I HAVE NO CHILDREN, which leaves me time on a Sunday morning to contemplate how the day might unfold on my own terms, which feels like a victory and a blessing. I’m glad no one asks me anymore about my status or circumstance when it comes to having and raising children. In one word, it’s relief.
A dear friend told me about a wedding she attended this summer, during which her life as a woman without children or a partner became a topic of conversation, as relatives inquired about the nature and the why of it all.
What makes people think this is an acceptable subject to discuss at a wedding? It’s always the single women without children who are expected to offer up their lives for the taking, bending and judging!
Guess what? Many of us are very glad and living our best lives, but no one seems to want to hear much about that.
When I’ve asked my love, who also doesn’t have children, if anyone ever questions him or his choices, the answer is always no. And yet he feels the same—overwhelming relief—that his life unfolded along a path that would not include marriage or children.
I love children—I have the honor of helping to raise three as an auntie—and I’ve “mothered” countless children through the poetry classroom. But I have to say, at fifty, that I am deeply grateful for the time and space to think, feel, and relate to the world without children in my immediate world.
I’m still learning to parent myself! To undo all the negative messages I received in my life about love, money, food, self-worth, relationships, men, sex, love, my body, success, talent, ambition, faith, and organization.
I am finally willing to accept that money flows like water and I can work with it to have it and lose it and make more of it. I can make and gather enough of it to share it with others and I know I can confront all of it—bills, bank accounts, investment decisions—without fear.
I am finally willing to accept that I can surround myself with loving people devoted to their own loving lives, who orient in the direction of mutuality, care and respect, who give and receive, share and support, ask and answer, with curiosity and kindness.
I am finally willing to accept that I can make my own design choices, create a life based on my own preferences and tastes, centered on safety, security, stability, without wondering if I deserve it or doubting if I can afford it.
I am finally willing to accept that I can build a life with enough systems, structures, and routines that life no longer feels chaotic, messy, and unmanageable. I know where things go and make a home for all that floats and flounders, grounding me and all the objects that flow into and out of my life!
I am finally willing to accept that food is never something to fear—food is something to revere and celebrate—food is sustenance and joy—food is friendship and community—food is poetry and love—and I can have a healthy relationship with the sweet and the savory, the salty and the fatty, without even the slightest hint of self-punishment or regret.
I am finally willing to live the difference between performance and expression—a nuance that I often neglected back in the days when I was teaching, loving, relating, and traveling in ways that often felt out of body and perhaps somewhat performative in that fake-it-until-you-make-it way of approaching life decisions without first considering what my body—heart-gut was telling me the whole time.
That’s not to say there aren’t days when I’m still flooded with self-doubt or loathing when it comes to writing, relating, and loving, but it’s to say that with time and attention and patience, I’ve learned how to transmute fear into love—and accept the wild optimism that has flickered like a steady flame within me—my entire life!
My sense of hope has sometimes annoyed others—I see it in their eyes when I’ve tried to unknot or reroute a negative stance or discouraging thought—I get it, no one likes to hear what feels like “toxic positivity” especially when they’re in the throes of deep darkness.
And there’s plenty to be angry about in this world—enough chaos, cruelty, and injustice to keep us in states of protest and rage for the rest of our lives—but I have always been and continue to live within a sense of deep hope and love for life and all its potential.
Even with all the absurd unfairness we each live through, even with all the aches and pains and deeply unjust circumstances, I choose to live with a strong faith in the world and each of us here as if it could be otherwise—and so it is—and so it will be.
Do I wish I had kids? Why didn’t I have kids? Does it even make sense to have kids? Do I think I’ll ever know “love” the way a mother does? Will I ever get married? Why didn’t I get married? Don’t I want to get married?
These questions bore me—I’m not against any of it—but this wasn’t my life path, and I’m deeply curious about the one I’m on—and the unique wisdom, lessons, and tinctures I’m learning from this particular perch.
As people with children know one kind of love, I know another—and that’s a radical form of self-acceptance hard-earned from this lifetime. Of course, it’s available to all of us, at any time, but I do think the space I’ve made for myself placed me on a different timeline for a reason, and I’m taking notes.
I have always said, especially to my friends without children, that those who never became mothers have always played a deeply powerful and spiritual role in society and continue to do so.
We carry a particular kind of attention, memory, and wisdom that serves the future as it unfolds—however quietly, however unseen. We are here for consultation, for communal care, and for tending what needs tending when the moment calls.
A dear friend told me about a wedding she attended this summer, during which her life as a woman without children or a partner became a topic of conversation, as relatives inquired about the nature and the why of it all.
What makes people think this is an acceptable subject to discuss at a wedding? It’s always the single women without children who are expected to offer up their lives for the taking, bending and judging!
Guess what? Many of us are very glad and living our best lives, but no one seems to want to hear much about that.
When I’ve asked my love, who also doesn’t have children, if anyone ever questions him or his choices, the answer is always no. And yet he feels the same—overwhelming relief—that his life unfolded along a path that would not include marriage or children.
I love children—I have the honor of helping to raise three as an auntie—and I’ve “mothered” countless children through the poetry classroom. But I have to say, at fifty, that I am deeply grateful for the time and space to think, feel, and relate to the world without children in my immediate world.
I’m still learning to parent myself! To undo all the negative messages I received in my life about love, money, food, self-worth, relationships, men, sex, love, my body, success, talent, ambition, faith, and organization.
I am finally willing to accept that money flows like water and I can work with it to have it and lose it and make more of it. I can make and gather enough of it to share it with others and I know I can confront all of it—bills, bank accounts, investment decisions—without fear.
I am finally willing to accept that I can surround myself with loving people devoted to their own loving lives, who orient in the direction of mutuality, care and respect, who give and receive, share and support, ask and answer, with curiosity and kindness.
I am finally willing to accept that I can make my own design choices, create a life based on my own preferences and tastes, centered on safety, security, stability, without wondering if I deserve it or doubting if I can afford it.
I am finally willing to accept that I can build a life with enough systems, structures, and routines that life no longer feels chaotic, messy, and unmanageable. I know where things go and make a home for all that floats and flounders, grounding me and all the objects that flow into and out of my life!
I am finally willing to accept that food is never something to fear—food is something to revere and celebrate—food is sustenance and joy—food is friendship and community—food is poetry and love—and I can have a healthy relationship with the sweet and the savory, the salty and the fatty, without even the slightest hint of self-punishment or regret.
I am finally willing to live the difference between performance and expression—a nuance that I often neglected back in the days when I was teaching, loving, relating, and traveling in ways that often felt out of body and perhaps somewhat performative in that fake-it-until-you-make-it way of approaching life decisions without first considering what my body—heart-gut was telling me the whole time.
That’s not to say there aren’t days when I’m still flooded with self-doubt or loathing when it comes to writing, relating, and loving, but it’s to say that with time and attention and patience, I’ve learned how to transmute fear into love—and accept the wild optimism that has flickered like a steady flame within me—my entire life!
My sense of hope has sometimes annoyed others—I see it in their eyes when I’ve tried to unknot or reroute a negative stance or discouraging thought—I get it, no one likes to hear what feels like “toxic positivity” especially when they’re in the throes of deep darkness.
And there’s plenty to be angry about in this world—enough chaos, cruelty, and injustice to keep us in states of protest and rage for the rest of our lives—but I have always been and continue to live within a sense of deep hope and love for life and all its potential.
Even with all the absurd unfairness we each live through, even with all the aches and pains and deeply unjust circumstances, I choose to live with a strong faith in the world and each of us here as if it could be otherwise—and so it is—and so it will be.
Do I wish I had kids? Why didn’t I have kids? Does it even make sense to have kids? Do I think I’ll ever know “love” the way a mother does? Will I ever get married? Why didn’t I get married? Don’t I want to get married?
These questions bore me—I’m not against any of it—but this wasn’t my life path, and I’m deeply curious about the one I’m on—and the unique wisdom, lessons, and tinctures I’m learning from this particular perch.
As people with children know one kind of love, I know another—and that’s a radical form of self-acceptance hard-earned from this lifetime. Of course, it’s available to all of us, at any time, but I do think the space I’ve made for myself placed me on a different timeline for a reason, and I’m taking notes.
I have always said, especially to my friends without children, that those who never became mothers have always played a deeply powerful and spiritual role in society and continue to do so.
We carry a particular kind of attention, memory, and wisdom that serves the future as it unfolds—however quietly, however unseen. We are here for consultation, for communal care, and for tending what needs tending when the moment calls.
