The first time someone asked me when I was having children, I hadn’t even finished unpacking my wedding gifts.
My baby and I got married in December. And by January, the WhatsApp messages had already started.
“So… when should we start expecting?”
“When will you make us grandparents?”
“My dear, don’t wait too long o.”
Aunties I had not spoken to since 2019 were suddenly very interested in my reproductive schedule. My mother-in-law, God bless her, called every other Sunday with a brightness in her voice that was not about me. My own mother started sending me TikTok videos…about fertility. About “not waiting too long.” About women who waited too long. One of them had a stock photo of a woman looking sad next to a window.
I could not make this up.
It’s funny how people assume marriage comes with an automatic countdown to babies. As if once you say “I do,” the next item on your to-do list is “Buy baby socks.”
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The truth is I wanted to be married. I just wasn’t ready to be a mum. These two things can co-exist.
I am twenty-nine years old. I have a business I started eighteen months ago that is finally making some money. I sleep six hours a night. I cry when I’m overstimulated. I love my husband deeply, but I am not ready.
One evening after dinner, I finally looked at my husband and said I knew everyone wanted us to have a baby soon, but I wasn’t ready. I told him I wanted us to be more intentional. That I wanted to use this first year of marriage to actually be married. To build something together before we added a whole human to the equation.
He was quiet for a long time. I remember waiting for his reaction as I’d just confessed to a crime.
Instead, he smiled. And he said, “I thought I was the only one.”
When I tell you I almost threw my spoon at him. “You mean you’ve been pretending all this time?” I thought. But he laughed and said he thought I wanted one immediately.
Imagine two adults stressing themselves because both of us were trying to meet expectations nobody had actually discussed. That conversation changed everything. Instead of letting relatives, traditions and timelines make decisions for us, we made one together.
We spoke to a healthcare professional. Asked every question we’d been too shy to ask. Learned about the contraceptive options available. And chose the one that fit our plans.
Not our parents’. Not society’s. Ours.
The funny thing is, nothing changed overnight. People still asked questions. Mama still dropped subtle hints. Friends still announced pregnancies. But something inside me felt lighter. Because I knew when we were ready, we would start our family.
Motherhood isn’t a race. Neither is marriage. Your timeline doesn’t have to look like anybody else’s.
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