The precipice of a choice.

I never really saw myself being a parent. Courtrooms. Board meetings. Fast cars. Drifting through traffic on a motorcycle in a pencil skirt. Empires built exactly how I intended: on my timeline, by my own hands.

And then around 49, when the life was already constructed, the children would come. Legacy children. Born to inherit everything, with an iron clause attached: they must follow the blueprint. Roles assigned by strength. Tools provided for every weakness. All in my image. All in my likeness.

That was the plan.

I saw a pregnancy as a deficit. A depreciation in value.

The grounding.

From a young age, I had a grounded outlook on the world. Coming from Guyana, where education was taken seriously but resources were limited, to Canada, living in one of the toughest neighbourhoods in the country, I was a first-hand witness to peers and classmates and adults alike who aspired for more than what the concrete jungle provided, but perished by its day-to-day enthralment.

I wasn't always the best kid, but I had both the understanding of my potential and the stark reality of dreams unrealized.

Five high schools in four years. I graduated on time with honours and was accepted into every university I applied to.

I vowed then to never become the product of my environment, but to let that environment become the product of my success.

Every decision I made after that came from that oath.

The pregnancy.

When I found out I was pregnant at 24, I didn't feel like a baby having a baby. I was a grown woman at the precipice of a choice.

Having a child meant my value would depreciate by societal standards. I would be less desirable. In the workplace. In relationships. In rooms. In the way people measured potential.

Statistic after statistic after statistic after statistic. All against the oath I had taken. All in one single decision, staring down at me at once.

I sat there for weeks weighing all of it. The future I had planned. No one would expect this. No one would ever believe it.

My whole life flashed before my eyes. I had a future to build. Money to make. A whole generation to dismantle.

For weeks I felt the weight of my ancestors compressing my spine. The intentionality. The story I was making for myself.

But there was still a choice remaining. And the best one wasn't feeling right.

The sacrifice.

If I had the child, I would be choosing to become everything I tried to avoid. If I didn't have the child, I would be leaving a key part of myself behind.

Either way, something was being sacrificed. Not in the casual sense. I mean sacrifice in the biblical sense. Putting myself on the chopping block, knowing a version of me would never fully return.

But I have never fit perfectly inside any societal narrative.

I was never just Black. I was never just young. I was never just single. I was never uneducated. I was never a child raised by even just one parent. Never in my life was I ever just any one of those things.

What I never lost sight of was who I was. Of all the trials and travesties I had already overcome that would have brought even the strongest to their knees.

I reminded myself that I am Neola Husbands. And nobody can do life like me.

The decision.

So I made a decision.

If I were to have this child, I'd have no choice but to lock in, stay loaded, rule the world, and thrive.

And if I didn't have this child, I would still have no choice but to lock in, stay loaded, rule the world, and thrive.

The outcomes were the same.

The decision hung on one question: when I looked in the mirror, who did I want to see? The girl who continued to carry the world on her back even when life felt no need to protect her, or the girl who had to rise above a society designed to keep her from moving forward, now deciding that the most intimate part of herself was worth leaving behind?

Not bringing him into this world was a choice. But never did it feel like an option.

The vow.

I also understood that the freedom to choose was not given to everyone. To be brought into this world was a decision he could not make for himself. So if I was going to veto his voting power, I vowed to serve him the world on a platter and never let my decision become his ceiling.

I swore into that oath when I was just two weeks pregnant. Before I even knew whether he would safely make it into this world, I already knew he was going to need childcare. And given Vancouver's notorious reputation for never building enough room for children in its ecosystem, I went to give my son a fighting chance by putting "Baby Unknown" on UBC's waitlist.

It had been just months prior that I recommitted to finishing my degree. And it wasn't going to be at just any school, but the University of British Columbia, a fine institution, the furthest away from anyone I knew. I wasn't anticipating having a kid just a year later. So I stayed enrolled, studying over 2,000 kilometres away from my family and my son's father.

Apologizing to professors for missing class because I was actively in labour. Returning to school two weeks later. Writing exams while breastfeeding an infant.

The loneliness tax.

I was quickly understanding the true expense of raising a child alone. And the price was never emotional versus logistical. It was one that kept getting more and more expensive. Not in the way that normal parents would say that babies are expensive, but in the way that being a single mother 2,000 kilometres away from her nearest ally meant having no one to trust with her truest prize.

Every exam, every essay, every study session required childcare first. I couldn't just pick up and go to the library or join a study group. I needed a babysitter. And I always needed to pay for one.

The price kept getting heavier because every single thing required a stranger. A loneliness tax that even those with just one more person in their village never had to pay.

And I'm almost ashamed to admit this, but about ten years ago there weren't many places to turn. And I, being a single mother with no family nearby and very few options, had to find my nanny the one way every horror movie warns women not to: Craigslist.

Luckily, I always seemed to find the good ones. And I thank God every day for those outcomes. But I understand now the gamble I was taking. I get scared thinking about it today.

The night out.

Look. All I wanted was a nice dinner. Maybe a drink. My friends. A few hours of being a person.

Is it only girls who just want to have fun? What about moms?

Because even when you do leave, you never really leave. A mother's work is never done and mom mode is always activated. There's no such thing as a night off. Even out with friends, even with the finest cocktail in your hand, you're always thinking about your baby.

Whether they're with family you love and trust. And especially when they're with a person that, dare I say, you don't even know.

Who's watching my child?
Is he okay?
What if something happens?
What if I made the wrong decision?

That feeling is enough to take the taste out of your mouth entirely.

And some mothers never leave at all because of it.

Where else would he go?

My sister, for example, has never had a babysitter for her children in their lives. She thinks of every possible scenario and would rather be there no matter what. So much so that through headaches, stroke-like symptoms, endometriosis attacks on her liver, and hospital visits, her son has remained at her side. Every single time.

He was ten years old, sitting in the delivery room while she gave birth to his younger sister.

Where else would he go?

That is why I built Neola.

And that is why I built Neola.

I built it for mothers like myself. Mothers like my sister. Parents everywhere who should not have to split themselves into impossible pieces just to feel comfort in knowing their child is okay.

Whether travelling or simply down the street, they deserve to rest knowing their children are receiving the same level of care, love, and protection they would receive at home.