This used to happen in the past, and it still happens today: if you don’t have children, you’re not allowed to have opinions about how children should be raised. Even if you were once a child yourself. Even if you grew up in a family where you saw and experienced parenting firsthand. Not just parenting, but its effects. And common sense alone should allow you to have a relevant opinion about a situation.
You can have an opinion about traffic in New York even if you don’t have a driver’s license. You don’t need to be behind the wheel to feel the effects of traffic or to be impacted by it.
Why did I never want children? Because I never truly grew up emotionally. Because there are many moments when I myself feel like a child and behave like one. Because I wouldn’t be able to compete with my own child for attention, care, and—why not—the last slice of cake.
Then there’s genetic and behavioral inheritance, which plays an extremely important role. Does that mean anxious women shouldn’t have children? Not at all. Everyone is free to decide for themselves. But it is something to take into consideration, because anxiety can be passed on to a child and can show up either in childhood or later in adult life. And then there are learned gestures and behaviors that shape the future.
“I’m afraid to let you go to summer camp in the UK because I once got lost in London.”
“Or because you won’t know how to wash your hair and you’ll get lice.”
“Or because you’ll go hungry for two weeks.”
These are just my experiences. They should never prevent you from living your life and having your own experiences. Because that’s how you grow. And that’s what healthy children do: they grow and they detach. They build their own families, their own careers, their own homes. Homes you may not always be part of—because of physical distance, or simply because they have lives of their own.
I didn’t want to become a mother later in life because I want a career. I want to be someone because of what I do, because of my knowledge—not because I have a child. And having a career and being a mother rarely coexist peacefully unless there is a lot of support: an involved partner, grandparents, or childcare help.
Since I don’t parent, I’ll tell you how the people around me do. Obviously, everyone parents differently.
One of my closest friends once told me she misses her old life—and her old self—terribly. She loves her daughter desperately and would do anything for her, but she knows that in a few years her daughter will have her own life. She gave up her job and the possibility of a career to dedicate herself fully to her child. And she’s doing an amazing job. Her daughter is balanced, calm, friendly. She’s brave, gentle, and kind. Why? Because her mother gave up a lot—including the life she misses.
Yes, she still goes regularly to get her nails done, gets her hair cut, goes out to dinner with friends. The other moms are put together, and she’s always been the same—so she wants to keep her standards. Is she happy? I don’t know. I know she loves her child and has kept her playful nature. I also know I’ve never seen her as happy as she was in her twenties. But happiness comes in many forms, and sometimes it doesn’t show.
My goddaughter’s mother became a mom at 21. She grew up alongside her child. She has a job, a wonderful husband who is 100% involved, and a little girl who learned early on to stay with her grandmother, her aunts, to adapt. Her mother isn’t there every single moment—she also needs to travel, go to concerts, attend parties. At the same time, she’s raising an adaptable child who doesn’t cry when she stays with her godmother or at daycare.
Another friend decided to have a child when her own mother became seriously ill—trying to hold on to a bond that was slipping through her fingers. Her child came later, after 40, when her career was already established and so was she. It was easy for her to decide to keep her habits and rely on help. She chose not to breastfeed—because she didn’t want to lose her body, and because she didn’t want to depend on the child or have the child depend entirely on her.
Who is wrong? Who will raise a kind, empathetic, adaptable, curious, ambitious child? Maybe all of them. Maybe none of them. No matter how many sacrifices they make—or don’t make.
All I can do is admire each of them and be happy for them. Sometimes I dream that I might have had a little dark-haired girl whom I would teach about life. But let that remain just a dream—while my real life is a beautiful one. For me, and for the child within me, whom I am still raising. Alone.