Ever since I was a child, I dreamt of a big home in the Bronx.

A successful career, my kids running through the hallway.
A son and a daughter who looked like my mother and my aunt which, in hindsight, would mean she looked like me and my sister.

After a string of relationships ending, somewhere along the way I started to believe I was a serial monogamist, always loving deeply.

Boy, has life shifted. Spoiler alert: when you really fall in love it feels safe.

Anyways, I decided it was best to freeze my eggs.

Did you know not all eggs laid by a hen hatch?
Only if the hen mates with a rooster will her eggs be fertilized and able to become chicks. And even then, timing matters. Care is important!! 

An unfertilized egg is not a chick. It is potential..

How many times have we fell for potential? 

It is a beginning waiting for the right circumstances.

So just like the hen, my eggs are not babies. They are not children waiting in line. They are simply eggs stored  in a laboratory, paused in time, preserved for possibility.

Unlike a hen, no one is eating my unhatched eggs.

At least, I hope not.

I wanted to nurture.

Unlike children, I knew I could raise my animals on my own.

When I first froze my eggs, the idea was simple: with or without a partner(sperm donor), I would eventually create embryos(babies).

There was still time and maybe a glimmer of  hope. 

At this point in my life there is no freaking way I would want to do this alone. 

I started watching parents stay together for the sake of their children(not sure I can do that, not sure I can procreate with just anyone)

I was raised in the concept that happy co parents are better than miserable parents. That still isn’t enough for me, I didn’t come this far to just come this far.

I saw mothers needing support from the father emotionally, financially, physically. 

And I realized… shit, I barely have a family. WHO gonna watch the kids!?

I have been around enough youth in need of love, to satisfy that motherly craving. 

Community Muva.

Would I be bringing a child into this world for the idea of one and not the reality?

The idea of birthing children began to dwindle, I’m sure my eggs have frostbite.

So how did I get here?

Thinking about chickens constantly ?

According to a woman on instagram it’s called henopause.

But the reality is.. 

My lover asked me one day what I would do with all the money I was manifesting.

“I want livestock,” I said. “I’d buy chickens and raise them.”

He laughed. “Chickens?”

Yes. Chickens.
A huge coop, two horses, a Hen, Roosters, Cows and a goat.

As he sat up I whispered” They have feelings too, you know”.

Something I could tend to, that depends on me. Something that produces, sustains and multiplies.

It didn’t feel random, it felt ancestral. 

I came across an article by Juan Pablo Villanueva Cabezas, who challenges the idea that chickens are some kind of pathetic solution for women in developing countries. What he points out is simple for many women, chickens aren’t about becoming entrepreneurs. They’re about control, over food,  income and most importantly  time.

“When women have complete control of their income, they invest up to 90% in their households or communities. Men, in contrast, spend less than 50% of their income in these settings.”

As a woman, I didn’t need Google to tell me this but it’s always comforting when lived truth is backed by facts.

In places where land, credit, and opportunity are limited, chickens are often one of the few things women can truly call their own.
Low cost, Low maintenance, High impact.

Not loud power, intentional power.

It’s like the cliche quote intention over impact, it’s not what you mean it’s how it lands.

Now let’s bring it back to us.

I knew exactly where this obsession was birthed from.

My trip to Colombia.

I stood on Edilson’s farm admiring the horse, the dog, the chicken coop. I was in love. His home reflected chic but rural a perfect combination of glamour and care, it felt sustainable.

Almost as if the world were ending, and this is exactly where I’d want to be.

Imagine having something that’s yours, something that keeps giving.

Maybe the little girl who dreamed of a big Bronx house didn’t lose the dream.
Maybe she just realized life doesn’t have to arrive fully built or on societal norm. 

I don’t need a partner to nurture, to care, to watch life grow.
But I wouldn’t mind one someone to laugh when I finally get that coop, when the eggs (hopefully) hatch, when the chaos becomes ours.

But for now, it’s just me and a bank account reminding me that dreams sometimes come with monthly fees.
And somehow, that’s enough to make me smile.