Goodbye, Future Children
I said farewell in a mushroom ceremony, and a vasectomy made it final.
I did it. I finally said goodbye to my future children, and I was pretty sad about it.
The level of grief I experienced was very familiar. It felt like I was meeting my friend, death again and death was my way of being initiated into this path.
As you read in the subtitle, I committed to getting a vasectomy.
I’ve thought about this for over 10 years, setting up the appointment and backing out several times because I wasn’t ready. I love being a father, but I’m divorced and have two children by two different women. I know I’m blessed to have both of my kids under one roof.
The thing is, I had my children young and neither time was planned. As you can imagine, sacrifices had to be made. My younger years, and even now, were centered on raising children. I never got to experience the conversation at the dinner table of, “Hey babe, let’s plan a child.” Reckless to some, maybe, but it’s been my life. Judge me if you want, I don’t care.
Now, as I get older, my partner and I have major goals, like leaving our hometown and moving abroad, and bringing another life into this world would derail them. I’m choosing me this time. That might sound selfish, but I’m okay with that. I believe being selfish is sometimes necessary.
This piece is closure for me.
I must admit I didn’t realize how deeply spiritual this process would be. I cut a spiritual cord that had been given to me by GOD, and it brought me to tears more than once, which I’ll share with you.
I had my appointment scheduled months ago, but about four weeks ago I felt the call to sit with mushrooms, and that’s when it happened. In that space, I came across many of my future children, both boys and girls, waiting for me on the other side to bring them into this world. It immediately brought me to tears. They expressed their sadness and asked why I was following through with this decision.
I was crying. They were crying. I told them how much I loved them, that I would always love them, but that I couldn’t risk bringing them into this world—and I was sorry.
As I said goodbye, I saw the cord between us start to fade. And although this moment may have been only 30–45 minutes of my mushroom ceremony, as I sat there alone on 5 grams, that goodbye, those tears, and seeing their faces felt like an eternity.
When the day of my appointment came and I was laying on the table, the doctor checked in before moving forward. He asked if I was okay, and I could sense he was curious about me. This is his job, something he does all day for other men, but I expressed to him that I realized how spiritual this was and the impact of making this decision to cut that cord. I told him I had cried about it, and all he said was that he “gets it and understands.” Then he moved on with the procedure.
As I breathed in and out with my eyes closed, it began again. I started to cry, not from pain—I barely felt anything—but because that moment from my mushroom ceremony was happening again. I was saying goodbye to them spiritually and physically, both at once.
I’m at peace with my decision, but I’ll admit that I continued to cry and feel that grief after the vasectomy, and for a couple of days afterward.
I reached out to a couple of men I know who also had vasectomies, and the way they held space for me helped a lot. We shared our experiences about how the grief is real, something that shows up differently for each of us at different times. I’m thankful for their ears, their voices, and their vulnerability, because it helped me feel less alone. It also reminded me why men’s work matters so much.
As I looked at my children while I was sitting around healing up, I smiled, full of love. I know they will carry my legacy forward just by being themselves, and if they choose to bring new life into the world, they will. But their dad is done.
I’m mostly recovered now after a week and feel great. But I will never forget the special little girl I have visited several times in the spiritual world—the one who would love to come into this world—her name is Mycelia.
To you, Mycelia: your parents will always love you, and I’ll see you again. Not in this world, but in the spiritual world, whenever I sit with sacred earth medicines and the teachers decide it’s time for a visit.
And if you made it this far, I want to thank you for reading this.
Until next time, let’s keep growing, dose by dose.
Mush Love,
Quest