I got genuinely angry reading this.

Not annoyed. Not politically irritated.

The Cut published a piece this week called “I Regret Having Children.” Three mothers explain why, given the chance to do it over again, they wouldn’t.

And somewhere in all the brave honesty and therapeutic language and celebration of women finally saying the unsayable, I kept thinking about somebody apparently too unimportant to make it into the headline.

They can read this someday.

One of these mothers has children who are six and three. Another has a three-year-old daughter. The third has a one-year-old son.

They have names. They have lives. They love their mothers.

And someday they’re going to know how to use Google.

Imagine finding the article.

Imagine being fourteen years old, sitting alone in your bedroom, and reading that Mom told the world she’d have been happier if you had never existed.

Tell me again who’s being liberated by this.

I want to be careful about something because it matters.

Some of these women have suffered.

There is postpartum depression here. Anxiety. A traumatic delivery. Sleep deprivation. Marital trouble. One mother describes hallucinating. Those things aren’t funny, and they aren’t character defects. Women suffering through them need help, husbands who show up, families who rally around them, doctors who listen, and churches and communities willing to carry some weight.

Give them all of that.

But somewhere along the way our culture made a very strange turn.

We went from saying struggling mothers deserve help to saying motherhood itself might be the problem.

I’m sick of children being discussed as the obstacle standing between adults and their authentic lives.

I’m sick of pregnancy being treated as a medical problem to be solved.

I’m sick of babies being........

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