'I Think About It All The Time' by Charli XCX doesn't resonate with me as a 27-year-old, like it does with a lot of women in my age group as our biological clocks tick along.
But five years ago when I found out that I won't be able to fall pregnant naturally, it became something I had to think about.
I was 22 and, quite frankly, all I really thought about was the pornstar martini that was waiting for me at my local bar every Friday come 5pm.
"Do you want kids?" wasn't even a question I was being asked on first dates, like I am at this age. If I was ever asked once by someone when we hit third-date-territory, I would say "Yeah, I think so. Someday!" and that would suffice.
So when I met someone who I did start dating seriously, I told them the truth. We agreed we'd work through it together, when we were ready to start thinking about having children — if we were still together at that point.
We were practical about our relationship: we loved each other, and we saw a future together, but we were both still more in love with weeknight happy hour deals than absolutely anything else.
Watch: Things people never say in the office. Post continues after video.
What I did not expect was that the weight of my infertility would sink in a year later while sitting in a HR room with the COO of the company I was working for at the time.
My annual salary review had been rejected, and both the female COO and male CEO wanted to chat with me about it personally.
The meeting was to explain why despite my contributions to the targets we had set—and my overperformance of meeting said targets—still couldn't warrant an extra $2000 tacked onto my annual salary.
"You should think about your remuneration as more than just your pay," I was told.
"I love working here because it's so flexible! I can leave work early to pick up the kids, there's wonderful maternity benefits should I fall pregnant again, and I get to work from home on Wednesdays to be with my youngest," the COO smiled.
I didn't know what to say as the conversation went on. I had never been in a conversation like this before, having senior management tell me how beneficial the company would be to me "when I had kids".
So I did what I always do, and I tried to laugh it off. A simple "Haha, kids are a long way off for me!".
That only propelled the ongoing spiel.
"Well, If you think about your longevity at the company, these maternity packages will come in handy when…"
I'm not quite sure how many more things were said, as I had stopped listening. None of the benefits were ever going to actually benefit me personally, after all.
When I realised they'd both stopped talking and I needed to say something in response, I simply blurted out: "Yeah, cool, um, that's really great and all, but um, I can't actually have children."
"Oh. Why?" they asked immediately.
"Do I really have to disclose that?" I asked tentatively, looking around the small room that was only occupied by three people, as if one of the white walls would give me an answer.
Listen: Let's Talk About The Mental Load Of Infertility. Post continues after podcast.
I didn't think it was necessary information for a workplace to know such an intimate detail of my health. After all, I never saw "must be a mother or able to become a mother one day" listed in my job description.
They both answered in what I imagine they thought were supportive ways, telling me they felt for me or that they knew how hard that news was to receive.
The insincerity was palpable. It felt like they were trying to figure out if I was going to announce a surprise miracle pregnancy in the next year, and they'd be able to say "See! We told you! Aren't these perks fantastic for maternity?" and then deny that year's annual salary review as well.
I left the company, so I never had to find out. I also haven't had a surprise miracle pregnancy, and five years on from the diagnosis, I know that I don't actually want to have children, irrespective of my infertility.
I am an aunt to two little rascals who I love with all of my heart, and, realistically, the idea of being a mother just doesn't appeal to me—it actually never has.
My heart goes out to all of the individuals like myself who have found out that they will not be able to have children, when that is their biggest hope. I see friends struggling with IVF and the financial impact it has; the emotion being poured into adoption agencies applications just to be met with rejections; and miscarriages time and time again. It breaks my heart, every single time.
Yet a workplace will never have to pay me out for maternity leave, or find a maternity cover to fill my role. A workplace will never have to pay any partner of mine out for parental leave, either. So why do they keep using these parental benefits as a reason to justify underpaying me?
This is what I beg of workplaces: Offer better parental leave packages. Parents need it, and they need a hell of a lot more than what's being offered right now by Australian businesses.
But please, for the love of god, stop throwing my infertility in my face.
Feature Image: Supplied.