Lauren Chiou / Daily Nexus

I haven’t gotten my period in 10 months. 302 days without the monthly cycle, 302 days without the reminder that I am, in fact, a woman and my body can, in fact, create life. 

Back when I had a regular cycle, my period was nothing more to me than a constant, exaggerated inconvenience. Every four weeks, I was attacked by the power of my own uterus. A single cramp, a twinge of pain or even a drop of blood on my jeans would bring my entire world crashing down. 

My disappearing period was not a total surprise. Last December, I was put on a new medication that would stop my period for a few months, according to my doctor. I celebrated. 

As I sat on the crinkly paper in a windowless patient office, listening to my doctor talk about the importance of safe sex and how I absolutely, cannot, under ANY circumstances get pregnant because the medication would be “incredibly detrimental” for my hypothetical unborn fetus, I just nodded and picked up my prescription at the pharmacy downstairs.

My doctor’s warnings fell to deaf ears. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about the health of a hypothetical fetus, I just didn’t see how it would apply to me. I was more excited to live a life of period-less ease than to be concerned about a childless life.

Without a period, I was never scared of waking up in sheets stained maroon or having to inconspicuously sneak a tampon up my sleeve during class. My mind was clear, my back was acheless, my appetite remained normal. The bathroom drawer once dedicated to boxes of Always and Tampax became occupied with a blowdryer, my retainer and a 100-pack of Q-tips. 

But over time, my mind became occupied with a new problem, something I had never seriously considered until I surpassed the healthy amount of time without menstruation:

Without my period, I can’t have children. 

I thought I had regained agency over my body by conquering my uterus. But, in the cruelest twist of fate, my uterus managed to rob me of something more than convenience: it possibly robbed me of a future in motherhood.

It’s admittedly stupid for me to even be considering motherhood at the age of 20. This is not a diss at anyone who actually IS a mother at 20 — that is truly impressive. I applaud mothers of all ages. It’s a diss at myself. 

In the cruelest twist of fate, my uterus managed to rob me of something more than convenience: it possibly robbed me of a future in motherhood. 

Take today for example — I started a load of laundry at 10 a.m. While my clothes were in the washing machine, I went to make a cup of coffee. While the Keurig warmed up, I remembered all of the unread emails in my inbox. As I sat down at my laptop to reply, I got a text from a friend asking to send pictures from a party last weekend. Once I opened my camera roll, I became immersed in my documented past and the excessive screenshots littered throughout. Before I knew it, it was 6 p.m. and I never texted my friend back. I never replied to my emails. My 10 a.m. coffee was untouched and cold. And my clothes were still in the washing machine. 

It’s safe to say that I am not at a point in my life where a child is possible. I can barely function on my own, let alone helping another human being to function.

Children have always been a foreign concept to me. Whenever I’m handed a baby or tasked with talking to kids, I freeze. It’s honestly incredible how paralyzing children can be for me. All ability of communication flies out of my brain as I stare at a sputtering, babbling, living and breathing entity. Kids are so young and impressionable and gentle … I’m simultaneously amazed and intimidated by their naivety. I’m jealous of their peace and terrified of the responsibility that comes with raising another person. 

So it was easier to just write off the possibility of having kids entirely. Joke about my lack of maternal prowess instead of actually acknowledging my fear.

But now, all I can think about is having kids. Settling down and starting a family. Being a mom.

It’s not even just that — all I want is the ability to start a family of my own. Following in the footsteps and continuing the legacy of my mother and my grandmother and my grandmother’s mother. Posing for a picture with a baby bump in front of the fireplace mantle. Holding a hand the size of my thumb, looking at the sputtering, babbling, living and breathing entity that I created. 

It feels superfluous to overly concern myself with my future. But as I approach a full year without menstruation, I need to seriously start considering the impact this will have on my life. My biological clock is ticking prematurely, and each tick keeps me awake at night. 

I never knew how much I wanted to be a mom until it was threatened to be taken away from me. 

Tick tock, tick tock. It’s now 303 days without a period.

Lauren Chiou has been listening to “I think about it all the time featuring bon iver” by Charli XCX on repeat. She has been thinking about it all the time, clearly.

A version of this article on p. 9 of the Oct 17, 2024 print edition of The Daily Nexus.