In a world that feels like it is always ablaze with rage, toxic ideologies, war, and hatred, it’s easy to look around as a childfree woman and sigh a breath of relief that I chose not to bring kids into this society soon to be in shambles. I can simply write, publish my stories, garden, make crafts, and await the seeming end of the world if I don’t die of another cause before it happens.
But what if the world doesn’t end? What if society somehow makes a turnaround in the years I still remain here and there’s something to look forward to following this generation after all?
Because sometimes, I stop in the midst of my gardening and crafting and writing. I look at the flowers that feed pollinators and the vegetable plants that feed us, and see hope for the hungry, the environment, and for humans. I paint my garden ornaments or cross stitch and sew and stop to admire beauty in its smallness in a world so cold. I write, and find stories to share with others, that heal and help escape. I read and find that escape for myself. And I see voices that cannot be silenced.
I find hope.
That “what if?” feeds into a thought that lives rent-free at the cusp of my mind, one that maybe other childfree people might ponder too: If the current generations can fix the world they inherit, then what might those of us without children leave behind, and where do we leave it? And with who? With whom will I leave the hope that my life may have inspired?
On one hand, I normally dwell in a state of existential dread. Nothing matters. Society, money, time, credit scores, jobs, etc, it’s all an illusion, a system meant to distracted us from the brazen atrocities committed around the globe by those in power. Political issues divide us while the real issues remain concealed. Fascism and communism seem to be an ominous and shadowy plague slowly infecting the world in a bizarre foreshadowing that feels like the lead up to World War II and Hitler’s sickening reign.
It seems we can’t win. That we may be doomed to exist at the narcissistic whims of leaders who are in it only for ego, power, money, and a blatant disregard, even disdain, for the rest of us beneath them.
In a writing server I am a member of on Discord, someone offered some advice that, on the surface, didn’t seem to be something that could possibly alleviate this ongoing dread and weight of fear hanging over everything. In summary:
Make something. Create. Make something you can hold in your hands and be proud of. Let the process distract you from the world and let your mind focus on the act of creating instead of the darkness around us.
It made me ponder on the crafty little things I already do. Lately, it’s felt as though everything is too small to matter. That I am too small to matter and with that, nothing else matters, either. So why try? Despair accompanies this thought and drags me down a rabbit hole of obsessing over everything I cannot change and have no control over.
The hole is dark. Long. Endless. Dampened with depression, sorrow, and hardened by indignation and cynicism.
Writing has always been my escape from such a tunnel, but this year, I’ve felt this shadow lingering behind me and over me that has been whispering that even my writing, my haven and my love, doesn’t matter, either. I haven’t worked on what to put in my author newsletter on Substack like I was going to because it seems pointless. I slowed down on my Medium blog. Why bother? And who is going to read my silly books, anyway? What’s the point?
I’ve let it dwell as it has, but with seasonal depression coming on, I’ve become ever more aware of it’s presence. The truth is, art, the act of creating something, matters because it heals. Even if no one sees it, even if it isn’t any good, it is a hand that caresses the open wounds on our hearts and souls until it is a mere scar. And we need to be healing ourselves continually in order to keep doing good in the world that will make a difference.
I saw a meme a long time ago that said the little issues each of us take up and become passionate about are all part of the same tapestry, and by tugging at that one thread, though it may be minuscule, helps to fray and unravel the entire system which crushes and harms us. If each of us takes a thread, we can make the collective difference.
So, I have been doing things to keep me looking to the future. Preparing for spring’s garden. Setting deadlines to get “Beyond Dark 2” out next year. Keeping a list of true crime topics I want to write about on Medium. Continuing my cross stitch projects to give as gifts to others and because the mundane routine of it occupies my mind when I put on “Critical Role” or a documentary on in the background. I continue to look into family history research because it helps me understand myself and the world around me and the past. It provides hope for the future that there will be a better world and something to leave behind.
Enter part two of my existential dread: legacy. Though after I die, I won’t be around to see what impact, whatever little, my life has had, I live with this constant reminder that I have no one, really, to leave my legacy to. Where will my stories go? And the family history book I have spent years putting together, telling the stories of the mysteries that for so long baffled my family? The recipe book I keep of all my favourite foods I love to make? The writing guide I hand wrote into a pretty notebook to keep as a reference guide? Who will cherish my beloved book collection the way I cherish my mother’s Ann Rule collection while she’s still alive? Who will care about all of the cross stitch projects I’ve done and amassed over the years?
I am much too young to be worry about this yet. It seems bizarre to already be considering this. But I believe is stems from having been a suicidal kid and well into my twenties. That intimate brush with my own mortality for so long has made me so aware of what little time we have here.
I never want kids but looking at my writing, at all the research I have done on our family history and all of my crafts and gardening knowledge and... there’s nothing to leave it all to. And it often makes me sad. I am not close with my nieces or nephews (my brother is very toxic as are the mothers of his kids so I refuse to have anything to do with them). My sister is also not having kids. Sometimes I tell myself legacy is an illusion and just like anything else, it doesn’t matter. It’s all bullshit.
Other times I just ponder on what those of us who choose not to have children indeed leave behind. It all feeds right back into that existential dread. Does anything matter? If it does, am I doing enough to leave behind enough love and light in the world for others? If it doesn’t, what’s the point in trying?
I think it has to come down to the notion that each individual life is small and irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, but within that small and irrelevant life we need to find things we love and leave behind what pieces of love and light we can. We need to live our truths even if we only ever mattered to a small circle of people who love us. And it’s okay to live an otherwise mediocre and not overly memorable life as long as we leave some love behind in the shadow of our inevitable demise. It’s sort of like pets, how their short lives are so full of love and friendship and light. They won’t be remembered by the entire world. But they will be remembered by those who loved them endlessly and that is their paw print on the world.
And making things, creating things, is a great way to do that, even more so when it feels pointless. Something I do want to do is finish the family history book I started. A scrapbook of family photos and stories I started years ago but haven't continued in some time. I want to pass it onto my sister before I die, or hopefully find somewhere safe to keep it, so that perhaps one of my nieces or nephews can access it should they ever be curious about this side of the family and the generational trauma.
Answers. That’s something I want to leave behind for them. And for the rest of the world, my stories.
I'll leave you with a song I find particularly inspirational during this time.
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