I expected motherhood to be less inevitable for millennials like me, but reaching my 30s, it’s like I missed the memo. I’m seen as a unicorn or an alien. I’ve come to see myself as “other”, not mother. Yes, (gasp!) I don’t want kids.
I have no idea what my friend Liz means when she describes her “fluttering ovaries” (seriously, what are those?!). In fact, I’ve never felt the desire to be a mother at all. When my school friends fantasised about baby names, I would roll my eyes; the idea of growing a baby sounded more like a sci-fi horror show than something I would willingly pursue. Studying The Handmaid’s Tale in Year 8 English cemented my conviction to enjoy a life kid-free.
I’m not convinced it’s our ovaries, pulsing with the promise of life, that we can’t escape, but the deeply entrenched societal megaphone that screams motherhood is our destiny. That our purpose, as women, is to have kids. Biology is real, of course, but heteronormative conditioning might be “real-er”.
I support all motherhood journeys, acknowledging they can be fraught, heart-wrenching, infinitely joyous or more complicated than feels fair. I also cheer for women who don’t want to be mothers but can’t step outside the conditioning. We might be the first generation in which women have more uni degrees than men, but society still expects every one of us to have children.
Telling people you don’t want kids elicits all kinds of interesting reactions. Countless aunts have countered, “Can’t you just push one out?” Or, “You’d be a great Mum!” Society doesn’t know what to do with non-maternal instincts. Women like me must be tamed and persuaded. Only my therapist said I was brave, that too many women are scared to miss out, to go a different way. FOMO, perhaps, is the real-ist.
I’m an ’80s baby; my generation raced to their wedding days and then on to babies. We were obsessed, weirdly competitive, desperate for that diamond ring, and if you could nail someone down to have kids — you had won. When we were growing up, female Disney characters married princes, they didn’t train dragons. The rom coms of our teens told us the same: our stories ended in a wedding and tiny, pudgy baby hands.
There was no billboard telling us, Motherhood or not, your life will matter. So, when the nuclear family dream doesn’t pan out due to fertility disappointments, relationship disasters or because life had other plans, it’s no wonder women feel ripped off, like they didn’t get what they were promised.
I don’t doubt there would be more childless-by-choice women if this lifestyle option was validated, but the reality is we reinforce gender stereotypes both consciously and unconsciously. My cousin’s five-year-old daughter recently announced to the family that I must be a teenager, not an adult, because I don’t have kids; either you’re a teenager or a Mummy and
I clearly wasn’t one of those. While I’d love to think I am so youthful that I’ll never need Botox, I wonder if kids ever hear that parenting is optional.
Even during the tidal waves of loved ones having babies, I have stayed committed to being an “other”. Parenting is an endless cycle of sleepless caregiving, feeding, soothing, educating, entertaining, micro-managing, negotiating every minute of every single day. Mothers I know are perpetually at their wits’ end, clutching my arm over coffee saying, “Please don’t do it! I’m so tired! Why did no one tell me it would be like this?” In the same breath, they adore their children, didn’t know love before motherhood. Even still, I don’t want it. Having children is one decision you can’t take back and not everyone can withstand the meteor.
Working out my own adult trajectory was tough in a vacuum of childless-by-choice role models. If you do the marriage-baby thing, your life is full of milestones, events and celebrations. You get a lot of gifts. People are perpetually pleased about your life decisions.
If you’re walking another path, it can feel like bush-bashing with your eyes closed. It’s prickly, lonely and there are no presents. I had a meltdown in a year of nine engagement parties, many family weddings and three first birthdays after wrapping an infinity of presents for everyone else’s life moments. Why was my life not deserving of parties and pressies? Where was my crown and Prosecco cheers to the fact I’d survived another breakup or written my first novel? Did anyone care that I had rescued a kitten? Can I get a party for me please?!
Going your own way does not involve an extravagant dress, tiered cake or gathering where your belly gets measured with string, unless you throw a kick-ass party for yourself (which you definitely should do). People won’t invest heavily in a nine-month-long and beyond journey that really, if we break it down, is about that one time you had sex. You won’t get maternity leave from work to follow a dream close to your heart. But, I hope, you’ll learn that comparison is a dirty word and you’ll grow a life like a verdant, shimmering garden, fertile in countless juicy ways.
I get nine to 10 hours of sleep a night and I’m not ashamed to say it. I love having my nephews to stay, then handing them back, doing laundry, picking up spilled tiny teddys squished into carpet and running a long hot bath. All for myself. Space, creativity, bodily autonomy, sunrise surfs, time for wellness, nature immersion, daydreaming and reading all matter to me. I’m surrounded by people who love me. There are endless opportunities for me to serve causes bigger than myself and to love back hard. The “others” serve a vital role — we are the village, supporting families, children and tired parents. We fetch, carry, support, babysit, look after, drop off food, throw birthday parties and soothe the edges for the stressed, maxed-out parents. We are great at lending a hand.
Today’s decision to procreate is not just about what we individually want or need — it must consider what the planet needs, our burned-out, exhausted Mother Earth. On November 15 last year, we hit eight billion people. How many more do we need? Should we all have seven kids? Is one okay? (There are now more single-child families than ever before.) Do kids really need siblings? What about the bushfires and floods in Australia? What world are we leaving them? Will our babies be okay? My friends J and J very admirably sweated bullets over the ethics of bringing children into the world, landing on Sir David Attenborough’s advice: “Replace only yourself, no more.”
Embarking on a motherhood journey is an individual choice. It should be your decision, outside of societal, family or partner pressure. If you think you may not want to do it, be strong. Even if you have no role models. Even if all your friends are set on it. Even if you are the odd one out, a lighthouse alone on a hill. You can choose you, even if no one else ever has, even if you never have before. Choose your own adventure. Choose authenticity, not conformity, even if you don’t quite know what that will look like. Your lighthouse might just be a beacon for someone one day, seeking kinship in otherhood.
Kathryn Lyster lives on Sydney’s northern beaches and writes at a desk looking over the ocean. She writes essays, poetry and is the author of one novel. Kathryn is obsessed with surfing, sustainability hacks, forests and true crime podcasts.
