On the day of our wedding, my husband whispered to me, ‘I can’t wait to start a family with you’ - and I felt a chill spread through my body. I had never, ever wanted children. Ever since I was a little girl, my dream had been to pursue an academic career, which I’d pursued tenaciously and successfully carved out for myself. 

My parents divorced multiple times, and I had struggled with a variety of mental health issues, including an eating disorder. Having grown up in a complicated family, I valued my liberty above all else. 

Motherhood looked like a dreary life sentence I was only too happy to shun, and I made sure to say as much to my husband when we first started dating. The trouble was, he wanted a child.  He wanted one so badly, and talked about it so often, that to deny him felt like a cruelty. Moreover, as we grew closer over nearly a decade together, it had become obvious to me that unless I gave him one, we would have to split up.

I loved him deeply and wanted to give him his dream of becoming a dad. So against all my instincts and better judgement, I agreed.

Due to our ages (my husband was 54 and I was 41), we underwent fertility checks to find out whether we could still safely have children. We had spent years travelling the world, partying in some of the most glamorous international cities, and it showed in my husband’s low sperm motility. 

We agreed to stop boozing in a bid to conceive naturally, with me still secretly planning a party for the summer and hiding vodka in the wardrobe to quell my anxiety about what was to come. And then, in the spring, I found out I was pregnant. My stomach dropped.

The pregnancy itself was smooth and relatively easy - at least physically. Everyone complimented me on my pregnancy glow and growing bump. But mentally, it was one of the loneliest times in my life. I couldn’t tell anyone how I felt. 

How selfish of me, when so many people were desperate for the opportunity I now had. My husband was delighted and spent hours planning and decorating our baby’s nursery and buying all the necessary kit while I pretended I needed to 'rest' in order to avoid it, which only made me feel more horrible. 

I worried endlessly about my negative thoughts and whether they’d affect the baby, forcing myself to swallow down tears when I could no longer swallow the lump in my throat. I could barely bring myself to consider what life might be like after I’d had the child. Sometimes I even drank in secret to quell the misery, which only made me feel all the worse in case I had harmed our growing baby.

Determined to make the process as pain-free as possible, I elected for a C-section, and our daughter was born quickly and smoothly in the winter of 2022. As soon as I held her, I felt pure love flood through me in that way people describe being consumed with love for their children. But more than love, I felt huge relief.

I had been so convinced that I would not love a baby I had never wanted, and yet here I was, mother to a beautiful healthy girl. I had done it. Perhaps I had been worrying for nothing all along.

Sadly, I was wrong. As the drugs wore off and we began our journey into new parenthood, I realised, with horror, just how awful my life had now become.

My husband was a control freak about the baby, ‘correcting’ my swaddling, or feeding of her (I had opted for bottle-feeding from the get-go as I couldn’t bear the idea of breast-feeding) and I struggled to find my feet as a new mum. I loved my little girl dearly but I handed her over to my husband at every opportunity, convincing myself that it was all about strengthening their bond.

I loathed my post-partum body. Years of training hard in the gym and eating fiendishly healthy foods seemed like they were all to waste. I winced when people referred to me as ‘Mummy’ in medical appointments, and avoided other mums at all costs, completely unable to relate to their weary-eyed yet joyful chatter about the loves of their lives. And worst of all, I hated that I hated it. My daughter was so beautiful, such a peaceful and happy baby, and I loathed myself for feeling that she might sense any of this.

As the months went on, and I lost the baby weight, and I started to accept this was my life now, I sank into the mire. My medical team and therapist confirmed it wasn't post-natal depression.

It was more a sense of deep despair that I was now serving this ‘life sentence’ - and only just at the beginning of it. When I had any time to myself, or my daughter was asleep, I would drink, and would often push her pram to the pub as soon as it opened. 

After about a year, I started to go out partying with friends on the odd Saturday night. Soon booze and drug-fuelled nights when my husband was on dad duty became a regular thing, and I would sneak back into the house later and later, sleeping in the spare room to hide how messed up I was. Looking after a baby on a hangover was an utter nightmare.

I tried to explain my feelings to my mother and husband, only to be met with horrified stares and lectures about my drinking. Neither of them could remotely identify with what I was saying about how trapped and despondent I felt. The guilt was immense. I knew I had to get sober for my daughter’s sake and went to rehab but lapsed after a few months. Although I have curbed the partying, I still struggle not to drink.

My daughter is now four years old, and the brightest, most beautiful, and joyful little girl you could imagine, and I love her more than anything in the world. I work just a few hours a week and throw myself into making her life as rich and fulfilling as possible, taking her to toddler sporting activities, and children’s theme parks, reading to her, soothing her when she cries, and holding her until she falls asleep at night. But when I see the nursery WhatsApp chat go off, or we get another invite to a children’s birthday party, I want to scream.

I feel like a fraud. I have a wonderful husband, a beautiful home, and a gorgeous daughter. But I still wake up every day feeling as though I am living the wrong life.

So if you’re reading this and are doubting your own desire to become a mum, please listen to that inner voice - and honour it. I wouldn’t wish the torpor, the sorrow, and especially not the guilt of my choice on anyone else.