Ever since I was 16, I've had this reoccurring dream that I wake up eight months pregnant, my stomach suddenly, inexplicably swollen and massive. In the dream, I wander around in a world of blue and pink crepe paper baby showers, trying to convince everyone I've ever met that this cannot be possible, that there's been some kind of mistake, that I can't just forget that I've been pregnant for two-thirds of a year.

"How did this happen?," I ask my mother, my best friend, my doctor, feeling the undeniable presence of something alien beneath my skin, nestled at the core of me.

They just chuckle knowingly, as if I've made a joke, as if this pregnancy happened the way all pregnancies do, as if long-term amnesia is another unpleasant symptom of "being in the family way," as normal and routine as morning sickness.

A constant stream of family members, friends, and strangers approach me, wishing me congratulations, asking, "Is it going to be a boy or a girl?," or, "Do you have any names picked out?" No one seems concerned about the father or my own lack of understanding.

This only makes my desperation increase, until I'm screaming at anyone who will listen, sobbing, "No, you don't understand! This can't be happening! This isn't real!"

***

When I tell people, especially anyone over a certain age, that I don't want children, as in I don't want children ever, the reaction I receive usually takes one of these forms:

1. The condescending response.

2. The "you just killed my pet bunny" face.

3. Straight-up disbelief.

I used to be a lot more vocal about not wanting kids but now I avoid advertising the fact, because I no longer enjoy hearing, "You'll change your mind when you fall in love," or, "It's doesn't matter if you're not a "kid person...it's totally different with your own kids," or, "You're too young to know what you really want."

Now, it's totally possible that one day, when I'm in my 30s, I'll meet someone who's so lovely they'll make me not resent having to share the covers, or lose an argument when I'm absolutely sure I'm right. It's possible that one day I'll fall in love with someone so deeply, and they'll want kids, so I'll compromise, because that's what love is about, and because I can't imagine anything better than creating another person, who is 50 percent mine and 50 percent theirs.

And maybe I am young, only 21, and maybe at 30 or 35 I'll have my life together, and I'll feel ready. Maybe I'll believe that I can handle caring for another person, maybe the thought of ruining that other person won't keep me up at night. Some future version of me might yearn to be a mother: might want to play with those pudgy baby fingers and hang awful rainbow drawings on the fridge, attend parent teacher conferences and take a million cheesy pictures before my child's first school dance.

I'll be the first to admit that those scenarios are 100 percent plausible despite my current views on the subject. But it's also possible that I won't change my mind, that I will actually never have children and I really wish people would stop pretending that this isn't true.

Because I feel like what people are really saying to me -- or to any woman who says she doesn't want children -- when they say I'll change my mind, is that I can't make choices for myself. Whether or not they realize it, they're saying that it is a women's sacred duty to be a mother, that all women are born to do it, and that motherhood is our highest function, something we should all aspire to.

I cannot say how much I wish some people could understand that motherhood is not for every woman. Let's face it: being a parent is not just warm, fuzzy, life-affirming moments. Those moments exist, I'm sure, but it's also really, really hard. When you're a parent, you're never off duty. It's a 24/7/365 gig where you're completely responsible for another human life. And some women just aren't cut out or are not interested in that kind of gig.

Personally, I think that if being a parent isn't right for you, making the decision not to have children is noble, especially when it's what's expected of you, when you're treated as an abnormality if you opt out.

While I'm still young, I also know myself. Several years after leaving my parents' house I still struggle with the basic necessities of self-care. I sometimes forget to eat, sleep, brush my hair. I lose things with frightening regularity and, more importantly, it's difficult for me to maintain healthy relationships and to regulate my own emotional and mental well-being. I know that this might change with time, but right now they feel very much like a part of my personality and I don't think that even in 10 years it would be wise for be to take on parenthood.

And there are a million other reasons why I don't want to have kids that won't change. I worry about the kind of world (and especially what kind of country) it will be like to raise a child in, to be a child in. In the U.S., we say we value the well-being of children but we consistently defund social support programs. We dangerously underpay teachers, cut public education budgets in favor of other government spending, and expect that kids should succeed anyway.

Weighing all of these factors and deciding that kids aren't for me isn't a conclusion I've come to lightly. I haven't formed this opinion to feel edgy or different. I don't say it so you'll persuade me to reconsider. And I beg you to stop trying. Because whenever you do, you're subtly saying that I don't have the power, or the right, to make the decision for myself.