When I was 27, I sat my partner down and told him in no uncertain terms that I couldn’t reconcile having a child with my growing climate dread.

I was convinced – like many Millennials – that bringing a child into a world that was slowly breaking down due to climate inaction was irresponsible. But also that the dread that dogged me about the future of our planet would ultimately taint my experience of parenthood.

When I allowed myself to consider the potential joy of parenting, it was immediately countered by the fear of not being able to guarantee a safe and happy future for my child. The risk to their happiness, and therefore my own, was too significant to ignore. There was no way I could take that leap.

Fast-forward seven years and I had given birth to our son. My dread hadn’t changed. I was still very stressed about the climate crisis. To that I’d added the ravages of neoliberal capitalism on social and economic equality, increasing political polarisation and the rise in racism.

But I also wanted a kid, so we had one. As I got older, I could see more clearly the type of future I wanted for myself, and that included children.

I had selfishly wanted to experience parenthood, and I wanted the joy of raising a family with my partner. These desires seemed so basic. But biology won out and, once I was pregnant, I was excited about being a mother.

In the two and a bit years since becoming one, my existential dread has gotten much worse. Now I can actually see my kid – living, breathing and growing up in a world where billionaires have more power than elected leaders, and footage from multiple wars comes up on my social media feed just to be scrolled past for fit checks and makeup tutorials. My fears for his future feel extremely loud. The joys of parenting are like intermittent ad breaks in an endless program of horrors.

Is my generation especially prone to this anxiety as parents?

I grew up against the backdrop of the September 11 attacks, the Global Financial Crisis and growing climate change awareness. Bushfires and COVID-19 added fuel to my fears.

Before becoming a mother, I used to say I wouldn’t give my kids handouts. They would struggle and learn how to work hard. But now I am confronted with an actual child who I love deeply. Of course I want him to be a privileged nepo baby, albeit one with a strong social conscience.

At times, I feel incapable of experiencing motherhood without spiralling into anxiety about what my child will contend with as he grows. I see him paddle in the ocean and feel devastated that the environments of my childhood may not be accessible in his adulthood in the same way. I notice the shift in Australian culture and worry he will face more racism, more exclusion than I did.

It’s exhausting and also irrelevant. My best laid plans will likely have little impact on my son’s future. Our finances will be the defining factor, along with his personality which is largely out of my hands.

The only antidote to my spiralling existential crisis of motherhood is my son himself.

The micro focus of his attention brings a level of wonder back to my life. I watch him marvel at the colour of a leaf, the sound of a bird, or (his favourite) any large motor vehicle. Right now, he is obsessed with asking, “What doing mummy?” It sticks me to the spot and forces me to be present in my own actions, to see them from his perspective.

Raising a little person reminds me that humans have the capacity to be as wonderful as we can be terrible. It could be the evolutionary driver that keeps us reproducing despite our impending doom.

I don’t think my dread is going away, and in some ways I’m grateful for it. It helps me remember the impact of little moments, and to keep the big picture in mind.

Zoya Patel is an author and freelance writer from Canberra.

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