(Link) | (Ghost Archive)
As told to Bindu Bansinath, a writer for The Cut who covers news, culture, and relationships.
Photo-Illustration: The Cut; Photos Getty Images
Sooner or later, everyone has to decide whether to give up lazy weekends, disposable income, and overall peace of mind to have a baby instead. For many of those on the fence, one anxiety looms large: What if I make the wrong choice? Parent regret is more common than you might think — the r/regretfulparents sub-Reddit alone gets around 70,000 weekly visitors who anonymously commiserate — though stigma makes it hard to admit in real life. Below, three moms of young children talk about why they wish they could go back to their old lives.
— a 34-year-old Rhode Island mother of a 6-year-old and a 3-year-old
When my husband and I were dating, his deal-breaker was having kids. I didn’t feel the same way, but I didn’t see life without children as an option. It always felt like the next stage of life for us. I remember telling my husband, “I’m worried; I love our life now and I’m not sure what it’s going to look like with a child.” He told me, “It’s going to be better.” I was the executive of a nonprofit, which was a stressful but fulfilling job. I was worried about my career, but I thought, There are working moms everywhere. People do this. Then I had my first baby.
Her first year of life, she was colicky and cried all the time — you couldn’t put her down. We had a babysitter quit and tell us, “I can’t do this anymore.” I also had postpartum depression. Early on, I told my doctor about it. She just kind of dismissed me and said, “Well, you don’t feel like throwing your baby out the window, right?” She told me to come back if I ever felt like hurting myself or my baby. At work, I couldn’t put in 70-hour weeks during busy times anymore, or attend trainings while breastfeeding, so I fell behind. We also had a second child once our first was a little older and easier to care for; I wanted her to have a sibling. Eventually, I left my job for a more manageable role in communications. I like working from home, and it’s not as demanding, but I miss my old job and the feeling of solving big problems like How are we going to raise $75,000? As a parent, you’re solving tiny ones: Do you want the crackers in the red or blue bowl?
Before motherhood, I was a perfectionist and an overachiever. Afterward, I struggled to regulate my emotions and my kids’. When my younger daughter struggles to get dressed, I try to distract her or make compromises, but in the end, she’s screaming, and I don’t know how to make it stop, so I just shut down. We don’t have lots of child-care options — we do part-time day care and don’t have a lot of family able to help us; otherwise we use PTO and juggle our work schedules to have all the coverage we need — and it feels like the rest of my life is put on hold for motherhood. I have good moments as a mom, but I get hung up on thoughts like, What I really wanted to do today was painting, or reading, or doing these chores alone. Last year, I was worried my oldest was exhibiting ADHD symptoms. My husband asked me if I’d looked up those symptoms in adult women, and I checked all the boxes. A psychiatrist ended up diagnosing me, and I started treatment. My medication helps quiet the overwhelm of being pulled in a million directions while parenting.
Even still, it’s like I never recover. I live for bedtime; those two or three hours at night I squeeze all my living into. We’ll watch movies or play video games and every now and then I’ll try to work on an art project, but by the time I’ve set everything up I’m exhausted and it’s time for bed. Having a kid turns you into a morning person the way being chased by a bear turns you into a runner.
My husband enjoys parenting. He’s an optimistic, happy-go-lucky person who always knows what to do and how to de-escalate problems. I’ve tried to talk with him about how difficult things are, and he understands but is also aggressively positive about it: “Our kids are so wonderful and great.”
But we recently spent all our savings buying a more expensive house because we lived in a terrible school district, and it got us talking. I was able to say to my husband, “Our life probably would have been better if we didn’t have kids.” And he was like, “You know what? You might be right.” We talked about what we’d be doing if we didn’t have children — would we still be living in our old house? Would we be bored or exploring our hobbies? Just knowing he also thinks it’s tough was helpful for me. I love our children and would never want them to think, Mom and Dad would be happier if I wasn’t here. I’m giving them the best life I can. But thinking about life without them, I’d be happier overall.
— a 30-year-old European mother of a 3-year-old
Growing up, I lived a very strict and sheltered life. I wasn’t allowed to go out on a whim with friends, and we were always stressed about money; my parents struggled to pay bills at the end of the month. My mom was a housewife and depended on my dad for everything. Seeing how limiting that was, I always said to myself, I’m not going to be like that.
I married young, at 22. My husband couldn’t wait to have a baby, but I told him I wanted to enjoy our marriage and wait. The first year of marriage was great. I got a well-paying job with good hours, and for the rest of the week, I went out for walks, explored nature, and took a nap whenever I wanted. I had aspirations of passing a teaching exam and getting a tenured job. This is what adulthood looks like, I thought. In my late 20s, the baby plans went back into motion, and fear hit me like a brick. Did I know what I was getting into? My mother, who had always wanted grandchildren, promised to help. I brushed off my fears as cold feet.
During COVID, I prepared for my exam and planned to take it while pregnant, get tenure, and then the baby would come. But I had pregnancy complications early on and had to go on bed rest in the first trimester, so I couldn’t take the test. It was so stressful; I cried every day. But when I gave birth to my daughter, I was actually so happy. It’s like I was in this bubble where I had no worries about work, meals were brought to me, nurses took care of us. I couldn’t stop looking at my daughter. I thought, Thank God, because I worried I was going to be one of those moms who didn’t feel anything or who experienced postpartum depression. That’s not how it felt when she was in my arms.
Then we went home, and everything was a nightmare. During the birth, I’d had an incision that left me unable to move from the pain. I breastfed my daughter, but I couldn’t pick her up. My husband had a month and a half of paternity leave, but the only helpful thing he did during that time was change her diapers, though he did it with a reluctant expression on his face; I had the feeling he never believed how much pain I was in. My mom helped, but she didn’t like being disturbed at night and even during the day was afraid of holding the baby or changing her. I hallucinated from lack of sleep. It felt like I’d been tricked into this. Everyone who wanted me to have a child — my husband, my family — knew they weren’t going to lose much, while my freedom and identity went down the toilet.
When I went back to work, I was paralyzed by anxiety. Driving down the expressway those first few weeks of work, I’d worry, What if something happens to my daughter? She had my mom, but what if she needed me specifically? I’ve always suffered from depression and anxiety, but in college and those early parts of marriage, I was so liberated I forgot what they felt like. But now, in motherhood, it’s chronic. I’ve never been this anxiety-ridden in my entire life.
I finally took my teaching exam and was offered a tenured opportunity at a state school far away. But I had to turn it down; it was a three-hour commute each way, and moving didn’t make sense for us. My daughter was already enrolled in a local preschool, and it would have been hard to get her enrolled elsewhere. It was a low point for me. I kept thinking, If I didn’t have a family to think about, I could have taken that offer. I envied my husband, who’s a carpenter and doesn’t have to worry about his career, while mine changed. Right now, I’m just substituting until I can get a real teaching job. I recently started studying for a master’s degree that will give me more opportunities at schools nearby.
Last December, I’d just come home from finishing an exam when my daughter’s school called and said she had a bad nosebleed. I picked her up and took her to the doctor, and we wound up at the hospital all night. My husband got there two hours late because he couldn’t leave work early. Thankfully my daughter was okay — she just scratched the inside of her nose too hard — but she lost a lot of blood. I kept thinking, What if I’d taken that job? If I wasn’t here, what would have happened? That was the day I realized, This is my life now. I don’t have the freedom to work at any hour, for as many hours as I want, to come home, to just exist. I feel so angry and alone.
If I could go back, I would redo everything. My fantasy is an alternate universe where I graduated, went straight to a doctorate program, and lived alone. I would go for walks whenever I wanted and go swimming at the end of the week. It would be an isolated life but a peaceful one. I’ve told my husband about these feelings, but he doesn’t get where I’m coming from. I would feel guilty asking him to do more child care because he works long hours, my mom is here, and I’m in school. I feel like I don’t have a good enough reason to ask for more help. When I talk to my mother about it, she looks at my daughter and makes comments like, “Look at how beautiful she is. How can you not like this girl? What’s the problem — you want to go on a walk?”
Being a mom, you can’t just say, “Okay, I tried it, I didn’t like it, I don’t want to do it anymore.” I’ll always be worrying about my daughter. Someday my daughter is going to be 80 years old, and she’s going to need somebody to take care of her but I won’t be there anymore. It’s like my future is over now, with nowhere else to go, while my daughter’s is about to begin. It’s an ugly feeling.
— a 27-year-old North Carolina mother of a 1-year-old
My husband and I met in middle school. He was always interested in having a big family, and I told him I wasn’t quite sure. Unfortunately it took me seeing a positive pregnancy test at 25 to realize this was not for me.
I was sitting there pregnant, kind of like, I don’t want to do this. I spoke to my mom about it, but she’s very religious and anti-abortion. The same thing with one of my closest friends, which surprised me. My husband is pro-choice, but he was like, “I really want to have this child. I think you’re really anxious, it’s a big change for you, but it’s a great thing. You’re going to be a wonderful mom.” He really wanted this.
During pregnancy, I felt embarrassed. I’ve had body-dysmorphia issues since I was a kid, and I felt so massive. I used to be a track athlete and have always been fit and active, so I didn’t like feeling so heavy and restricted when trying to do the things I’ve always done, like hiking. During my third trimester, I didn’t want to leave the house so that people wouldn’t see me.
My son’s birth was also traumatic. His shoulder got stuck in my pelvis and the epidural kept wearing off; the nurses told me it was fine, that I was overthinking. They held me down and jumped on my pelvis to dislodge his shoulder while the doctor reached up and got him out; I still have pain from it. When my son was placed on me, I didn’t feel anything. It was surreal. I told the nurse, “You’ve got to put him back in the bassinet, I’m about to puke.” Then I did, all over myself. No one helped me to the bathroom or showed me how to wash myself.
I went back to work about a month after giving birth. I needed to; I’m a dog trainer with my own business, and it’s my passion. I had to go back to regular life. My body went back to normal within the first month, but it still didn’t feel like my body. I was pumping all the time, so my breasts, which are usually small, were big and engorged; my stomach was flat, but the skin was soft and it felt squishy; I had stretch marks and dark lines. In clothes, I looked like myself to everyone else but in the bedroom and bathroom, I didn’t.
I felt like I’d disappeared as a human being. Clients called me “Mama.” Friends and family asked me how my son was; they told me how excited and overjoyed I must be. I tried telling them I wasn’t coping well with motherhood and was still processing the birth, and they’d tell me, “That’s what motherhood is.” One of my friends texted my husband, “Wow, she’s changed, and not in a good way.” It came from a place of care — she and many friends and family told me I had postpartum depression, to seek therapy and go on medication. But at the same time, they’d quickly flip it back to, “You need to be there for your son. Pick yourself up by your bootstraps. Move on; it’s over with and done.” Everything I went through, was just like, No big deal, because the baby is here. Your existence doesn’t matter.
I’ve struggled with depression before, and this felt different. I wasn’t sad; I wasn’t angry; I didn’t feel like my life was worthless. It was just that I was stuck inside a role not meant for me. I felt fine when I wasn’t around my son. I started therapy, and we dove into issues from my past, too — I’m adopted and was given up three days after I was born — and one of my therapists made a good point. How was I supposed to understand motherhood and bonding when I didn’t have that? They diagnosed me with general anxiety and social anxiety and we’ve discussed neurodivergence. Postpartum depression wasn’t the diagnosis they listed for insurance, and I found that validating.
I stopped talking to my friends with kids. They wanted to exchange baby photos and milestones and, while I was happy for them, my son is delayed and is in early intervention services, so he wasn’t meeting his. I didn’t have photos to share. I felt like this dark, gloomy cloud in the room. I missed when other friends would ask about how I was doing, and we’d talk about our interests and hobbies; they’d share their relationship drama with me and stopped doing that after I became a mother because they didn’t want to burden me. I’m like, “Please talk to me about your boyfriend problem. I need to hear about it and know that there’s drama outside the one that I’m living right now.”
It’s been a year. Genuinely, if there is a hell, I’ve been living in it since I gave birth. My son has a low tolerance for frustration and doesn’t communicate other than whining, screaming, crying, throwing things, and pulling my hair. I’ve tried so hard to do the things early intervention advised us to: I read the books, play the music, dance around, and nothing works. Every day, things get worse and worse. I wake up and count down the hours until my husband comes home. At some point, I thought, I can’t keep living like this, and neither can my son.
My husband and I are taking steps to separate, and he’s willing to take on the role of a single parent, which makes me feel incredibly guilty. But I can’t live this life with him anymore. I’m not the parent my son needs. I don’t feel anything for him, and I don’t want to wait it out for years and walk out when he has actual memories. Right now, he’s very young, and you can fake things. But I can only fake it so much.
From: The Cut
As told to Bindu Bansinath, a writer for The Cut who covers news, culture, and relationships.
Photo-Illustration: The Cut; Photos Getty Images
Sooner or later, everyone has to decide whether to give up lazy weekends, disposable income, and overall peace of mind to have a baby instead. For many of those on the fence, one anxiety looms large: What if I make the wrong choice? Parent regret is more common than you might think — the r/regretfulparents sub-Reddit alone gets around 70,000 weekly visitors who anonymously commiserate — though stigma makes it hard to admit in real life. Below, three moms of young children talk about why they wish they could go back to their old lives.
— a 34-year-old Rhode Island mother of a 6-year-old and a 3-year-old
When my husband and I were dating, his deal-breaker was having kids. I didn’t feel the same way, but I didn’t see life without children as an option. It always felt like the next stage of life for us. I remember telling my husband, “I’m worried; I love our life now and I’m not sure what it’s going to look like with a child.” He told me, “It’s going to be better.” I was the executive of a nonprofit, which was a stressful but fulfilling job. I was worried about my career, but I thought, There are working moms everywhere. People do this. Then I had my first baby.
Her first year of life, she was colicky and cried all the time — you couldn’t put her down. We had a babysitter quit and tell us, “I can’t do this anymore.” I also had postpartum depression. Early on, I told my doctor about it. She just kind of dismissed me and said, “Well, you don’t feel like throwing your baby out the window, right?” She told me to come back if I ever felt like hurting myself or my baby. At work, I couldn’t put in 70-hour weeks during busy times anymore, or attend trainings while breastfeeding, so I fell behind. We also had a second child once our first was a little older and easier to care for; I wanted her to have a sibling. Eventually, I left my job for a more manageable role in communications. I like working from home, and it’s not as demanding, but I miss my old job and the feeling of solving big problems like How are we going to raise $75,000? As a parent, you’re solving tiny ones: Do you want the crackers in the red or blue bowl?
Before motherhood, I was a perfectionist and an overachiever. Afterward, I struggled to regulate my emotions and my kids’. When my younger daughter struggles to get dressed, I try to distract her or make compromises, but in the end, she’s screaming, and I don’t know how to make it stop, so I just shut down. We don’t have lots of child-care options — we do part-time day care and don’t have a lot of family able to help us; otherwise we use PTO and juggle our work schedules to have all the coverage we need — and it feels like the rest of my life is put on hold for motherhood. I have good moments as a mom, but I get hung up on thoughts like, What I really wanted to do today was painting, or reading, or doing these chores alone. Last year, I was worried my oldest was exhibiting ADHD symptoms. My husband asked me if I’d looked up those symptoms in adult women, and I checked all the boxes. A psychiatrist ended up diagnosing me, and I started treatment. My medication helps quiet the overwhelm of being pulled in a million directions while parenting.
Even still, it’s like I never recover. I live for bedtime; those two or three hours at night I squeeze all my living into. We’ll watch movies or play video games and every now and then I’ll try to work on an art project, but by the time I’ve set everything up I’m exhausted and it’s time for bed. Having a kid turns you into a morning person the way being chased by a bear turns you into a runner.
My husband enjoys parenting. He’s an optimistic, happy-go-lucky person who always knows what to do and how to de-escalate problems. I’ve tried to talk with him about how difficult things are, and he understands but is also aggressively positive about it: “Our kids are so wonderful and great.”
But we recently spent all our savings buying a more expensive house because we lived in a terrible school district, and it got us talking. I was able to say to my husband, “Our life probably would have been better if we didn’t have kids.” And he was like, “You know what? You might be right.” We talked about what we’d be doing if we didn’t have children — would we still be living in our old house? Would we be bored or exploring our hobbies? Just knowing he also thinks it’s tough was helpful for me. I love our children and would never want them to think, Mom and Dad would be happier if I wasn’t here. I’m giving them the best life I can. But thinking about life without them, I’d be happier overall.
— a 30-year-old European mother of a 3-year-old
Growing up, I lived a very strict and sheltered life. I wasn’t allowed to go out on a whim with friends, and we were always stressed about money; my parents struggled to pay bills at the end of the month. My mom was a housewife and depended on my dad for everything. Seeing how limiting that was, I always said to myself, I’m not going to be like that.
I married young, at 22. My husband couldn’t wait to have a baby, but I told him I wanted to enjoy our marriage and wait. The first year of marriage was great. I got a well-paying job with good hours, and for the rest of the week, I went out for walks, explored nature, and took a nap whenever I wanted. I had aspirations of passing a teaching exam and getting a tenured job. This is what adulthood looks like, I thought. In my late 20s, the baby plans went back into motion, and fear hit me like a brick. Did I know what I was getting into? My mother, who had always wanted grandchildren, promised to help. I brushed off my fears as cold feet.
During COVID, I prepared for my exam and planned to take it while pregnant, get tenure, and then the baby would come. But I had pregnancy complications early on and had to go on bed rest in the first trimester, so I couldn’t take the test. It was so stressful; I cried every day. But when I gave birth to my daughter, I was actually so happy. It’s like I was in this bubble where I had no worries about work, meals were brought to me, nurses took care of us. I couldn’t stop looking at my daughter. I thought, Thank God, because I worried I was going to be one of those moms who didn’t feel anything or who experienced postpartum depression. That’s not how it felt when she was in my arms.
Then we went home, and everything was a nightmare. During the birth, I’d had an incision that left me unable to move from the pain. I breastfed my daughter, but I couldn’t pick her up. My husband had a month and a half of paternity leave, but the only helpful thing he did during that time was change her diapers, though he did it with a reluctant expression on his face; I had the feeling he never believed how much pain I was in. My mom helped, but she didn’t like being disturbed at night and even during the day was afraid of holding the baby or changing her. I hallucinated from lack of sleep. It felt like I’d been tricked into this. Everyone who wanted me to have a child — my husband, my family — knew they weren’t going to lose much, while my freedom and identity went down the toilet.
When I went back to work, I was paralyzed by anxiety. Driving down the expressway those first few weeks of work, I’d worry, What if something happens to my daughter? She had my mom, but what if she needed me specifically? I’ve always suffered from depression and anxiety, but in college and those early parts of marriage, I was so liberated I forgot what they felt like. But now, in motherhood, it’s chronic. I’ve never been this anxiety-ridden in my entire life.
I finally took my teaching exam and was offered a tenured opportunity at a state school far away. But I had to turn it down; it was a three-hour commute each way, and moving didn’t make sense for us. My daughter was already enrolled in a local preschool, and it would have been hard to get her enrolled elsewhere. It was a low point for me. I kept thinking, If I didn’t have a family to think about, I could have taken that offer. I envied my husband, who’s a carpenter and doesn’t have to worry about his career, while mine changed. Right now, I’m just substituting until I can get a real teaching job. I recently started studying for a master’s degree that will give me more opportunities at schools nearby.
Last December, I’d just come home from finishing an exam when my daughter’s school called and said she had a bad nosebleed. I picked her up and took her to the doctor, and we wound up at the hospital all night. My husband got there two hours late because he couldn’t leave work early. Thankfully my daughter was okay — she just scratched the inside of her nose too hard — but she lost a lot of blood. I kept thinking, What if I’d taken that job? If I wasn’t here, what would have happened? That was the day I realized, This is my life now. I don’t have the freedom to work at any hour, for as many hours as I want, to come home, to just exist. I feel so angry and alone.
If I could go back, I would redo everything. My fantasy is an alternate universe where I graduated, went straight to a doctorate program, and lived alone. I would go for walks whenever I wanted and go swimming at the end of the week. It would be an isolated life but a peaceful one. I’ve told my husband about these feelings, but he doesn’t get where I’m coming from. I would feel guilty asking him to do more child care because he works long hours, my mom is here, and I’m in school. I feel like I don’t have a good enough reason to ask for more help. When I talk to my mother about it, she looks at my daughter and makes comments like, “Look at how beautiful she is. How can you not like this girl? What’s the problem — you want to go on a walk?”
Being a mom, you can’t just say, “Okay, I tried it, I didn’t like it, I don’t want to do it anymore.” I’ll always be worrying about my daughter. Someday my daughter is going to be 80 years old, and she’s going to need somebody to take care of her but I won’t be there anymore. It’s like my future is over now, with nowhere else to go, while my daughter’s is about to begin. It’s an ugly feeling.
— a 27-year-old North Carolina mother of a 1-year-old
My husband and I met in middle school. He was always interested in having a big family, and I told him I wasn’t quite sure. Unfortunately it took me seeing a positive pregnancy test at 25 to realize this was not for me.
I was sitting there pregnant, kind of like, I don’t want to do this. I spoke to my mom about it, but she’s very religious and anti-abortion. The same thing with one of my closest friends, which surprised me. My husband is pro-choice, but he was like, “I really want to have this child. I think you’re really anxious, it’s a big change for you, but it’s a great thing. You’re going to be a wonderful mom.” He really wanted this.
During pregnancy, I felt embarrassed. I’ve had body-dysmorphia issues since I was a kid, and I felt so massive. I used to be a track athlete and have always been fit and active, so I didn’t like feeling so heavy and restricted when trying to do the things I’ve always done, like hiking. During my third trimester, I didn’t want to leave the house so that people wouldn’t see me.
My son’s birth was also traumatic. His shoulder got stuck in my pelvis and the epidural kept wearing off; the nurses told me it was fine, that I was overthinking. They held me down and jumped on my pelvis to dislodge his shoulder while the doctor reached up and got him out; I still have pain from it. When my son was placed on me, I didn’t feel anything. It was surreal. I told the nurse, “You’ve got to put him back in the bassinet, I’m about to puke.” Then I did, all over myself. No one helped me to the bathroom or showed me how to wash myself.
I went back to work about a month after giving birth. I needed to; I’m a dog trainer with my own business, and it’s my passion. I had to go back to regular life. My body went back to normal within the first month, but it still didn’t feel like my body. I was pumping all the time, so my breasts, which are usually small, were big and engorged; my stomach was flat, but the skin was soft and it felt squishy; I had stretch marks and dark lines. In clothes, I looked like myself to everyone else but in the bedroom and bathroom, I didn’t.
I felt like I’d disappeared as a human being. Clients called me “Mama.” Friends and family asked me how my son was; they told me how excited and overjoyed I must be. I tried telling them I wasn’t coping well with motherhood and was still processing the birth, and they’d tell me, “That’s what motherhood is.” One of my friends texted my husband, “Wow, she’s changed, and not in a good way.” It came from a place of care — she and many friends and family told me I had postpartum depression, to seek therapy and go on medication. But at the same time, they’d quickly flip it back to, “You need to be there for your son. Pick yourself up by your bootstraps. Move on; it’s over with and done.” Everything I went through, was just like, No big deal, because the baby is here. Your existence doesn’t matter.
I’ve struggled with depression before, and this felt different. I wasn’t sad; I wasn’t angry; I didn’t feel like my life was worthless. It was just that I was stuck inside a role not meant for me. I felt fine when I wasn’t around my son. I started therapy, and we dove into issues from my past, too — I’m adopted and was given up three days after I was born — and one of my therapists made a good point. How was I supposed to understand motherhood and bonding when I didn’t have that? They diagnosed me with general anxiety and social anxiety and we’ve discussed neurodivergence. Postpartum depression wasn’t the diagnosis they listed for insurance, and I found that validating.
I stopped talking to my friends with kids. They wanted to exchange baby photos and milestones and, while I was happy for them, my son is delayed and is in early intervention services, so he wasn’t meeting his. I didn’t have photos to share. I felt like this dark, gloomy cloud in the room. I missed when other friends would ask about how I was doing, and we’d talk about our interests and hobbies; they’d share their relationship drama with me and stopped doing that after I became a mother because they didn’t want to burden me. I’m like, “Please talk to me about your boyfriend problem. I need to hear about it and know that there’s drama outside the one that I’m living right now.”
It’s been a year. Genuinely, if there is a hell, I’ve been living in it since I gave birth. My son has a low tolerance for frustration and doesn’t communicate other than whining, screaming, crying, throwing things, and pulling my hair. I’ve tried so hard to do the things early intervention advised us to: I read the books, play the music, dance around, and nothing works. Every day, things get worse and worse. I wake up and count down the hours until my husband comes home. At some point, I thought, I can’t keep living like this, and neither can my son.
My husband and I are taking steps to separate, and he’s willing to take on the role of a single parent, which makes me feel incredibly guilty. But I can’t live this life with him anymore. I’m not the parent my son needs. I don’t feel anything for him, and I don’t want to wait it out for years and walk out when he has actual memories. Right now, he’s very young, and you can fake things. But I can only fake it so much.
From: The Cut
