Ancestral fears
The hand that steadies you is also the one that wounds you.
A recent NYT piece suggests that therapy culture - our collective turn inward, toward diagnosis, language, trauma as currency - may be one reason Millennials (aka The Spice Girl Generation? [finger’s crossed that moniker sticks]) and Gen Z are having fewer children.
Not just because of money. Or climate. Or Roe.
But because we are fluent now in harm.
Because we’ve been trained to fear our inheritance.
And worse - our capacity to pass it on.
Therapy has changed how we name hurt.
We’ve gotten good at tracing pain backwards.
We fear becoming the very people who loved us in the only way they knew how — even if it wasn’t the way we needed.
It’s a compelling thesis. Also, a comfort.
Because it suggests that if we heal long enough, name things precisely enough, we might one day be safe to become parents.
Safe to love someone we might damage.
But I don’t think that kind of safety exists.
And I don’t think the answer is retreat. Or avoidance. Or narrating our suffering like it might save us.
Fear is not a problem we can solve with language.
Some things don’t get resolved.
They just get lived through.
If you’ve chosen not to have children because it’s right for your body, your life, your joy -I support you without hesitation.
This is about autonomy. Not obligation.
What I’m speaking to is something else:
The decision not to try.
Not because you don’t want to.
Because you’re afraid you’ll fail.
Because you believe brokenness disqualifies you from loving. From raising up.
Because you’ve mistaken the ache of being human for a personal defect.
But life will break you open no matter what.
You will hurt people you love.
You will be hurt by people who love you.
And parenting - if it finds you - will gut you in both directions.
That’s not failure.
That’s the deal.
We don’t parent because we’re whole.
Wholeness is a myth.
We parent because we are willing to be undone by something greater than ourselves.
What unsettles me most is not that we’re afraid of hurting the people we love.
Of course we are.
But that we’ve convinced ourselves we won’t survive it.
That feels like a child’s fantasy.