Choosing surgical sterilization

I’ve never liked kids, which is a controversial opinion to have as a woman. 

I don’t have that maternal or parental instinct that some people are born with. I understand kids are innocent and learning how to navigate the world, but when a child is in my presence, I become entirely uncomfortable. 

I’ve known my whole life that I didn’t want to have children. I’ve always said if I were going to have kids, I would adopt. Many people I’ve discussed this with consider it problematic because it doesn’t fit into the typical standard of womanhood. 

I’ve been told I won’t have a fulfilling life and won’t satisfy my responsibilities as a woman. I’ve been posed the typical hypothetical questions: “What if your future husband wants kids?” or “How will you be satisfied with your life if you don’t have kids?” 

No matter how often I’m asked or who it is that asks me, my answer always remains the same: Kids just aren’t for me.

I always knew that surgical sterilization was an option, often seen as forbidden or a last resort. In 2019, a document started circulating on social media with doctors who would perform sterilization procedures without pushback. I bookmarked it in case I ever needed it one day. 

Then, Roe v. Wade was overturned in 2022 and I was terrified. The concept of bodily autonomy was shrinking as I got older. Considering my lack of desire for children and the decreasing access to abortion care, I was worried about what my options would be if I became pregnant. I opted to eliminate that possibility and finally decided to pursue sterilization — a choice that was strongly discouraged and almost demonized by my family. 

When I fronted the idea to them, I phrased it jokingly. What I thought was a lighthearted approach turned into a full-blown argument about my future husband, the possibility that I would change my mind and that I would have a lonely life if I followed through with it. Based on their reaction, I decided not to tell them I was serious.

I made a consultation appointment with a gynecologist in August 2023 to discuss the procedure. I heard stories about women experiencing pushback from medical professionals, but thankfully, I didn’t have that experience. 

It still took five months from the initial consultation to the surgery date. I had to sign multiple documents stating that I was aware there were other options for birth control. I then had two appointments over 60 days, confirming that I wanted to pursue this procedure. 

It still took more than a month to be scheduled.

Two weeks before the procedure date, I was consumed by guilt for not telling my mother. 

I wrote down everything I needed to say about my decision, went to her house and started sobbing before I could even begin. To my surprise, she was extremely supportive. She promised not to tell the other members of my family and agreed to take me in on the day of surgery.

The night before surgery, I stayed up into the early hours of the morning on Reddit. I found a subreddit called r/sterilization where many people shared their experiences with a bilateral salpingectomy, which was the procedure I was getting. 

The most common theme in the posts was about the healing process. Most users said it felt like they had done too many abdominal crunches. Others expressed a wave of regret after their procedure, but they clarified that the regret did not linger. But for some, they didn’t fully process that they wouldn’t have children until the days after their surgery.

The procedure itself was simple and I was extremely grateful that I didn’t feel judged by anyone on my care team the day of surgery. No one second-guessed me or undermined my decision.

When I got home, I laid in bed and waited for the wave of regret others talked about. But it never came. I’ve never felt more in touch with my feminine side or who I was as a woman than in the months after surgery.

I had a friend who got a vasectomy recently. He called his doctor on a Tuesday, went in for his procedure on a Thursday and was back at work the following Monday. His doctors also sent him a framed certificate to congratulate him on his choice. 

I received nothing. 

Now, I field questions like “What if you change your mind?” in addition to the aforementioned questions. I can still have biological children through IVF if my mind randomly changes. But biology is not the only way to create a family.

I’ve gone on several dates where I tell people that I can’t have kids. Their immediate response is sympathy because society often views it as a requirement for women to reproduce. If I phrase it differently and outright explain I chose surgical sterilization, I’m still met with questions about regret and my future spouse. Someone even once referred to the procedure as mutilation.

While strangers having thoughts on whether I may change my mind annoys me, the questions about my future husband upset me the most. 

First of all, I’m not straight and the expectation that I’m going to marry a man is set in deep-rooted heteronormativity. Secondly, if I were to make every decision in my life based on the opinion of an unknown future significant other, I wouldn’t possibly be able to live.

I know that if there’s a person I’m “meant to be” with, they’re going to share my views on children and the ability to create a family through other means. This whole argument stands on the premise that I even want to get married, which I don’t. My opinion on marriage is arguably even more upsetting to certain people than my thoughts on children because it also doesn’t fit into typical societal roles.

Amidst more recent changes in America’s political climate, I have never felt more secure in my decision to become surgically sterilized. To me, this procedure was a safeguard for my bodily autonomy and my future. I was determined not to let outside opinions influence me on a decision that affects only me.