“What makes her think I want to have kids? I’m 32!” I said, my mind racing. In my head, this translated to: If I wanted kids, I would have done it already. My relative reminded me she had her children in her late 30s. “True,” I muttered, turning my attention back to my nephew, trying to escape the unease that conversation had stirred.
But it lingered. For the next three years, that brief exchange gnawed at me. I was upset with myself for not clarifying, for not standing up and saying, I do not want to be a mother.
I grew up going to church three times a week. Every Sunday, I noticed women juggling children, their husbands often away at work. I heard the word struggle so often it became background noise—struggling with faith, struggling with family responsibilities. I watched with wide-eyed curiosity. If this was what adulthood looked like, I wanted none of it. I dreamed of a life that felt entirely different.
I wasn’t raised surrounded by extended family, but I knew a few aunts and uncles who didn’t have children. They intrigued me. Occasionally, I met other childfree people, and the conversations were different—lighter, more expansive. But nobody ever spoke about why they didn’t have kids.
The moment that stuck with me happened at my grandma’s funeral. I was holding my four-year-old nephew as I chatted with a relative.
“Your time will come,” she said.
“My time for what?” I asked.
“To have kids!” she replied.
I stared at her like she had grown another head.
Music became my refuge. Born with a natural ear, my parents enrolled me in piano and violin lessons. I clung to music with a fierce grip—it was my escape from religious expectations, from societal pressures. By 15, I was teaching violin full-time, and over the next decade, I built a small music business, fully immersing myself in the art I loved.
Even then, I assumed motherhood was inevitable. But as my career gained momentum, I had little time to dwell on it. Around me, 25 was the “perfect” age to marry and start a family, yet the idea felt alien. I had no connection to that path.
My perspective shifted dramatically after my mother died just after my 22nd birthday. A few months later, my 19-year-old brother announced he was expecting a baby with his ex-girlfriend. One afternoon, visiting my dad in the kitchen, I confessed my truth: “I don’t want to be a parent. I’ve realized everyone has a choice.”
He paused, looked at me, and said, “You don’t have to have kids.”
That simple affirmation freed me. I no longer waited for “the right man” to appear, assuming a baby would follow automatically.
Rejoining my childhood church brought me into contact with many nice men, all focused on marriage, mortgages, and children. Meanwhile, I found myself drawn to the elderly, absorbing their stories, their wisdom, the unspoken truths of life. Over time, my beliefs shifted, and I became agnostic.
By 32, I realized I’d been silent about my choice for too long. In our society, the first—or second—question women are asked is almost always about children. I began to assert myself: “I choose to not have kids.”
I’ve heard all the “bingos” from friends and strangers alike: “You’ll change your mind! You’ll regret it! Who will care for you when you’re old?” But the more calmly I spoke my truth, the more support I received. I had made this choice not from anger, but from peace. My struggle wasn’t with the decision itself—it was with the lack of representation, the near-constant parade of pregnancy announcements, baby photos, and diaper memes across my social feeds.
By 35, I had time, resources, and freedom. I spent a year exploring Canada solo, road-tripping and doing whatever brought me joy. One evening, a question popped into my head: What’s the one thing I want to say to humanity?
I spoke aloud: “You can have a satisfying life without having kids.”
I sent my first blog post to my best friend, who has two children, before posting it publicly on Facebook. I had no expectations.
The response was overwhelming. Mothers, women struggling with infertility, and other childfree people reached out. Everyone grappled with the same pressures from society, family, and friends, regardless of whether they had kids or not. One memorable encounter happened at a hot springs pool: I told a stranger I chose to not have children. Later, it was just me and another woman, who revealed she had never wanted children either. For an hour, we compared notes—a conversation that left us both uplifted, reminded that speaking your truth can connect you to others in unexpected ways.
I continued to share online—memes, videos, book reviews from childfree authors. I met filmmakers, podcasters, and fellow creators worldwide. This childfree community of creativity and expression began opening up to me.
Today, I co-create a web series with two other childfree women and design illustrated journals for those navigating the same choice. The collaborations are fulfilling, but the messages I receive from others are the most rewarding: college students questioning the status quo, newly pregnant women finding comfort in knowing they have a choice, and countless childfree people realizing they are not alone.
When people ask, “What’s the point of living if you’re not having children?” I simply say: To enjoy freedom, express yourself, and inspire others along the way.
As for the relative who started this conversation years ago—I finally told her I wasn’t having children. Her eyes widened, and she had no words. Next time, I’ll hand her one of my business cards that proudly says “childfree.” And this time, she’ll know exactly what I mean.
