Childless

There are people out there who have never given a second thought to having children. For them, the answer was always simple: yes, of course I want kids. Or yes, I will have them because that’s just what people do. Some people dream about becoming parents from the time they are young, while others feel pressure from family expectations and fear disappointing their parents if they choose not to have children.

But for me, it has never been that straightforward.

I have been thinking about this question for almost seven years now. Seven years feels like a long time to sit with one decision, but maybe that says something about how seriously I take it. Bringing another human being into the world is not something I can decide casually. It is permanent. Life-changing. Beautiful, yes, but also demanding in ways I do not think people always admit out loud.

Seven years ago, children honestly scared me. I had not been around many since being a kid myself, so I did not know how to act around them. They felt unpredictable and loud and fragile all at once. I remember thinking, “What am I even supposed to do with a baby?” I felt awkward holding them, awkward talking to them, awkward existing around them. It was easier to admire children from a distance than imagine myself responsible for one.

Then my in-laws started having children, and something shifted. I started seeing kids differently. They were not just tiny screaming humans anymore. They were funny and curious and full of personality. They could make an entire room laugh over the smallest thing. I saw the joy they brought into family gatherings and the way everyone softened around them. Slowly, children stopped feeling intimidating and started feeling human.

Then both of my sisters had children, and that opened another window for me entirely. I was no longer just seeing the cute moments during holidays or birthdays. I was seeing the reality of parenting up close. I saw exhaustion. I saw stress. I saw sleepless nights and overstimulation and moments where everyone seemed one inconvenience away from crying. I saw how much effort it takes every single day to raise children properly.

But I also saw the good moments.

I saw the look on a child’s face when they learn something new for the first time. I saw sticky little hands reaching for comfort. I saw laughter at the dinner table and tiny personalities beginning to form. I saw my sisters become stronger, more patient, and more selfless than I had ever seen them before. Parenthood seemed to stretch people emotionally in every possible direction—toward joy, frustration, love, exhaustion, pride, and worry all at once.

My in-laws are another example for me. They show me the fun side of a large family: noisy dinners, inside jokes, children running through the house, stories being told over each other. There is warmth in it. There is life in it. But I also see the struggles that come with trying to keep up with everyone’s emotions, schedules, needs, and problems. There are constant ups and downs. Someone always needs something. Someone is always sick, hungry, tired, upset, or overwhelmed. Parenting never really seems to stop.

And then there is my own life.

I have achieved so much already. I have traveled. I have stayed in beautiful all-inclusive hotels. I have enjoyed lazy weekends sleeping in and quiet weeknights doing absolutely nothing. I can decide last minute to go somewhere or spend money on myself without having to think too hard about it. My life has freedom and peace in it, and I genuinely love that.

I think it takes someone amazing to raise children well. It also takes a very specific type of person to become a mother. Not just someone capable of love, but someone willing to constantly give pieces of themselves away every single day. Time, sleep, energy, patience, identity, freedom. Parenthood looks beautiful, but it also looks consuming.

And the truth is, I am already happy.

I am happy being an aunt. I love being the person who can show up with excitement, spend quality time with my nieces and nephews, and then return home to quiet afterward. I am happy being a dog mom. There is something comforting about the life I already have. My dog gives me companionship, routine, affection, and responsibility without requiring every ounce of me all the time.

But this is where everything becomes complicated.

I can clearly see two possible futures ahead of me, and strangely enough, I think I could be happy in either one.

One version of my life includes children. I can picture it. I can imagine tiny shoes by the door, school pickups, messy kitchens, bedtime stories, and family photos where no one is looking at the camera because life is happening too fast. I can picture myself exhausted but deeply fulfilled. I can imagine trying to capture happy little moments with my camera but always being a second too slow because life with children moves constantly. I can imagine loving my child so much that it changes me completely.

But I can also imagine the other life.

The quieter life.

The life where I continue traveling, spoiling my nieces and nephews, and raising dogs. Maybe I would get another dog so my dog could have a dog. Maybe my husband and I would grow older together with freedom to move through life differently than parents do. There is peace in that vision too. It does not feel empty to me. That is the part I struggle to explain to people.

I do not have a burning desire for children.

Some women describe motherhood as something they have always known they wanted deep in their bones. I have never felt that certainty. If I found out I could not have children, I do not think I would feel destroyed. I think I would grieve the possibility, but I would also accept it as my answer and continue building a meaningful life in other ways.

At the same time, if I did have children, I know I would love them fiercely.

That is what makes this so difficult. It is not a question of “Do I hate children?” or “Would I be a bad mother?” It is more complicated than that. It is deciding between two lives that both seem fulfilling in completely different ways.

Sometimes I joke that a lot of my parenting style comes from owning a dog. I encourage my nieces and nephews with treats and praise, but discipline is where I start feeling uncertain. With my dog, I can take away a toy, remove him from the dog park, or redirect his behaviour. Children are obviously more emotionally complex than that.

I think about how my own parents raised me too. My dad’s dramatic threats about hanging my feet from the ceiling were usually enough to scare me into behaving, though clearly fear and exaggeration are not exactly ideal parenting techniques. It makes me realize how much thought and emotional intelligence parenting actually requires. You are shaping another person’s inner world. That responsibility feels enormous.

People always say the happy moments make having children worth it, and I believe them. I believe there are moments of love so overwhelming that they eclipse the hard days entirely. But I also think people underestimate how exhausting constant caregiving can be. Parents are pulled in five different directions at once, every day, for years. Someone always needs attention. Someone always needs help. Even when parents are physically resting, their minds rarely seem to stop working.

And maybe that is what I keep coming back to: not fear of children themselves, but fear of how much of myself would change.

Would I still recognize myself afterward? Would I miss my freedom? Would I secretly mourn my old life while loving my children at the same time? Can both things exist together?

I think they probably can.

Maybe that is the most honest thing I can say about all of this: I do not fully know what I want yet, and maybe that uncertainty is okay. Some people walk through life knowing exactly which path they want. Others stand at the crossroads for a long time, imagining both futures and grieving whichever one they do not choose.

Right now, I am still standing there, looking at both lives, knowing there is beauty in each of them.