To answer this question, one must delve into a reflection of significant thoughts that actively took place shortly before the child was conceived. “When/if I have kids…” — this is how typical conversations about children might have started when I was in my 20s, 25s, or even 30s. The evolution of my perception can be traced through two extreme examples:

About 12 years ago, I broke up with a girlfriend because we drove each other crazy arguing about whether to baptize a child immediately after birth. There was no child on the horizon, not even close — we didn’t even live together. But the fact that kids were in the picture was just assumed.

Two years ago, I nearly broke up with Ksyusha because she wanted a child, and I was hesitating, and the issue came to a head.

But I was deeply uncertain. Below is an attempt to recreate the thought process I had that winter, on the cusp of 2020 and 2021. Keep in mind, this is being written from the perspective of late 2022.

What caused the hesitation?

A deep understanding of Human Design, of course. If there were a ranking of predisposition to raising and nurturing children, someone with my configuration would undoubtedly be at the very bottom, while Ksyusha would fall somewhere in the middle. (To be precise, it’s more about the combination of a specific parent’s configuration with a specific child’s, but I’ll simplify here.) For healthy functioning, I need 3–4 hours of “doing nothing” alone every day. I tire quickly from being in crowds and take a long time to recover from physical exertion. It’s not that I’m out of shape — I regularly do light yoga and dance. I can dance for hours at a jam session or bike 30 kilometers, but the next day (or even two), I feel drained. This isn’t like muscle soreness from using unfamiliar muscles; it’s just a total lack of energy to move. Occasionally, I have bursts of productivity where I can clean the entire apartment in one go, but these are rare and unpredictable (on average, about once a month). So, I clearly understood that having a child would mean a constant toll on my physical health for at least seven years — the period when you have to provide physical care first and then constant attention. This isn’t just about the loss of personal freedom or the ability to spend time as I want; I could easily imagine that. It’s more about the fact that my daily energy reserve would run out before the child falls asleep. And if my battery is about 30% smaller than a child’s, I’d have to live in overdrive — and that prospect scared me.

The other side of the coin However, with the knowledge of Human Design, having a child also means you almost get a technical manual for them. Although “manual” sounds too dry, even for me — let’s call it a map. If a child is a planet, then Human Design is the map to it. If you land on a new planet for the first time, you wouldn’t refuse a map, would you? It’s useful to have at least some idea about the length of its days, prevailing winds, surface terrain, and atmospheric composition. Human Design proves practical even from the first months — it provides guidance for feeding and sleep schedules, for example. It’s important to remember, though, that the map is not the territory, and the signals from the child’s body undoubtedly carry more weight than any theories. For over three years now, I’ve been trying to “break” Human Design, to find its flaws — the place where it doesn’t work. My method involves comparing its predictions with real-life outcomes. The system, however, doesn’t break easily. It even has a built-in explanation for discrepancies — the so-called “Not-Self,” a set of behavior patterns established in childhood. For an average adult who hasn’t experimented with Human Design long enough (or was lucky enough not to be conditioned in childhood), it’s nearly impossible to uncover their true, inherent nature. This makes traditional scientific validation difficult. With young children, though, it’s entirely different. There can’t be any “patches” or excuses; either the theory holds up, or it doesn’t. Observing all aspects and manifestations firsthand would be incredibly valuable for me. And you can only do that with your own child.

The emotional connection Another factor, unrelated to Human Design, was my emotional connection to Ksyusha. In her worldview, we both wanted a child and were certain of it, with no doubts or hesitations. And she had every reason to believe that. We had talked about children often and at various levels. I had speculated a lot, for example, about the negative effects of traditional schooling and how I wouldn’t want that for my child. I often caught myself thinking — and voiced it — that we’d make great parents. (Spoiler: we are.) In short, there were plenty of conversations that implied that we would have children, one way or another, and that I wanted them. There was nothing that would have made her question this. The irony is that in having such discussions, I was more inventing a desire than expressing a true, deep one. Not intentionally or consciously, of course (hello, Not-Self). I wrapped “correct answers” in the shiny packaging of my own opinions, answering questions about what’s wrong with the school system or what values are worth instilling in children. What was I basing this on? On a mishmash of cultural artifacts projected into my near future. All of human culture, from The Epic of Gilgamesh to the grandmother in the stairwell, tells us: to be human is to have children. This idea is so deeply ingrained that it’s rarely reevaluated. Instead, we tend to prepare for it by selecting the right partner, achieving financial and domestic stability, and waiting for the “right moment.” It was only when Ksyusha brought me to this threshold that I began seriously asking myself what this would mean for me personally. Did I really want this? Here’s the critical moment: I wouldn’t have asked myself this question if I hadn’t been “bitten” by Human Design. Or maybe I would have, but I would have quickly settled for the answers provided by culture — through stories, movies, books, or friends and family. “We have a good relationship, we’re in our 30s, finances are fine, and Ksyusha wants this — so why not? Go ahead, name one reason why not.” From society’s perspective, there’s no valid reason not to. Any such reasons would only come from within.

The turning point In Ksyusha’s world, her motivation was strong, clear, and deeply personal: “I don’t see much point in a life without children.” My motivation, however, was neutral — neither yes nor no — and that’s what led to my doubts. Expressing them took significant effort on my part. Hearing them took enormous strength on Ksyusha’s part. There’s so much packed into those last two sentences.

In the end, though, I saw how important this was to her and what kind of crisis she would fall into if I backed out. Before, in all my relationships, when I realized there was no future, I would break things off quickly, without much regard for my partner’s feelings. I believed that, while painful, it was inevitable — why drag things out? There would always be new experiences ahead. But this time, I stood at a crossroads: cause Ksyusha profound and potentially long-lasting pain by ending our story or start a new chapter together in a big, shared journey. My bookshelf already has plenty of notebooks with only the first few pages written.

A childhood friend once told me that parenthood is a unique experience you can’t get in any other way. Her words stayed with me, as did her assertion that my situation was textbook: at 40, men often feel the desire to have children, but the train has often already left the station. What influenced me most was her first point.

I don’t see this as a simple calculation of pros and cons. For a while now, I’ve stopped trying to “make” life happen and instead try to just observe it. What happened, happened. It couldn’t have been any other way.