Yes, I'm Childfree — No, I'm Not Trying to Convince You to Be Too

My choice was never loud, never framed as rebellion or ideology — it was simply a decision like any other, but one that, for some reason, the world insists on treating as public property.

I’ve never had one of those clever, well-rehearsed answers for when people ask me why I don’t want children. I always found it intriguing when someone replied with biting wit — “because the planet is already overcrowded” or “I don’t want to bring another innocent into this world” — as if wrapping the decision in social critique or existential angst somehow made it more respectable.

But for me, it’s always been simpler, more unassuming, and perhaps for that very reason, more disappointing to those who ask: I just never wanted to. And every time I say it, I notice the flicker of disappointment in their eyes, as if the absence of a dramatic backstory or a moral high ground made my answer insufficient.

The truth is that just as I never wanted a child in my life, I never felt the need to make that absence into a cause. I’ve never marched for a world without children, nor tried to convince another woman that I know what she should or shouldn’t do with her body.

My choice was never loud, never framed as rebellion or ideology — it was simply a decision like any other, but one that, for some reason, the world insists on treating as public property.

I don’t remember exactly how old I was when I was first asked that question that hovers over every little girl like a rite of passage — “how many kids will you have when you grow up?” — but I’m certain I answered that I wouldn’t have any, long before I even understood how children came to be. I already felt irritated when someone referred to my doll as my daughter, and I would correct them firmly: no, she was my sister, as if, deep down, I already knew I wanted to distance myself from that predetermined path of inevitable motherhood.

Dolls, truth be told, were never my favorite toys, though I received many, because what else are you supposed to give a girl? The only one that truly captivated me was Barbie — the one I asked for myself when I was about eight. I’m not sure whether I asked because all my friends played with her or because, unlike the other dolls, Barbie could never be my child. Barbie was me — or the version of me I longed to become: beautiful, assured, independent, living alone in a big pink house, with a perfect boyfriend like Ken who never had to compete for her attention with a baby.

As a child, my answer — “I don’t want kids” — was met with laughter, something charmingly odd. But as time passed, that same answer grew less amusing and more unsettling. During adolescence, it became something people found strange, like I was hiding some deep, unresolved pain. By my twenties, the judgment became more explicit — subtle at times, direct at others. Some labeled me selfish. Others assumed I was a lesbian, emotionally immature, or simply hadn’t met the right man. And what bothered me most wasn’t the speculation itself, but the way these comments were often wrapped in condescension, as if they were doing me a favor by assuring me that one day I’d change my mind — as though not wanting children was merely a passing confusion I’d eventually outgrow.

To be fully honest, in my early twenties, I did allow a small crack for doubt. I wondered if the desire might come with time — just as marriage had once felt distant but eventually became a possibility. Perhaps I’d fall in love and feel that a child would complete the picture. But I never lost sleep over it. If I ever wanted to become a mother, I would simply do it — and even then, I wouldn’t transform that personal choice into a moral doctrine. I never believed our intimate decisions should become collective manifestos.

At thirty-one, I met the man I would marry. And yes, it was one of those clichés pulled straight from a romantic comedy — the kind we pretend not to believe in. The moment I saw him, I knew. I knew it was him. I knew we’d get married. And I also knew, with a calm certainty, that this topic — children — would not be an issue between us. I honestly don’t even remember when we talked about it for the first time, perhaps because it never needed to be a heavy conversation.

From the very beginning, he agreed. Not having children made perfect sense to both of us. The desire never came — not for him, not for me. And the truth is, he’s a man. He never had to explain himself.

Not long ago, we got excited when we saw the thumbnail of a video on YouTube about the growing number of couples choosing not to have children. “Look, people like us!” we said. But our excitement turned to disappointment once we realized the story focused only on those who had given up on having kids for financial reasons, as if not becoming a parent could only be the result of deprivation — never a deliberate, joyful, conscious choice. It’s remarkable how society struggles to accept a woman’s decision unless there’s some pain or limitation to justify it.

Sometimes I’m portrayed as selfish. Other times as a tragic figure who simply couldn’t afford the life she wanted. But never as someone simply… normal.

Then again, no woman is allowed to be just a woman. We always need to be something more — mother or non-mother, chaste or provocative, beautiful or invisible, pleasing or rebellious. And no matter which path we take, we’re always wrong. Too dumb or too arrogant. Too cold or too dramatic. Too much or never enough.

We begin our lives answering how many children we plan to have, while being taught that the very part of our body that creates life is the same one we should never claim for pleasure. We grow up entangled in relationships with men who twist our truths, distort our clarity, gaslight our instincts — because, as women, we’re conditioned to believe we’re never right. And we will spend our entire lives being judged by what we choose to do with our wombs — whether we have no children, one child, or three, whether we had them too soon, too late, or too close together — there will always be someone ready to condemn us.

So, no, I don’t ask this for myself, but for every woman who’s ever had to explain a decision that should have belonged only to her: do I really need to justify why I don’t want children? Isn’t “I don’t want to” more than enough?