There are certain questions we know are impolite to ask at parties: “Why did you get divorced?” “How much money do you make?” “How often do you have sex?” I’ve learned the hard way that “Can you have children?” is not one of them. Ever since I went public as suffering from endometriosis (a condition in which the uterine lining grows outside the uterus, creating pain and sometimes infertility), I’ve had virtual strangers asking whether I’m fertile, if I plan to freeze my eggs, and how I feel about adoption. These aren’t bad people—these are people who, in any other situation, would observe decorum at its finest. And yet they have suggested egg-freezing doctors, told me what countries it is or isn’t a good idea to adopt from, and pried about my feelings about my possibly faulty uterus.

It’s true I have been loud and proud about having endo, but the leap to fertility concern confounds me. I talk about my illness to normalize it for other women, not to invite dialogue about every aspect of my private life, including my desires around motherhood. So what makes otherwise Emily Post–level-polite people tell me their opinions on my most personal choices? I think we’ve been trained, through not so subtle cultural cues, that a woman’s body and her fertility are everybody’s property (chillest example: touching a pregnant woman’s tummy; worst: the global gag rule).

These egg-freezing enthusiasts and fertility warriors are missing the boat in another way: Endometriosis is not a fertility death sentence. One in 10 women has the condition. Lots of those women have lots of kids. Others have too much scar tissue to conceive. But the lack of education on women’s health in America has people (a) assuming my uterus is Joshua Tree–level barren or (b) telling me they’ve heard pregnancy will help my endo symptoms. Neither is true. Neither is entirely untrue because everyone is different, and I don’t know yet; I’ve been on a path of discovery with my health. Besides, women mother under so many circumstances, in sickness and health, biologically or otherwise—which is why it never fails to shock me how binary this party conversation is. Can she or can’t she? Which is it?

People are also more than happy to share their own tales: egg freezing gone awry; a friend of a friend whose adopted child turned out to be the Bad Seed, hence would I consider a surrogate, an egg donor, or maybe a Siamese cat? And while I’m sure their intentions are pure, the questions are predicated on some wildly inaccurate assumptions. For starters, there’s the idea that every woman wants to be a mother. I do happen to want that (there are pictures of me at age three in a princess gown pretending to breastfeed my stuffed animals—motherhood is something I’ve always craved), but plenty of women—and men and ­people—are satisfied by creating a family in less traditional ways. Whether it’s bonding with a teenager who needs your influence or becoming the caretaker of someone who has reached old age, family and mothering take as many forms as I have eggs in my body, i.e., a whole bunch. Yet for many, motherhood is seen as the pinnacle of a woman’s life—and I (sometimes) get the sense that concern about whether I can pop children out supersedes any sense of empathy about how my symptoms are affecting my life on a daily basis. Hey, if you’re gonna ask about my eggs, you might as well grill me on whether intercourse is painful. (The answer: Sometimes. Mostly. Working on it.)

The second assumption, less bald but buried in most of this dialogue, is that there’s something inauthentic about adoption as a means to motherhood, that biology (even if it’s just my boyfriend’s sperm and some college student’s egg) trumps all. Those overeager cocktail companions have told me about friends of friends whose adoptions went awry, who got babies with fetal alcohol syndrome or attachment issues or the desire to wield sharp objects. Somehow these stories come more readily than the millions of tales of families made whole by this age-old act. Or this, the craziest sentence I’ve heard: “But what if you just don’t connect with it?” Sorry: I am obsessed (OBSESSED) with my poodles, and as far as I can recall, I didn’t give birth to them, so imagine how I might feel about any human handed over to my care? Careening, stunning, powerful, passionate love is my guess. So if you want to dismiss that—along with the millions of families for whom adoption is a solution and a privilege—go right ahead. Adoption should be seen as a gift, not a second choice. As my best friend Jenni always says, “Adoption makes me believe in God.”

Amid all this nonsense, I have some friends, like Jenni, who get it right. They do that by listening. By never assuming. As my beautiful friend Zoe said when I told her my fertility was up in the air: “How does that make you feel, and how can I help?”

But from strangers there is also the clear sense that if I am infertile, then I must be looking for comfort. They remind me that many women go through this, that I’m not alone, that (this makes me the craziest) where there’s a will—and disposable income—there’s a way. Team: You can stop reassuring me now. While many women do struggle with self-esteem around fertility, that’s never been my particular anxiety. Am I afraid that I’m a professional impostor and a total bitch? Yes. Do I feel like half a woman because my uterus and ovaries have misbehaved so thoroughly? Heck, naw. To those who assume I am filled with fertility fears, reassess your one-size-fits-all take on women and the mother­hood drive. And for the women struggling harder with this issue than I am? I understand. You are in wonderful company. You are not your organs. Your femininity, your contribution to society, and your status as a bad bitch are already established and not dependent on your ability to bring life into the world. I’m not dismissing the beauty of birth, but I am embracing the beauty of triumphing over struggle, finding new ways to create family.

The final-straw question I get is this: “And how’s Jack taking it?” I sense fear in these words: not mine, but other women’s, about how my boyfriend will feel if carrying a fetus isn’t in my future. Strangers seem to want to help me hold on to him via any means, as if we’re living in The Handmaid’s Tale and I’m the scorned wife in a teal frock (rather chic, actually). If you’re curious, our talks about this topic have been long, sweet, and intimate. They’ve shown me his generosity, his depths, and his capacity for thinking in new, progressive ways. They’ve taught me how funny he is (“Your womb is a bit of a construction site at the moment; let’s shelve this convo”) and how tender (“I will love whoever our child is”). He and I will encounter many issues—I hope we can surmount them all, because he’s the best I’ve met—but none of them will be because I can’t “give” him a child. I know I’ll give myself a child in whatever way works for my body and for our lives, but moreover I’ll give all of myself to that child. When the time is right.

And it probably won’t be because of something someone said to me over appetizers.

Lena Dunham is a writer, director, and creator of Girls.

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