The author voting in the primaries three days before giving birth.At 38 years old, after a breakup, a move and a series of dating app experiences that served only to provide my comedian friend with material for an entire year of stand-up shows, I decided to pursue single parenthood. For me, motherhood had always been a dream, both in that it’s been a lifelong desire and seemed as unattainable as most dreams do. Some of this stemmed from societal assumptions of parenthood; a two-parent household that is preceded by dates wildly more successful than any I’d ever been on, followed by marriage, and, even in this era of delayed pregnancy and scientific breakthroughs in assisted reproduction, the loud ticking of a biological clock. And, more pressingly and personally: did I deserve the responsibility, joys, and privileges of motherhood? A lifetime of often-crushing people-pleasing and imposter syndrome, coupled with the prospect of an administration that almost immediately began to roll back access to reproductive healthcare and instituted critical threats to human rights, plagued my first trimester even more than my newly fluctuating hormones.Compared to so many others, I was lucky. It was an easy subway ride to the fertility clinic, and I snagged early morning appointments that barely