After an extended journey to conceive, I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting on what I actually want in this life, versus what I’ve been told to want.

I’ve realised that part of my desire to become a mother isn’t just about bringing children into this world and having a family of my own, it’s also about permission.

Permission to have a different kind of life; one where homemaking is centred and valued, and not just intellectually and emotionally, but with my actual time.

I’ve had to admit to myself that it’s not enough for me anymore to spend Sunday afternoons happily food prepping for the working week or throwing a load of laundry on between calls.

You’ll have to forgive me for using the word, but I want more balance. True balance, where work and home and life and creativity take more of an equal slice of the pie.

I want more hours to cook, tend, clean, create, beautify.

But as a child of the 90’s, this feels almost blasphemous to say out loud.

I grew up seeing this kind of female path as the opposite of ambition and success. It was the soft, unpaid work; the work that didn’t count.

There’s a big identity shift here for me. Who am I to turn towards the home, without the reproductive labourto excuse it by?

That’s a big question for me this year.