruity, pink celebratory shots with our waiter. When we returned to our cabin, we had a campfire and admired the stars before bed.

We made a cute video wherein Riya and I wore our white, Bride t-shirts and our friends wore their respective burgundy, Team Bride t-shirts. We were well-fed, pampered, celebrated, and elevated to a level of pure bliss and appreciation. I am so thankful to have such thoughtful, kind, cooperative, visionary, dream-achieving friends. They went to extraordinary lengths to make this an unforgettable, fun, life-changing, friendship-building, celebratory rite of passage weekend. We even increased the size of our girl squad with two new, lifelong members! I will forever cherish the jokes, the laughs, the shared views, the deep conversations, and the opening of hearts from that weekend.

To know that I have such spectacular people in my life, my blood family and my chosen family, to know that the Universe deemed me worthy to have made these friends, is the best feeling in the world. I wish I could describe it better, having the gall to call myself a writer. It’s a deep catharsis, a massive sweeping feeling that you can feel throughout your body that indicates to your subconscious, “Everything will be okay; you have people who have your back and want you to make it through.” It’s a calming tonic, like floating in water, reassured that wherever the current takes you, there will be familiar faces and friendly companions along the way.

Weddings and pre-wedding celebrations are some of my favorite rites of passage in our western society. I love worshipping love, celebrating every instance of two humans committing to each other for all of their Earthly days. It opens up a well of happiness that, as most of my emotions are, is attached to my tear ducts. After a confusing, tumultuous, challenging 18 months or so, it was a miraculous gift to return somewhat to the “before times” to see friends and family, to hold hands and wrap our arms around each other. I love all forms of love, romantic, platonic, and familial. To have enjoyed the abundance of all forms was the best reminder that there are always better, brighter days to look forward to. Love, to me, has always been the entire point of life: to uphold it and cherish it, to nurture and grow it. Love, love, love. To the end of days.

Jack and I Are Evacuees of the Monument Fire. I Can’t Imagine Parenting in this Chaos.

The Monument Fire began on July 30th, the result of dry lightning striking dense, desiccated, well-seasoned timber. We watched the fire grow in acreage, consuming Del Loma, Big Bar, Big Flat, Helena, Junction City as it moved east along the 299 corridor. But the Monument Fire has been growing in a circular fashion, expanding on all sides as the winds shift and circle around. Burnt Ranch is threatened. Hayfork has already evacuated. Weaverville, where Jack and I enjoyed our first home for a little over one month, and Douglas City are under evacuation warning. We got the text on Tuesday August 17th and were relocated to Whiskeytown National Recreation Area that same day.

We knew damn well before we bought our house that fire country was an extremely dangerous place to live. But the stars aligned and we found a cute home within our price range, we were able to acquire wildfire insurance, and we closed the deal. Trinity County is heaven on Earth for 8 months of the year. For the other 4, it is literal hell.

The relocation was fairly smooth, but during my first full day in Whiskeytown NRA, I came down with a splitting migraine that had me violently vomiting for hours. I know mothers reading this will think, “You just make it work, push through it, put your child first.” But honestly, I’m just trying to keep myself fed and maintained. I’m back to functioning at a low level, surviving, trying to make the best out of a fluent, destructive natural disaster with an uncertain timeline. I can’t even fathom having a wee babe wholly dependent upon me for their every need. I can barely keep my head on straight.

And then I remember what year it is. 2021. If I were to have a child right this moment, what kind of hellscape will he or she be navigating in 2041 at the tender age of 20, a mere child in my eyes even though at the time of this writing, I am 29 years old and still a child to many of my elders. I wonder if Jack and I will succumb to respiratory illness or heart disease from chronic smoke inhalation before we reach age 60. I wonder if we’ll run out of food and freshwater, starving and dehydrating, baking in the sun, cooking until the very proteins in our cells unravel.

I try my best to be realistic rather than macabre. But the reality is, we humans have fragile bodies that were only evolved to survive within a narrow range of temperatures, just as we only perceive a narrow portion of the electromagnetic spectrum. We have air conditioning now to cool ourselves during these scary heatwaves, but if our energy grid fails, we will be thrown to the mercy of Mother Nature. And she is, rightfully, FURIOUS. Absolutely livid. We humans grew and prospered and procreated, extracting and mining, polluting and spoiling the landscape in proportion to our population.

All I can say with certainty is that safety will become ever more scarce. The entire planet is affected by multiple positive feedback loops that are unraveling the climate we knew and loved and replacing it with a hotter, more energetic climate and a beefed-up hydrological cycle on steroids. Dry places will get drier. Wet places, wetter in such a manner as to be destructive and deadly. It’s physics. It’s chemistry. It is the reality we are faced with.

I want a family. I want my world to revolve around the bright new souls that Jack and I bring into being. But I think often of the guilt my friend spoke of, guilt for creating humans that will have to endure hellacious firestorms, water and food shortages, constant migration and relocation . . . all because I, having known better, having known how fast we’ve killed the planet, wanted to be a mother. It’s possible that such chronic guilt would be even worse than the acute stress of surviving continual apocalypses.

Having taken zero steps to become pregnant, all I can do is wonder. All I can do is strive to convince as many people as possible that we need to decarbonize NOW while we still have the time, technology, and cohesive institutions and social structures to pull it off. If not for the sake of the children Jack and I may never have, then for the sake of the children who have already been born and are yet to be born. They deserve a habitable planet conducive to human life. We need to make drastic changes to pass down such a planet. We need to put life ahead of our own selfish, short-lived comfort.

But my intuition knows the message will fall on deaf ears and paralyzed hearts. We should have addressed this 50 years ago in 1970. We still aren’t addressing it. My hope for the future grows thinner, even as I fight harder and more viciously to maintain it.

An Old Friend and New Mom Told Me Not to Give Birth. How Could I Possibly Respond?

I recently had an old friend and coworker reach out to me about one of my more heated climate posts on Facebook. The following conversation ensued. (I’ve altered the text only to withhold her name and her husband’s name.)

Friend: “Thanks for your climate message. It is really hard to think about these things day after day. We struggled for a long time about whether to have a child or not. We thought about adoption, and even attended some adoption meetings, but it is just so expensive. So we had a kid. I love her more than anything, but I dunno, we probably shouldn't have had her. I guess I didn't appreciate how quickly things will go downhill climate wise. The guilt that I carry on my shoulders about what she is going to face is extreme, and it will only get worse over time. And it horrifies me thinking that no matter how bad things are at the end of my life, I will know that they will be so much worse for her after I am gone. I just love her so much... but I would be able to make peace with the coming future so much easier if we hadn't had her. I don't even know if I would want to adopt a second child, at this point, because it is too heartbreaking to be so tied to the next generation, knowing what they will suffer. I know its a bummer of a conversation, but I hope you don't mind. Thanks for talking about it with me. You would think everyone, everywhere would be having these conversations, but most folks just want to sweep it under the rug. Anyway, just wanted to give you my perspective if you are agonizing about having a baby...she is my favorite thing ever. I love her more than anything... but the guilt I feel is so, so intense and will never go away. Anyway, I hope you are living somewhere beautiful and enjoying life. We miss your smiling face.”

Me: “It’s so good to hear from you. I am so glad you and your partner procreated. I know you must stress and worry constantly, but you’re one of the good ones fighting the good fight for sustainability, for life. Don’t feel guilty. We will need smart, kind people in the next generation. The best thing we can do now is prepare; learn to forage, farm, hunt, I would say “fish” but the salmon hit 100% mortality in the Sacramento River. I cry nearly every day because I found a wonderful man who is beyond my ideal partner, who is so far above and beyond what I could have envisioned. I want to have his child, grow life, fight like hell to keep it. But I also know that Jack and I will be struggling to live probably within the next 5-10 years, at least if we stay in CA. It’s aridifying so quickly. And even if we go back to the wet, humid northeast, the wet bulb temperatures might still be too hot to survive. Idk. I’m scared. I’d already be pregnant if the climate weren’t collapsing. I’m right on the precipice. I know which way my heart wants me to fall, and I know which way my brain should make me fall. I’m glad you messaged me, because I only ever talk about this with Jack. But it weighs on my mind all day every day. Anyway, I’m glad you two are parents. I know it’s agony, the information, the lack of action. Just don’t give up. It’s not over.”

Friend: “Oh Megan. I feel your pain. It is so hard to want kids so bad but feel like you shouldn't pursue it. We didn't have kids till I was 37 because for the longest time I said I wasn't going to because of climate change. But then the reality of how expensive and challenging adoption is really started to sink in. And it is such a magical and beautiful thing to have a baby grow inside you. And is a natural , hard to quell desire, especially with someone you love so much. I probably wouldn't have gone through with it, except I know how much it meant to my husband. He never pressured me into it, but I could see how hard it was for him to let that dream go. And it feels so unfair that there are Americans out there having 4 or 5 kids and not even thinking about population, and here we were agonizing about one. I wish you the best in this difficult struggle. I am so glad to talk about it with you. My husband is certainly not a climate change denier, but he just doesn't want to talk about it, because it is too sad. But I think we have to talk about it, or else we won't act on it. Anyway, I wish you and Jack so much joy and hapiness in your marriage. I'm so glad you found each other! Much love.”

I haven’t responded but for the simple fact that I don’t know what to say. My friend makes a lot of valid points, particularly that the guilt is undoubtedly soul-crushing and ever-present. And yet I chafe at being told “not to pursue” parenthood. Surely prospective parents who are emotionally, mentally, financially, and physically prime to give rise to new life deserve the chance to at least try, right?

Perhaps I am barren. Perhaps I cannot have children. Perhaps even if Jack and I were to try, we would be unsuccessful for any number of reasons.

But haven’t we at least demonstrated our capabilities, our strengths as teammates in the world? Haven’t we earned the right to start a family all our own? Teenagers do it all the time by accident. Why should I, someone responsible, tender-hearted, and future-thinking, be blatantly told not to propagate my DNA into the world in the form of a son or daughter? I won’t save the planet or save the human race or save a single species by not having children. I just feel so deeply cut, so spiritually wounded by the advice, even though I know it was made wholly with good intent and a soft, empathetic heart.

But still…

Am I really so unworthy of motherhood that I should be told by a mother I’m incapable of tolerating the guilt and sorrow that will accompany the decision? Shouldn’t I be the judge of how much guilt and sorrow I can stomach?

Children used to die of disease all the time. Then modern medicine advanced, vaccines were produced, and child mortality plummeted. Surely I can’t be solely to blame if my child were to, God forbid, tragically die prematurely of a climate-related cause (starvation, dehydration, heat stroke). No parent has complete control over external forces at work once their child enters the world.

(**Grim side note: Long-term, like 4 or 5 decades from now . . . yeah, whatever offspring Jack and I have (IF we have any) will probably be fighting for dear life in a brutally, blisteringly hot planet.)

Surely I can’t solely shoulder the blame if technology were to fail to catch up and address the climate crisis. I would battle with every ounce of wit, cunning, resourcefulness, and strength I possess to keep my child fed and happy, come hell and high water, and I mean that literally. The sea is literally rising and the American West is literally hell for 3-4 months each year now.

All the same, it hurts to be told to just not even try to raise viable offspring to adulthood.

I feel like Jack and I would at least have a fighting chance of providing stability and prosperity for our children. Folks are going bananas breeding without any regard for what we collectively face as a human race, and I feel trapped between my desire for parenthood with Jack, my knowledge of anthropogenic global warming and its consequences, and my deep longing for family. If we brought children into the world, could they ever forgive us for the crime of bringing life to a planet that will soon be unwelcoming and inhospitable to all of us?

We were adapted to the climate we enjoyed for 2 million years. Now it is completely unraveling.

Is that a justifiable reason to forgo having a baby: to avoid the wrath and condemnation from the life we will into being?

More importantly, how would I justify myself to my children? How would I justify my decision to become pregnant? I have plenty of points to make, but who can say whether all of them taken together could be powerful enough to soothe such a wound as perpetual existential crises? I certainly can’t say.

And so that’s why I haven’t replied to my friend.

I Have Baby Fever, but this Earth Fever Can’t Sustain Human Life

Perhaps the most painful grief plaguing my heart is mourning the loss of motherhood before I’d ever experienced it. I want to be a mother more and more as each day passes, carry Jack’s child, grow life, raise a human to adulthood. Perhaps two. But knowing what I know, it feels . . . morally reprehensible to knowingly bring life into a dying planet, a planet that cannot feed nor water our sons and daughters.

If you’d like to learn about the technical aspects of climate change, you can read Megan’s Climate Corner, linked on the homepage. I drop a lot of links to sources, so that you can learn beyond my simplistic text. In fact, I recommend you do: I’m out of storage on my computer and can’t currently upload graphics into my articles. If you click the source link, you can see some great images, graphs, tables, etc.

But this blog is for the feelings, the person behind the science.

I feel the pressure, the desire, and the drive to procreate. My heart is so invested and yet my brain knows better. Well, actually, my brain knows the worst. And that is precisely the problem.

I had waited until I lined everything up: met and married the most wonderful man I could ever have hoped to meet, found a stable job that I absolutely love and pays well, and bought a house that we could afford. I long wondered if I would ever meet a partner with whom I could realistically imagine navigating the exciting waters of parenthood. It seemed highly unlikely, if not outright hopeless. I’m picky. I have high standards, goalposts that I myself struggle to meet on a daily basis. But alas, fate, good fortune, whatever you like to call it, brought me and Jack together and I knew I desperately wanted to meet the child that would be us, our own flesh and blood, our living, breathing embodiment of devoted, romantic love.

I want Jack’s genes. Hard. Yes, there are dirtier things I could write.

But more than that, I trust Jack with my life without question or hesitation. He has come to my medical rescue on numerous accounts for third degree burns, fainting spells, and a dislocated shoulder. He juggles a job that wakes him at 4:30 each morning with errands, house and yard work. He makes the household hum and function smoothly, all while improving it daily so that it feels cozier. He sprawls out on the floor with Milo when they play, or throws the ball far into the back yard for chasing. He looks real cute when he reads in his reclining chair, and even cuter when he falls asleep in it. How can I not imagine a tiny infant nestled under his neck, held against his chest?

It’s enough to make my heart burst. I cry every day with the want and the constant restraint. I consider Jack and I to be responsible, helpful humans who would make enthusiastic, dedicated parents. I also believe we would raise some lovely human beings, as well: a kind son or daughter striving to serve and solve in a messy, chaotic world.

But it’s not just a messy world. It’s a world in which we’re on track to lose upwards of 90% of life on Earth. Birds are dying by the million, insects by the hundreds of millions. A massive die off of more than a billion sea creatures during British Columbia’s June 2021 heat wave caused me deep psychological trauma. I’m still grappling with it. If there’s one thing I gathered from my Geoscience degree (and let’s be honest: I gathered a great deal of knowledge from those four years) it’s that the mass extinction events always, always, ALWAYS start with the ocean. The ocean goes, and all terrestrial life follows.

How can I possibly consider myself a moral person for bringing a person into this world, this planet that literally cannot support his or her life force? The time truly is ticking down. It’s not dramatization. It’s reality. The IPCC report from August 10th, 2021 was dire. Grim. The scientific, conservative consensus of 195 countries. We are, and for sensitive readers I apologize for the cursing, FUCKED. And although we could solve this with existing technology and tapering of consumption, I don’t believe we will ever muster the political will and the cooperation needed. It can’t be done. Humans ruin everything for everyone, even their own children and grandchildren.

And of course, the time is ripe to be procreating. It’s the age window. Although this is mathematically untrue, it feel as though every lady my age, plus or minus seven years, is pregnant or already a mother and beaming with utter joy. I’m happy for them, happy their families are growing, happy they experienced the magic of growing life in their wombs. Humans should look forward to rearing the next generation, to feel hope and awe when they share the magic of our blue planet. I envy these new parents, desire entry into the world myself. I strove to be as prepared for the responsibility of motherhood as I could possibly be.

And yet I hesitate, I vacillate, I weep at the drop of the hat, tear up at depictions and descriptions of pregnancy and motherhood, at the delight, trials, and tribulations of raising a wondrous human to adulthood.

So I just circle my own mind endlessly, observe my friends’ joy from a distance, meet their cute kiddos when opportunities arise. And I am acutely, painfully aware of my personal biological clock ticking down along with that of all life on Earth. My own tell-tale heart in purgatory. Tick… tick… tick.

There doesn’t seem to be a right answer, and I can’t reasonably hope that I will be wise enough to make the best choice when the clock winds down.

My Life is Perfection (I swear! I Can’t Believe it Either!) But I’m Constantly Grieving.

I cannot possibly over-emphasize how grateful I am, how often I contend with the might and magnitude of the privilege I possess and wield, to be sitting here, right where I am, writing these words. That should be said first and foremost. I am loved, well-cared for, financially stable, and even downright pampered. We’re about 1.5 years into Covid-19 and so many people are in dire straits, significantly worse off than before everything fell apart. Racial and economic injustices and inequities have of course existed long before the U.S. was incepted, but they have been thrown into sharp relief for any American citizen still tethered to reality. Just having the time to even consider starting a blog, of all things, is just the cherry on top of a giant, privileged ice cream sundae. But for anyone interested in reading, here goes.

My life, as it currently exists on July 28th, 2021, is as close to perfect as I could possibly hope for, as close to my imagined bliss as is humanly attainable. I am deeply in love with a wonderful, kind, witty, resilient, warm, hard-working, brilliant and talented man: my husband, Jack. We have a sweet, smart, well-behaved 1.5-year old puppy named Milo. We moved into our first house one month ago today, mind-boggled at every step of the escrow process, gob-smacked we were eligible for a loan, stunned at the interest rate of 3.25%. Stars aligned, to be sure. We still can hardly believe we’re homeowners.

My husband and I live comfortable lives. We eat well, we feed our dog well and take him to day-care while we work. Jack loves his position at Whiskey Town National Recreation area and completes projects on the house in the evenings. I work amongst brilliant, visionary, hard-working women and men. My Park Ranger days behind me, I’m now an Environmental Compliance Specialist for a cannabis consulting firm in the “Emerald Triangle”. I help farmers come into compliance with regulations, conditions, and statutes mandated by the California Department of Fish and Wildlife and State Water Resources Control Board to maintain licenses to grow and cultivate marijuana. Having studied diligently at school to earn two bachelor’s degrees (Geoscience and Dance) and one master’s degree (Energy and Environmental Analysis) in order to admirably perform environmental work and, being a personal fan of the sticky herb, this is an ideal job in every sense of the word. Good people, fulfilling and compelling work, calm environment, witty chatter, substantial wages

So why do I cry every day? Why do I wake with stress nausea so powerful I sometimes regurgitate my first sip of morning coffee?

It’s because I know too much about climate change.