How being child free in my 30s gave me an even bigger family.

“So when are you having kids?” I stare dead pan at the acquaintance who is asking me one of the many versions of the same question I’ve heard on repeat since I hit puberty, heck I was once asked at the tender age of 5 or 6 how many children I wanted.. gross!

“I’m not!” I say for what feels like the millionth time.

“Aww, But don’t you want mini yous running around?” I know logically people like this mean well, but at this point, I'm tired of hearing it. I force a smile and respond with a simple “No” then walk away.

Because lets hear it ladies, gays and they’s, No - is a complete sentence!

I’m thirty-four, child-free by choice and like many woman and birthing people who choose not to be a mother or parent, I’m exhausted of having to explain why, in a society that puts so much emphasis and value on woman and child birthing people to be exactly that!

It’s not because I don’t like kids, but because bringing one into this world feels, to me, like choosing to ignore the fire we’re all standing in. Climate collapse, political violence, families ripped apart by war, leaders who seem to prize profit over survival. A capitalistic hellscape of our own making where woman and birthing people seemingly only have value if they are mothers or parents. So I choose not to play along.

Sometimes it feels selfish enough just to exist. Adding another life to carry the weight of what we’ve left behind? That, to me, felt like selfishness squared.

I have the utmost respect for woman and birthing people who do bring children it to this world, you’re absolute warriors. It just never felt right for me.

So I decided early; no children of my own. My partner felt the same. We’ve built a life and family with our fur babies (2 Cats and 1 Doggo) full of books, music, games, and quiet nights of laughter, it’s the kind of life that makes sense to us.

But my body doesn’t stop producing eggs just because I’ve made that choice. So when my sister told me a few years back that her best friend asked her if she’d consider donating her eggs, I offered instead. Not because I was trying to be noble, but because, as I put it jokingly whenever anyone asked, "I’m not using them, might as well”. I also knew my sister would struggle with separating herself from a child if she went through with it and I view it personally more like donating blood.  If these eggs I wasn’t using could bring joy to someone else, why shouldn’t they?

What I didn’t expect was how tangled the system would make it. I had to sit through psych sessions to prove I was sane enough to make a decision about my own body. My partner had to attend a family psych session along with the couple taking the eggs - as if my eggs belonged to him, too. Worse, they told us he would have to co-sign the final paperwork. This was all after a 6 month cooling off period that I had to go through to prove I wouldn’t change my mind. Imagine that: after 6 months of knowing I would be donating my eggs and being certain I was happy too; my DNA, my body, and my autonomy contingent on someone else’s permission. Honestly, what century even is this?!

We ended up lying. Said we had broken up. It was the only way forward, the only way to keep my body mine. He was furious, not at me but at the system that required a man sign off on me deciding what to do with my own body. I’ll be honest though, his pure rage about it made me fall in love with him all the more.

And then the cherry on the cake, not a month later, he booked a vasectomy. He came home shaking his head, laughing bitterly: no psych sessions, no signatures, no questions about whether he had a partner, no one suggesting his choice might not be valid without someone else’s approval. Ten minutes, a handshake, and he was done.

Despite the frustration, despite the unfairness, I don’t regret it. My eggs gave someone I love like family the chance to hold a child she thought she’d never have. And I still have the life I chose.

Then my best friend became a mum, I thought it would put an ocean between us. Her days filled with feedings and nappies, mine with work and late-night conversations over wine. But instead, it’s pulled us closer. She trusts me with her exhaustion, her doubts, the parts of motherhood that no glossy magazine will show. And she doesn’t ask me if I’ll change my mind. She doesn’t treat my choice like a temporary rebellion. She knows me well enough to know it isn’t.

Sometimes when I hold her baby, I think of the ones I’ll never have. Not with grief, but with a kind of pride that I can now help my loved ones with the difficult job of remaining anchored and sane while navigating motherhood. I chose not to bring a child into this chaos, but I still gave someone else the chance. And help and remind my friends every chance I get that they are still them. I chose to love differently. And I chose, above all, to protect my own truth.

So when people ask if I’ll regret not having children, I think of my best friend taking a moment for herself while I rock her baby, or of my partner coming home grinning after his vasectomy, free and furious all at once. And I smile.

Because the greatest surprise of this choice? My life is fuller than I ever imagined, woven with a larger, richer, chosen family as a result.

Regret doesn’t live here. Only choice. Only a village of love.

And when asked, I answer with a firm, joyful: “No.”

Kisses! 😘