On Being a Woman Without Kids
Words by Christi Jeane
This year, I reached my “mid-30s”. This will sound young to some, but it’s a defining time for me. I don’t have kids, and to say I don’t have kids “yet” would be inaccurate. Right now, having kids is out of my control due to infertility. And at this mid-30s juncture, I have little time left to wonder whether having kids of my own is in my future or not. My internal clock is humming along in the background, and while it’s not deafening, the proverbial ticking becomes louder and faster as another year passes.
I spent my 20s barely thinking about kids. I never had a burning desire or strong calling to be a mother, but I never ruled it out either. Sometimes I wonder if my Christian upbringing, while intending the best, had me fearing pregnancy so strongly that my desires for it were blotted out by the time I reached adulthood. Honestly, I’ve felt pretty nonchalant about motherhood. For anyone who knows me, they probably want to check my pulse right now. I’m rarely nonchalant about anything. I’m your typical ambitious, curious, intense, Enneagram 1 and INTJ who never has enough time in the day to accomplish everything I want.
So in an attempt to soothe my own uncertainty, I polled my fellow girlfriends without kids with one question: “Will you still feel like a woman if you never have kids?” These were close friends who were around the same age, and I gave them the option not to answer if it was too emotional or too personal. Lucky for me, they all answered. We’re normally a decisive, driven bunch, so I thought I’d get quick, matter-of-fact answers. Not only did our answers range widely, but also our discussions grew richer as we traded follow-up questions. And to my appreciation, no one had a clear-cut answer of “hell yes, I’m still a woman” or “no, I won’t feel complete”.
First, we agreed that the question, “Do you want kids?” is painful. Infertility, being unmarried, or getting divorced can prohibit a woman from dreaming about wanting kids, as if it’s a choice. My husband and I have family friends we see every so often, and usually one of the moms asks me: “So, when are you having kids?” This year, I had a moment of grace when no one asked me this question. It could be because two of the wives were pregnant, so our collective focus was happily on them. I haven’t shared my infertility journey with many people, plus I find it difficult to do so during a light, breezy afternoon get-together. I’ve learned that mentioning infertility with acquaintances can drive the conversation down a gloomy road of “what about adoption”, “oh my friend struggled too”, and tripping over each other’s feelings unnecessarily. Instead, my energy feels better spent sharing in the joy of welcoming new lives into the world.
Next, just because my girlfriends and I don’t have our own kids, it doesn’t mean we don’t care about our friends’ kids, or kids we meet as teachers, nurses, or social workers. We love others’ kids. Scratch that, we ADORE them. Some of my girlfriends are loving, doting aunts already. Unfortunately, I will never get to be a true, blood-related aunt, since neither my husband nor I have siblings. I didn’t grow up near my cousins, so I may never know what it’s like to pour into a child’s life daily from infancy to adulthood.
The final thing my girlfriends and I agreed on was that we still have a nurturing inner spirit, which won’t change if we never have kids. We just channel our nurturing differently. We still care for coworkers, neighbors, siblings, and parents in motherly ways. In fact, we discovered we could reach more people if we don’t end up on the traditional family route. Personally, I have great joy in taking care of my friends who are moms. I have time and energy to plan girls’ weekend trips or dinners out to bougie restaurants, and my husband and I love to host and cook big fancy meals throughout the year. If hosting is a love language, it’s one of our best.
I was diagnosed with PCOS last year. Yet surprisingly, I didn’t feel loss or sadness. There was disappointment in being out of control of my body, but there was also relief in understanding why nothing happened after two years of being off birth control. For me, I have more peace in relaxing my approach to a possible future pregnancy and not forcing it. It’s HUGE for me to let go of something like this. Normally, I want to fix and problem solve with my eyes unwaveringly set on accomplishing a goal. Instead of approaching infertility as something to check off the list, it works better for me now to honor my body and what it may or may not do. I don’t take it for granted this approach works for me. I know many women want nothing more than to be a mother, and they’ve suffered unimaginable pain no matter what approach they took to motherhood.
I mean for my ramblings to be inconclusive on purpose. After some serious introspection on my body and my experiences, I just don’t have an easy answer on whether I want kids or not, my own or otherwise. And from society’s perspective, I want that answer to be enough and not define my womanhood.
I know that if I ever become a mother, I will crush it. It will scare the living daylights out of me for the rest of my life, but I will give it my all. And I know if I don’t become a mother, I’ll pour my soul into my multi-purposed life as a wife, daughter, engineer, writer, Christian, traveler, and foodie. These things don’t have to be mutually exclusive. My energy towards each one may shift and change over time, but the capacity and depth of my soul to nurture others will remain steady and constant.
About the Author:
Christi is an engineer by day who finds fulfillment in writing by night. She enjoys creative nonfiction writing on a variety of topics: women in engineering, food/travel, faith, general musings, and much more. You can find her on Instagram: @cjdubs03 or at her blog: leftbydaywritebynight.com.
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