Maybe I Do?

Maybe I Do?

featured in The Open Letters | by Ashley Callahan

The open Letters

Oct 24, 2026

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From

Ashley Callahan

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From a somewhat young age, I have said that I don’t want a husband or kids.

Now here I am at twenty two, still not really wanting the binding legal document or the crotch gremlins, but yet, somehow, I do.

I have dreams about being pregnant. I fool myself into falling asleep with the idea of a warm body curled up behind me. Sometimes I imagine what it would feel like to have someone there, breathing beside me, reaching for me in the middle of the night.

And then I feel like I have betrayed myself.

Like wanting those things means I have somehow betrayed feminism. Betrayed the independent woman I have spent so much time becoming.

To be loved, to want a relationship, to want someone to build a life with, feels wrong when I have been single for so long and singing the praises of being single for even longer.

But there is this yearning that lives in my chest.

I want to be loved.

And that is scary. Downright terrifying, actually.

Having kids sounds terrifying. I like to sleep. I like having no little people depending on me. I like being able to leave the house without preparing for a war against anything the little gremlins might find. I still have so much I want to do before I could even imagine bringing another person into the world.

But the thought of having someone who loves you like that, someone you made with another person intentionally, someone who is yours in this strange and permanent way, is something special.

I hate myself a little for even admitting that.

How dare I have changing thoughts when I have always been so certain that I wanted to be the cool, fun aunt with the crazy stories and well… lovers?

How dare I suddenly wonder what it would be like to be loved?

The people around me don’t really understand the sudden change in thought. And let me be clear, this does not mean I suddenly want all of it. I don’t suddenly want the white picket fence, the minivan, the matching pajamas, the whole suburban package.

But maybe.

Maybe I do want some of it.

And maybe that is the part that scares me.

I am only twenty two. There are no prospects on the horizon. I still have so much I want to do before I would even consider going there. I don’t have some secret five year plan that ends with a husband and two children.

But toying with the idea makes my chest tingle, in the way where I feel like I can’t breath.

Mostly because I feel like I have to explain myself.

Especially to the people who have known me as the girl who doesn’t want any of this.

Especially my best friend, who has been against the world with me. We are the twisted sisters, dark and stormy and jaded from all the failed love we have witnessed around us. We have watched the world push marriage and motherhood onto women and decided, together, that we would not let it happen to us.

So what happens when one of us starts wondering?

What happens when I start wondering?

I don’t feel understood.

I feel like I can’t call myself a feminist or a strong, independent woman if I want to be loved.

Which is crazy, because isn’t the whole point that it is a choice?

Isn’t that what we are fighting for?

The choice to become a mother or not.

The choice to get married or not.

The choice to build a career.

The choice to travel.

The choice to stay single.

The choice to fall in love.

The choice to build a life that looks nothing like anyone else’s.

So why do I keep altering the person in my head to fit the criteria of other people’s jadedness?

Why have I decided that being independent means I have to be alone?

And I am not saying I am not picky.

Please.

I have never had a boyfriend. I was never really interested. Being alone was easier than having to fit someone else into my life. Easier than having to be accountable for my quirks, my moods, my behavior, all the little things I learned about myself growing up.

I liked being alone because no one could disappoint me there.

But let me tell you something now.

I am lonely.

Maybe I don’t need a husband.

Maybe I don’t need a baby.

Maybe I don’t even need a relationship right now.

Maybe I just need to make a friend.

But wouldn’t it be nice to let that little hopeless romantic inside of me out to play without feeling like I am going to be burned at the cross for this grave misdeed of choosing relationships?

I feel like I have to choose between these two ideals.

The independent woman or the woman who wants to be loved.

The girls’ club or the love club.

The woman who needs no one or the woman who wants someone to hold her.

What is an indecisive girl supposed to do when she has been told that men suck and finding real love is impossible?

I kind of believe it.

And yet, I don’t.

I just want to be loved.

I don’t know the last time I’ve been held.

I mean really held.

Not hugged goodbye. Not a quick squeeze from a friend. Not the kind of embrace that ends before you have even settled into it.

Held.

As I lay in bed, I wrap my own arm around my chest.

A blanket. A comforter. A pillow draped over me for some warmth and weight.

I hold myself because, for now, I am the person here.

And maybe that doesn’t make me weak.

Maybe it doesn’t make me less independent.

Maybe wanting to be held doesn’t mean I have failed the woman I thought I was supposed to become.

Maybe I am allowed to want things I haven’t wanted before.

Maybe I am allowed to change my mind.

Maybe I am allowed to not know.

I am twenty two.

Maybe all I know right now is that I want to be loved.

About the Author:

Substack ID:

Ashley Callahan

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