“Won’t you feel as if there’s something missing if you decide not to get married or have children?” is a question that has, over the years, become a good friend of mine. As you might expect from any twenty something year old in college, I’ve changed my answer a lot, much like I’ve changed boyfriends, my wardrobe, and my political views. It’s a difficult question, one I’ve grappled with especially a lot in recent years. Would I regret dedicating my life to my career? Would I wake up some day in need of a husband? Would there come a time in my life where I would be jealous of the women who get to hold their four-year-olds’ hands in the park? But these questions often take a back seat to the more frightening questions of, what if my husband distracts me from my goals? What if I have to quit my job one day because being a mother and being a career woman is too heavy of a cross to bear?
But as the 20s of my life often promised, I have reaped the benefits of self-discovery. And on one unsuspecting night, tucked in bed, I kissed my boyfriend of the month goodnight, and was left with the rather alarming realization that no date, no kiss, no man would ever give me the same rush that writing, and working, and studying could. And while many would pass this off as “sad” and “unfortunate,” I never would. This is simply my life, my fate, my hand of cards.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve loved men. I’ve been deeply and madly in love, by every definition. And love is wonderful. Holding hands across the dinner table is beautiful. Waking up next to someone is magical. Having someone kiss you on the forehead after a long day is exquisite. But the rush of being an artist and producing a work you’re proud of—that’s what is truly unbeatable.
So yes, I would consider my career the star-crossed love of my life, homework my Romeo. And like any great love story, everyone around me seemed to desperately want to break us apart. They’d all tell me, “you spend too much time studying.” “You never take time just for yourself.” “You’re going to work yourself to death.” And maybe they had a point. But did anyone understand how much I loved this beautiful suffering?
In my last relationship, I could hear my boyfriend silently begging for me to breakup with homework and school, and love him instead. I could see it in his eyes, with a look that read, “you’re always going to choose school over me.” And it was then that I so badly wanted to apologize. I wanted to apologize to him, and tell him that “I’m sorry you’ll never be as important as homework.” But I refrained, because I wasn’t really sorry. If our relationship had been a marriage, school was my child. And as a mother, I felt morally obligated to choose my metaphorical baby over my hypothetical husband every time.
And as I grow older (and hopefully wiser), I fall more and more in love with devoting my life to writing, and work, and climbing up the corporate ladder. If that makes me self-absorbed, then so be it. If it means happiness and fulfillment, I will gladly write “selfish” on a nametag, and parade it around, knowing proudly that I chose my truest love in life. And while I am in no way opposed to the idea of falling in love, and maybe even ending up with an “oops” child, I have to come to terms with the fact that those things will always be left on the dusty shelf of second and third priority. Most importantly, I’ve learned that it’s completely okay.