There’s a quiet decision I’ve been carrying for a while now. It doesn’t announce itself loudly, and it doesn’t come with a clear right or wrong answer. It’s simply this: I want more children, but I don’t want a partner.

I became a single mother when my son was one year old. He’s nine now, and raising him has been the most defining experience of my life. It taught me who I am under pressure, who I am when no one is coming to help, and who I am when love has to be steady, patient, and unconditional. In motherhood, I found clarity. In romance, I never quite did.

I’ve spent time reflecting on why that is. It’s not bitterness or fear. It’s self-awareness. I don’t think I’m a particularly good romantic partner. Relationships ask things of me that feel misaligned with how I move through the world. And instead of forcing myself into a mold that doesn’t fit, I’ve learned to accept that this might simply not be my path.

What complicates things is that my desire for more children hasn’t faded with that realization. If anything, it’s grown stronger. I love kids, deeply. I love the noise, the chaos, the questions, the rituals, the becoming. I’ve always imagined a bigger family, a fuller table, more little hands reaching for mine.

So here I am, standing at the intersection of two truths: I don’t want a partner, and I do want more children.

This is where the decision becomes heavier.

Recently, I’ve started looking at sperm donor profiles, and that process has introduced a new layer of fear I wasn’t fully prepared for. Many donors test positive for genetic mutations, often things labeled as “carriers,” things that might never show up in a child, especially if I’m not a carrier myself. Still, seeing those reports in black and white has been unsettling.

It forced me to confront a reality I can’t ignore: raising a child with significant physical or mental health challenges would be incredibly hard, especially on my own. I don’t say that lightly or without compassion. I deeply respect parents who walk that path. But honesty requires me to admit that I’m scared. I worry about what I can realistically handle, emotionally and practically, as a single parent.

Because of that, I plan to do genetic testing soon. I am not sure whether I can carry the emotional, physical, and mental weight again, knowing there won’t be someone to tap out with at the end of a long day. I also need to consider my son, and what expanding our family would mean for him.

There’s also grief in this choice. Grief for the version of life I once imagined, the partnership, the shared milestones, the default structure society holds up as “normal.” Letting go of that fantasy is not easy.

I don’t have a neat conclusion yet. I don’t know what I’ll decide.