I think I’ve officially given up on the idea of ever getting enough sleep in this lifetime. Five classes, two jobs, a handful of side quests and graduate school applications have all caught up to me. Hey, you know what they say: Never ask a student how things are going in January.

Somewhere between drafting statements of purpose and doom-scrolling on Canvas, it hit me: If I’m this exhausted now, what will my future look like? Graduate school, a Ph.D., a full-time job, maybe even becoming a mom. How am I supposed to sleep when I’m busy with all of that?

It feels ridiculous to worry about parenting when I can barely keep my Gmail inbox alive, but the thought sneaks up on me anyway. Would I be a good mom? Do I even want to be one? The idea of having a tiny person who shares your smile and your favorite person’s eyes is undeniably tempting.

But the fear of messing that tiny person up — of hurting them unintentionally — is incredibly heavy. My parents did everything they could, and they did it well; I love them for it. But what if I slip? What if my future child sits in therapy someday saying, “I forgive my mom,” because of something I never meant to happen?

Maybe the very act of thinking this way is a sign of evolution. It forces us to be gentler, more present parents. I hope men my age are teaching themselves how to be good dads, too.

What if the man I choose is an incredible partner but a lousy father? Is there any way to know that in advance? Is there a sign, some red flag, a whispered warning I should be listening for now? What if the person I love today becomes the reason my kid grows up with wounds they don’t deserve?

And then there’s the world itself — cruel enough without me willingly bringing someone into it. Some days, I think: What right do I have to bring a new life into a world that still hasn’t figured out how to be kind?

Violence, injustice and leaders with assault allegations can still climb their way back into power. How do you raise a child in a world that excuses that?

And let’s be honest: The sleepless nights don’t end after college. When I ask my mom about how much she slept when she had me and my brother or the horrors disguised as miracles that we call childbirth, she always waves her hand like it’s nothing. “You forget,” she says.

I still can’t tell whether that’s a biological truth or a strategic pitch for a future grandkid. Women’s bodies take all the risks, carry all the danger — men stroll away unscarred. Truly, they have it too easy.

The mind is a wonderfully terrible thing. Here I am spiraling about something that isn’t even on my five-year plan, instead of focusing on the five deadlines colliding this week. Maybe the fear will make more sense when I get there.

Until then, I’ll settle for getting through finals week before it becomes my final week. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll have an eight-hour sleep.

Aizere Yessenkul is a NU-Q Communication senior and author of “Yes-sentials.” She can be contacted at [email protected]. If you would like to respond publicly to this op-ed, send a Letter to the Editor to [email protected]. The views expressed in this piece do not necessarily reflect the views of all staff members of The Daily Northwestern.