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What it means to be child-freeRed
01 Aug 2024
For author Poorna Bell, the decision not to have children has not always been linear. Here, she shares how she learned to tune out societal expectations, and follow her true desire and purpose in life instead
CHILD-FREE Author Poorna Bell on choosing not to be a mother
In my 20s, I always assumed I would have children. Retrospectively, this wasn’t borne out of a great urge to be a mother, but part of the ‘this is just what everyone does’, which included getting married, owning a house and a car, and attending dinner parties, ad infinitum.
When I met my husband Rob in 2009, while we both agreed we wanted kids, I couldn’t shake the feeling that his desire to be a parent was much deeper and more genuine than mine. I felt something lacking but couldn’t articulate it. After all, when you are told your whole life that a woman’s purpose is defined by having children, it takes something worldshattering to pull you outside of that way of thinking. And that is what happened. Rob died unexpectedly and tragically in 2015 when he was 39.
Now, at the age of 43, having processed a lot of grief and finally living a life that is filled with love and joy, I know that children are not something that I want, if ever I truly did. However, while it has been my choice, I still marvel at how binary the discussion is around choosing not to have children, and the assumptions that are made. Here are six things I’ve learned from my choice and how people perceive it:
The path is rarely straightforward
I’ve never categorically known that I didn’t want children – there have been ebbs and flows. Around three years after Rob died, I was 37 and at a point biologically where I needed to start thinking about making a decision about children. Around this time, I also experienced a huge hormone rush that felt like maternal instinct and made me strongly consider it. Friends of mine were freezing their eggs and one had already had a baby via a donor. A work peer had also adopted solo – all of which road-mapped options.
While it would be hard, I had no qualms about raising a baby solo, especially because I had no desire to find a partner. But, somewhere along the way, the hormones dissipated and I forgot about it, until my sister asked me how it was all going, and had I thought any more about adoption? I’m no expert, but I’m sure that if you want children, you don’t forget about them as if they are a jumper lost in the back of the cupboard. When I turned 40, a certainty around not having children crystallised and I knew in my bones it was the right choice.
You’re making the best possible choice not just for yourself
People who choose not to have children tend to get questioned about it far more than someone who chose to become a parent is asked about their reasons. I’ve always wondered about that, given how many adults I know who have been deeply affected by dysfunctional or absent parents, whereas the impact of someone choosing not to have children is minimal. I’m sure many people assume that I didn’t have children because my husband died, but the main reason is because I don’t have a desire to be a mother. When I think about an alternate reality in which I may have brought children into the world because I unquestioningly thought it was my purpose to do so, it fills me with horror. I don’t think I would have been the mother
they deserved, and all I can picture is a life filled with resentment, which would have poisoned their root system, as I have seen in the case of so many others.
I will always mourn the ‘what if’
When people are trying to convince you to have children, they have two weapons in their arsenal. The ‘What if you regret not having them?’ and ‘It’s the greatest love you’ll ever know’. Both of these would be unimaginably cruel if said to people who want children but cannot have them, and even if someone has chosen to not have children, there is still likely an element of grief woven into that decision. There is a part of me that wonders what kind of mother I would have been, and mourns that I will never know. When I see the bond that flows between my sister and my niece, and my friends and their children, and the delight they have in the other’s existence, there is a part of me that longs for that. But the feeling doesn’t last long, nor is it stronger than the reasons I’ve chosen not to have children. And grief for yourself can also exist if you’re a parent, mourning a version of the person you used to be.
Just because I’m not a parent, it doesn’t mean I lack a sense of purpose
There’s an unhelpful trend on Tiktok where child-free people boast about how amazing their lives are without children – from their disposable income to their amazing sleep, which only goes to support some of the assumptions people make about us. I understand why those videos exist, as a retort to the belief that if you don’t have children, you somehow lack joy or fulfilment, but they perpetuate a stereotype that being child-free means you don’t have responsibilities, commitments or purpose. With my sister living abroad, I am the first point of care for my parents, who are in their mid-to-late 70s, and I also have a commitment to regularly visit my mother-in-law in New Zealand, especially since my father-in-law passed away. I don’t just have one job but several, which range from writing books and public speaking to scriptwriting, and I’m solely responsible financially for keeping my business and home afloat.
We have to recognise the sexism around children being yoked to fulfilment for women in a way it is not for men. There are things that will be easier for me because I don’t have children, such as being able to go to the gym or travel whenever I want, but that doesn’t mean my life is easy, because often I have work commitments that require a vast amount of my time. The parent friends I have the strongest relationships with are the ones who can recognise our lives are different but still respect the choices I’ve made, without making me feel as if they are inferior to theirs.
There are no guarantees in life, even if you have kids
‘Who will look after you when you are old?’ is one of the most common pressure points people engage when convincing you to have children. Never mind that children shouldn’t be a retirement plan – having witnessed how hard and awful it has been for some people taking care of their elderly parents – it’s also assuming that your children will be able to. As someone who is part of the 12-step programme, I’ve heard countless stories of parents who are dealing with the chaos of adult children who are addicts and, more broadly, know people who have had to put their parents into a home because the physical and mental care required is too much. If there is anything that I have learned from losing Rob, it is that the safety of a heteronormative life is an illusion that can be snatched away from you at any moment. Increasingly, I’m hearing about women who are making plans to grow old together with their platonic friends and that, to me, seems to be a more fulfilling and nourishing way to see out the end of your days, versus saddling your children with an overwhelming responsibility and feeling like a burden.
I’m not a mother, but I am still helping to raise an incredible human
Another assumption people make is that if you choose not to have children, that means you don’t like them. While I may not be the person to coo at a random baby on a bus, I think children can be incredible – from their freshness of thought to the hilarity of how they see the world. More specifically, I feel like this about my 10-year-old niece, Leela.
There is a phrase I heard on Tiktok called ‘mum-tie’, which describes the kind of aunt who takes an active interest in raising her ‘niblings’ [a gender-neutral term for niece or nephew] and that’s how I view myself.
I held her the day she was born, feeling a type of love I’d never experienced before. As I have watched her grow, I’ve shared my life with her, and want to teach and protect her.
Although my sister lives in Spain, I work in a way to spend time with Leela. When she comes over to England, she visits my flat and we read books together or go for walks in my favourite park. This summer, I’ve booked her first-ever weightlifting session with my coach. I want her to know about my world as much as I want to know about hers, and I feel bound to her in a way that feels woven and solid.
A couple of months ago, while I was visiting her in Barcelona, we were lying on a stone bench in the park. I had my head in her lap, half-dozing in the sunshine, while she played with a packet of new stickers I’d just bought her. The wind ruffled the trees overhead and the sound of traffic hummed in the distance, when she said in the softest, sweetest voice, unprompted: ‘Auntie Poo, I love you.’ The weight of that love made my heart snap – I almost couldn’t contain it. And I think, if this is what being a parent is, to have a part of your heart living in another human being who needs your care and love, then maybe I know something about it after all, and maybe I haven’t missed out.
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