I secretly regret becoming a parent, and I would never say that out loud around anyone who knows me. I love my kids. I would protect them with my life. They are funny and smart and they’ve given me moments of happiness I didn’t know existed before them.

All of that can be true while another truth exists beside it: if I could go back and make the decision again with full knowledge of what parenthood would do to me, I’m not completely sure I would choose it. That sentence makes me feel like a monster.

I miss the person I was before every decision had three other people attached to it. I miss being able to get sick without still having responsibilities. I miss spending money without calculating daycare, school stuff, medical bills and groceries.

I miss silence. I miss my marriage before we became coworkers running a small, chaotic company called a family. Sometimes I see child-free friends traveling, sleeping late, changing careers, moving across the country, and I feel a flash of jealousy so strong I have to immediately remind myself how lucky I am.

Then I feel guilty for needing to remind myself. American culture is wierd about parenting because people either talk like children are the greatest gift you’ll ever receive or they complain jokingly about them, but there’s almost no socially acceptable place to say, “I love them deeply and still mourn the life I didn’t live.” I would never tell my kids this.

They didn’t ask to be born and they deserve to feel wanted. I show up for them every single day and I will continue to. This isn’t about wanting to abandon them. It’s about admitting that love doesn’t magically erase sacrifice, resentment, exhaustion or grief.

Some choices can be meaningful and beautiful and still close doors behind you that you sometimes stand there staring at.