Essay Link Copied 05.02.24

Here’s How I Finally Decided Whether or Not I Should Have Kids

Maybe this advice will work for you too. ByJessie Van Amburg

Shutterstock / Wondermind

I was in for my annual exam, and my OB/GYN asked me all the usual questions: When was your last period? Any irregular symptoms? How’s the birth control working for you? When I mentioned that I had an IUD that was about to hit its five-year expiration date, she asked, “Well, what do you want to do?”

Indeed, what did I want to do? That simple question set off a chain reaction of doubt and confusion that would plague me for the next three years. My options—get a new IUD, switch to a different method of birth control, or go off birth control entirely—felt deeply tied to what my future could look like and whether there was a baby in it. 

I was turning 30, newly married, and had recently overcome chronic work burnout by making a career pivot. My husband and I were buying our first house, and an obvious next step, as dictated by the American dream, was having children. And yet, here I was deeply confused and full of existential dread. 

At that point, the assumption that I would eventually become a parent was already punctuating my life in a way it hadn’t before getting married. Family members recommended adding baby gates and childproofing measures to our home “just in case” any kids came along. But most of the time, the nudges were subtle: scrolling through Instagram and being inundated with pregnancy announcements and newborn photoshoots. Even getting my period every month felt like a reminder of what my body could do.

So, after that gyno appointment, I thought about motherhood constantly. I imagined Christmas mornings and family Halloween costumes, birthday parties, and bedtime stories. I held my newborn nephew in my arms and wondered what it would feel like to cradle a child of my own. At the same time, I picked at my doubts about having kids like a scab. I learned way too much about all the things that can go wrong in pregnancy. I made mental lists of everything that I wanted to accomplish before the life-changing event of parenting—and then, all of the things I would have to accomplish to justify not having a kid. 

I didn’t fit into the narratives common among aspiring parents or the blissfully childfree. I have zero drive or longing to have a baby (and the girl with the list wasn’t exactly helping me see things differently, IYKYK). But I don’t dislike children either. I fell into some secret third category no one talks about: the ambivalent undecided.

The agony of ambivalence

I could be washing the dishes, going on a walk, taking a shower, or trying to fall asleep, and BAM! My brain asked, Will my husband resent me if we don’t have kids? Would having kids mess up our relationship? Would I be a terrible mother? Rebuttals from my logical brain—He has said multiple times this is not a dealbreaker. You’d probably be a fine mom—didn’t help. The endless worries and questions snowballed totally out of my control.

Not knowing what I wanted made me feel deeply insecure too. I was used to being clear-eyed, prepared for the next step, confident in my skills and abilities (classic overachieving Virgo). But this time, I had no gut feeling or intuition to guide me. I didn’t understand why this was so hard. Why didn’t I know this essential thing that was apparently so obvious to everyone else? 

One of my lowest moments happened a year into my crisis, when my sister-in-law invited my husband and me to celebrate her first Mother’s Day. Normally, I would be thrilled, but this time, my anxious brain imagined fielding endless “You’re next!” comments, feeling like a freak for being the only childless woman present. Just the thought of gatherings dedicated to the question that haunted my every waking moment made me nauseous. 

It’s at least somewhat comforting to know that I’m not alone in feeling lost and confused about potential parenthood. More people are waiting to have kids, and a nationally representative survey estimates that one in five people over the age of 18 are childfree by choice. Those numbers are actually growing, says social psychologist Jennifer Watling Neal, PhD, a professor at Michigan State University who researches childfree adults. 

Despite these stats, the assumption that people should and will have kids still exists in our media, politics, and, of course, our social networks. Because of that societal given, people rarely grant themselves space to explore if they even want to have kids, says psychologist Lisette Sanchez, Ph.D., founder of Calathea Wellness. 

Dr. Sanchez adds that, in her experience, people often conflate their values and desires with those projected onto them by family members, friends, or society at large. So the disconnect between what you want versus what you think you’re supposed to want can lead to cognitive dissonance, or the discomfort of holding conflicting beliefs at once, she explains. 

The book that helped me sort through it all

Last January, a year and a half after that OB/GYN appointment, a text from my friend Janet offered a way forward. “Are you still going back and forth about kids? I feel like I still am,” she wrote. We went on vacation the previous summer and had a long convo about how stuck we felt on this question.  

She’d recently listened to a podcast where Ann Davidman, LMFT, co-author of Motherhood: Is It Meant for Me? shared her experiences working with women struggling with this decision. “I think this book might be worth checking out,” she wrote. 

Normally, I’m not one for self-help books, but after months of obsessive thoughts, conversations with my therapist, and pros and cons lists that went nowhere, it was clear that I needed something to break through my indecisiveness. We decided to read this one together. 

From the first page, my confusion felt validated. “Are you struggling with not knowing if you want to have children? Does it seem like everyone else just knows, and you don’t?” Davidman and her co-author, a former psychotherapist, Denise L. Carlini wrote. Despite fluffy language, like “You are the definer of you,” and “With an open heart and a lucid mind…” I was willing to keep going.

The book, which Davidman describes as a self-guided version of the IRL workshops she and Carlini used to run back in the 90s, is structured into 12 chapters. Janet and I would complete one chapter a week, as the authors recommend, and set a recurring Zoom date to talk about what we learned.  

At the beginning of the book, even before you start week one, the authors set some ground rules: Keep what you’re learning to yourself (with the exception of the buddy system Janet and I were using) and avoid the opinions or needs of people like your partner or your family. 

Next, set aside what they call “externals” or factors like age, a partner’s desire for kids and the desires of extended family, and financial constraints. After all, the goal isn’t to figure out if you could have a kid, it’s whether you want to have one. 

You’re also supposed to hit pause on your fears around procreation too. For me, those included being unhappy or terrible as a mother, pregnancy and childbirth (again, blame the girl with the list), being judged by my family for not having kids, and regretting my choice either way. I wrote them down in my notebook, ripped out the page, and tucked them into my desk. 

Once that was done, we followed the same routine in each chapter: Read an overview of what to expect that week, do a guided visualization exercise, and then journal. We chased that with a short reading about the themes we ~explored~ in those two thought starters and sometimes there’d be an additional activity to do on your own. Honestly, it was a commitment. 

My journey to figuring out what I really wanted

Every week, I would start by turning off the lights in my office and shutting the door. Then I’d sit cross-legged on my couch and cue up the week’s visualization exercise audio from Carlini on my phone.

In theory, these visualization exercises were meant to help you imagine yourself doing or being somewhere else. Over the course of a few minutes, Carlini asked me to conjure up vivid encounters and experiences. In week three, for example, she asked us to walk on the beach. “While strolling along the sand, feel the warm sun on your skin, and the gentle breeze kissing your face,” Carlini said on the recording. She prompted me to look down the beach and see a little girl—aka my younger self. “Ask this little girl the following questions: ‘What do you need?’ ‘What do you want?’ How does she answer?” 

This exercise, and every other visualization, left me seeing and feeling absolutely nothing. My failed attempts made me worry that I wasn’t getting the emotional insights I needed to make the right choice. Thankfully, the journaling part really worked for me. For example, even though I couldn’t picture my younger self in week three, I could write about the idea of her. The words came spilling out onto the page.

Despite pushing through most of the prompts, I questioned how certain themes or activities were helping me decide baby vs no baby. When we were asked to “try on” the decision of being childfree by writing a letter to the child we never had, I thought, Why should I have to apologize to a hypothetical kid in a hypothetical exercise? But Davidman argues, “It’s about slowly uncovering either wounds or unfinished business that needs a little more of your attention,” she says. The idea is that when you know what drives you, what’s important to you, etc., then you can make empowered decisions about your life. 

Clarity finally came on week 11. There was an exercise that asked me to read the following question out loud, then record my first thought or feeling: “Do I want to be a mom, a mother, a parent?” 

The first thought that came to my head: I’m not interested in being a parent. It was like a gut punch—if a gut punch could ever be a good thing. Then the book asked me to stand in front of a mirror, look myself in the eyes, and repeat the question (I know). But the same answer screamed back from inside my head. I’m not interested in being a parent. 

Something deep inside of me clicked into place. I’m pretty sure I laughed out loud. It was really as simple as that: I’m not interested. Davidman says that these aha moments often happen by the time readers get to week 11. At that point in the program, she says, “You’ve done enough work, you’ve peeled back so many layers to see and feel the truth.” 

My truth: This choice wasn’t about disliking kids or really even about being a good parent or a happy parent. The heart of the issue for me was about parenting itself. I quite literally was not interested in any aspect of that experience, good or bad. Baby milestones, tantrums, school pickups, soccer practice, skinned knees, sleepless nights…I could not imagine doing that for the rest of my life. All along, that lack of desire wasn’t confusion—it was a sign. Now, I had the courage to acknowledge it. 

Making the decision

Knowing what I wanted was just the first step. “What feels right for you is one thing; what you decide to do about it is another thing,” Davidman says. For example, you might realize that you really want to have a child but you don’t have the financial stability to make it feasible right now. In my case, I knew that my desire to be childfree was opposite of my husband’s desire to have children. It was time to talk.

We sat on the couch one night, sitting face to face. I gave him an overview of what I’d been doing each week for the past three months. “I realized through all of this that I don’t want to be a parent,” I said finally. “I tried really hard to consider it because I know you want it, and I know you would be a great dad. But I just can’t see myself doing that.” 

His face fell. “I expected this,” he said. And he reiterated that our relationship was more important to him than a hypothetical kid. “But I still feel sad.” To him, the idea of having a kid was so compelling, so visceral. The last thing I wanted to do was make this choice for him. 

“I’ve had months now to work on this and figure this out for myself—I don’t expect you to automatically be OK with this,” I told him. 

After processing his sadness with a therapist over the next few weeks, my husband felt stuck on what a childfree life could look like. I also wasn’t sure what to imagine once traditional, child-oriented milestones were out of the picture either. I suggested that we each identify our values and use those to figure out what a fulfilling life could look like. Then we could come together, share our lists, and see how they meshed. 

My list: Make a legitimate attempt to write a novel, visit a new place every year, cultivate a close “auntie” relationship with my nephew and my friends’ kids, and make my community organizing work more sustainable over the long term.

When my husband and I came back together, I was actually surprised to see how aligned we were. We finally had some direction: We’d live near our nephew, renew my passport and book a trip ASAP, commit to tackling home improvement projects, and create new traditions that were meaningful to us. The work we put in made the future feel like one of possibilities rather than question marks. 

I still worry about certain, more traditional family members treating me differently. But the confidence I have in my own vision (plus, the guidance of my therapist) will help me navigate that with more self-compassion. “You can’t stop someone from being judgemental,” Davidman says. “But you have to keep owning your truth.” 

As with any decision, there’s sadness and grief about closing a door. That’s normal, too. But this time last year, I couldn’t have imagined I’d be free of the pain of ambivalence. 

Well, mostly free. I recently caught myself wondering for a moment during a game with a family friend’s daughter. She was running back and forth between me and her mom, throwing herself into our arms for hugs. Her laughter floated up into the trees and wedged its way into my heart. Is this something I’ll miss? I thought. 

That thought would have put me into an anxious tailspin last year. But I reminded myself that I was enjoying this right now; there was nothing to miss. This moment, and all the others I hope to have as an auntie, were all that I needed.