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I didn't feel able to have a child because I didn't own a home. I'm glad I was wrong

I didn't feel able to have a child because I didn't own a home. I'm glad I was wrong

CBC09-02-2025

This First Person column is the experience of Brett Howard, who lives in Nanaimo, B.C. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
It was just after low tide on a hot summer morning when I got into my car and drove away from my colleagues still collecting data on the shore. As a marine biologist, I am used to my life being dictated by tidal cycles. But on this day, my life was dictated by an equally relentless cycle: hormones. My at-home test the previous day indicated I was ovulating and therefore due at the fertility clinic for another attempt at becoming pregnant.
Two hours later, I was ushered into an exam room where a nurse confirmed that the number on the small but expensive vial of sperm defrosted earlier that day matched that of my anonymous donor.
As she proceeded with the intrauterine insemination, I picked at the beach sand under my nails and tried to commit the details of the day to memory, just in case this was the procedure that worked. As it turned out, these were indeed the first moments of becoming a solo mom by choice.
A few weeks later, as I watched a tiny heart beating on an ultrasound screen, I felt my own heart take a metaphorical victory lap.
At a time when so many others are foregoing or putting off having children because of the cost of living, the climate crisis and other personal reasons, getting past my own doubts and fears has been a long and challenging process.
Growing up, I always knew I wanted to be a mom.
In my childhood vision of the future, I had a job I loved (options included ballet teacher, writer or herpetologist — and yes, I knew what word meant thanks to The Magic School Bus). I also had a nice house where I would make homemade playdough and help my kids with their homework. Interestingly, a husband and marriage didn't feature heavily in this vision when I was a kid.
As a young adult, I wanted a partner, but nothing manifested. So I carried on through graduate school, sorted out my career and assumed that the other half of the genetic equation would show up eventually.
Homeownership was more problematic.
Between the ages of 11 and 13, I moved in and out of five homes during my parents' divorce. My mom, brother and sister and I went from a sprawling four-bedroom split-level to low-income rental housing before finally moving into a modest semi-detached house. That little house gave us stability after a long, difficult period of change in our lives.
Recently, my mom sold that house to move nearer to us. The process of saying goodbye to my childhood home has given me the chance to reflect on all the ways my mom made not just that home, but all of them, safe and happy places to grow up. We moved but she was our constant.
My childhood experiences with housing left a lasting impression on me. The skyrocketing rental costs in B.C. and the ever-present risk of renoviction as an adult meant that providing a stable, permanent home was a prerequisite for parenthood for me.
But the economic realities of housing shortages, a single income and student loans meant homeownership was also extremely unlikely. By the time I turned 30, my dream of having a house and having children felt so far out of reach.
Over the next five years, little else changed. I had a career but was chronically single and stuck renting. I tried to convince myself I would be fine if I never became a mom, but in truth I was in a depression spiral, constantly grieving the family I couldn't have.
Things got progressively worse as my 35th birthday approached. It was my mom who finally pointed out that for my mental well-being maybe I needed to stop asking myself "if" I would have a family, but "how." With her help, I came to realize that a house and a husband were self-imposed roadblocks on my path to becoming a mom.
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Eventually, just before I turned 35, I finally began the process of assisted fertility. I gave myself permission to stop if it ever felt like the wrong decision, but gradually everything about it became normal.
I adapted to the idea of being a solo mom quickly, and the weirdness of purchasing sperm online vanished as soon as I found the right donor. Even the fact I was going to raise my kid in an apartment began to feel normal, especially as I got to know the other families in my building with happy, thriving kids.
I gave birth to my son in April 2024. He was eight pounds 13 ounces and absolutely perfect. We have made a great little home for ourselves and I am learning to embrace the benefits of apartment parenting: lots of neighbours to help out, no stairs for him to fall down and a smaller space to baby-proof.
Contrary to what I believed for a long time, I don't need a house or a partner to be a great mom. Although having them might make things easier for me, I don't feel their absence the way I felt the absence of a child. I still want them, but what I have realized is that my son doesn't care where we live, so long as I am there. His face lights up with joy every morning when I lean over his crib to pick him up. I am his most important source of stability and safety, just as my mom was for me.
I think a lot about the challenges ahead: Where will he sleep when we finally stop room-sharing? What will I do when I need to head out to a 5 a.m. tide? How will I stretch my income over daycare, extracurriculars and ever-rising rent?
But these future problems are trivial compared to the sense of completeness my son brought to my life. Recently, while chatting with someone about parenthood, I was asked how my life had changed since I became a mom. Without thinking about it, I responded, "I am happier than I have ever been."

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