I’m turning thirty this year and I’m really feeling the societal pressure to start a family. I don’t want kids, though. Don’t get me wrong, I think having children is a great life-choice for some people, it’s just not a priority for me. All that being said, I am disappointed this decision means I’ll never gain the miraculous strength needed to lift a car off a child.

I don’t need a baby to make me feel happy and fulfilled. I love my life. I’ve got an amazing job, great friends, and lots of time to myself. Still, it is sad to know that none of those things will ever send enough adrenaline coursing through my body to give me the superhuman strength needed to lift a car.

I’ll admit that it’s sometimes hard to see women my age with children and witness the special relationship between mother and child. I respect that bond—the kind that can cause your gross motor skills to function in overdrive and provide you with the strength needed to lift the 3,000 pound Sedan that’s crushing your son or daughter—so much.

I’m really starting to feel the pressure from my family. My mom has always wanted me to follow a path similar to the one she did: meet a nice man, get married, have babies. She’s also always wanted me to lift cars like she did: a hatchback off my sister, an SUV off my brother, and the family van off me.

Even when I was a little girl and would imagine the woman I would grow up to be, I never dreamed of being a mother. I played with dolls, sure. But even then I’d just put them underneath a Little Tykes Cozy Coupe so that I could hoist the toy car over my head and dream about the day I’d be powerful enough to do it in real life. It’s just a shame that the only means to that ends involves having a baby.

I tried going to the gym for a while but it didn’t work. Each time, I loaded the bar up to 3,000 pounds, the size of a compact car. I imagined that the weight was the car’s fender and that a tiny baby who I had given birth to was stuck underneath. I even pretended the other people at the gym were my neighbors, standing on their front lawns, praying I’d be able to perform the only feat of strength capable of saving this child. Nothing worked. I couldn’t lift it. It just wasn’t the same as if my real baby were trapped under a car.

I should be clear: it’s not a matter of not liking children, it’s just that I don’t want my own. I’m a proud aunt. I have one niece and one nephew and they are the kindest, silliest kids you’ll ever meet. I love them so much. But it’s not a car-lifting love. A bike-lifting love, maybe.