Preface: I sincerely love kids. I am obsessed with visiting my cousin's adorable little girls in New York City. I’m not here to throw shade on kids and parents and even trad wives. We love trad wives here. They’re rad. Rad wives. Let’s call them that.
Growing up, I always thought that by now — like my mother at my age — I’d have kids. Maybe not three like her (sheesh, mom) but perhaps like 1.94, the current average number of children in American households. I’d live in a beautiful Suburban McMansion owning at least one BMW. Maybe a Mercedes. This is the life my mother envisioned for me at my age as well.
I’d be married to a rich doctor. Or, better yet, I was the rich doctor. I did enroll in undergrad as a pre-med student, only to swap majors one semester later because — fuck chem lab. I’m not meant to be a doctor. Anyways, back to my childhood fantasy: I’d have a perfectly manicured lawn with red roses like Carolyn Burnham from the 1999 hit film, American Beauty. I’d be perfect.
Only Carolyn despised her life with every fiber of her being. And maybe I would have too.
I say this now, as a happily childfree person with a loving, supportive partner on the same page. Perhaps in another life, I would have become Carolyn, having a secret affair with a slimy real estate agent. Neglecting my goth-adjacent daughter… only I would NEVER because, come on, it’s Thora Birch. We love her. Maybe, like Carolyn, I’d want to slap the shit out of my husband who I hated but would want — even more and desperately so — to fool everyone into thinking that we were The Perfect Couple.
***
In Carolyn’s world, the term “childfree” and the concept of “nonconformity” don’t exist. I’ve never said the word “childfree” in reference to myself to anyone other than close friends. I oddly feel like I’m “coming out” or something. Though seemingly obvious, it’s simultaneously a new, foreign concept. At one point, I couldn’t fully process that women could choose to not have kids. I was babypilled. That is, until I found the r/childfree subreddit. (Thanks, Reddit, you’re a gift. Mostly.)
It was a magical place: completely uncharted territory. I had never seen so many people — women, men, and nonbinary folks alike — be not only okay with, but be ecstatic about, not having children. I didn’t know such people existed. In a pronatalist society like America, you’re conditioned to think womanhood is motherhood. Adulthood is parenthood.
You’re constantly told by your parents, “One day, when you have children of your own…” And you and your high school friends whisper about how you want to have so many babies with your sad little high school boyfriends. You’re indoctrinated. Especially if you’re from white, Christian, Midwestern suburbia like me.
The r/childfree subreddit opened my eyes to an entirely unforeseen future. One in which women didn’t have to be lifelong caretakers or push living beings out of their bodies and risk developing preeclampsia or postpartum psychosis. As someone with bipolar disorder, the latter is a very real risk. I also have an immense fear of childbirth and salute everyone who has accomplished this daunting task.
The subreddit showed me a world in which you could be free to do whatever the fuck it is you want to do with your life, without having to worry about keeping other humans alive and somehow untraumatized by this scary world.
***
But — if you’ve been on there, you know the r/childfree subreddit can devolve into people being absolute haters, saying dumb things like, “I was at Olive Garden the other day and a baby looked over at me and watched me eat my breadstick, and it made me wanna puke. Fuck that baby.” Like, please, calm down. You’re in an Olive Garden.
As I mentioned in my disclaimer, I actually love kids. Contrary to the r/childfree subreddit’s collective opinion, I think they’re adorable and fun to be around. I coo at my cousin’s little girls. I love seeing the world through their eyes. I’ve had many instances of so-called “baby fever.” But could I really do it? Really be a mom? I had never sincerely asked myself that.
The eventual relief of realizing I wasn’t required to have kids washed over me like a sunny Californian baptism. I was already overwhelmed with having to keep myself alive. The simultaneous mundanity and annoyance of dishes and laundry and dishes and laundry filling up my apartment makes me want to scream. I have sensory issues and the constant loud noises of a human who is dependent on me would send me into overdrive.
***
When I was young, I was a wild child — a manic little maniac with permanently scraped up knees — who turned into a severely depressed child with crippling OCD. My mind was a prison. My surroundings were a prison. I was sheltered and oh-so-innocent.
If you showed “kid me” the “today me,” she would’ve been shocked that I’d become a “free spirit” (as I’m told) and a fan of weed and psychedelics (used for personal introspection), living in L.A. and working for a human rights nonprofit from home. Driving down the 110 to somewhere, anywhere. Not being that rich doctor. Not wanting to be that rich doctor.
I’m getting closer to being content with the person I’ve become. It wasn’t always this way. From being emotionally abused at a young age, to dating a heroin addict who overdosed in front of me and whose life I had to save, to losing one of my sisters to suicide, to being in many toxic relationships, it felt like I was making one mistake after another.
I was a mess. But I’m starting to feel better.
It took decades of introspection, practicing self-awareness, working on my healing, and — if I'm being real — taking lots of benzodiazepines, for me to get to a place where I don’t hate my life. And myself. For the first time in my existence, in my 30s, I feel free.
The freedom is almost overwhelming.
***
My post-college ex and I wanted kids by 25. He was raised by younger parents and spent lots of time with his grandparents, and wanted the same for our future kids. We were going to get married at an expensive events center somewhere in Ohio and have beautiful hapa babies. I didn’t think there was any other “normal” path for a 22-year-old in Ohio.
So I got out. I moved to L.A. for grad school. My ex moved with me as a last ditch effort to save our then-failing relationship. Two months in, we broke up. My friends at the time, some of whom are now divorcées, could not believe it. What was I doing with my life? Why would I leave this safe relationship? I was so on track and then I fell off. I was a lost girl to them.
And I was. I was lost for a long time. In my romantic relationships, career, friendships, and seemingly every aspect of life. But then I got absorbed into arts and activism communities that reshaped my worldviews. They helped me shed the initial semi-conservatism and, later, neoliberalism with which I grew up and internalized. I became a total leftist, anti-establishment crust punk. Or so I wished. I did finally realize the truth about the capitalist dystopia in which we all live. I could get out of Ohio, but I couldn’t escape that reality.
I had to find my own means of freedom. It took three decades for me to secure any real stability in life that enabled that. There was a lot of crying and journaling involved. Also, psychedelic revelations paired with sometimes surprisingly healing psychedelic-induced manic breakdowns. Through all of that, I started piecing together who I was or could be.
I require alone time to be creative. To do nothing. I love traveling. I’m always down for adventures with my incredibly loving partner. I find meaning in being active in the same arts and activism communities that first transformed my outlook on life. I can’t resist binge watching Agnes Varda movies or Nathan Fielder shows. And, in case you didn’t notice, I kind of love drugs. The Cali Sober ones, at least.
For many reasons, I don’t think I’d be a good mother — and that’s okay.
***
I’m genuinely elated for everyone who does have children and loves their lives. The r/childfree subreddit is wrong. People can have kids and be happy. They can have a life. They can “have it all,” even, whatever that means. They can also be dedicated stay-at-home parents who focus on their kids, like my mom did. Trad wives have one of the hardest jobs imaginable. I applaud them from the sidelines.
The truth is: I’m baby. No, like, for real.
The expression may be overused, but I’m learning how to “mother myself.” And I’m one and done. I wrote a poetry collection called “Mommy Issues” because, well, I have them, and I don’t want to give them to anyone else. I may have begun my healing journey, but I’m nowhere near finishing it. There is no finishing. I’m just here, along for the ride — and it’s finally kind of fun.
I am not and will not be American Beauty’s Carolyn Burnham. If someone cracked open her fortune cookie, it would read: Fake happiness is the worst sadness. I hope Carolyn Burnham finds her inner freedom. I want that for her and everyone in her shoes. I really do.
