"Not a Mother" – And Still a Complete Human Being, Imagine That

Ah yes, motherhood. The noble purpose. The holy grail. The biological escape room. That one thing that apparently completes you, gives you purpose, meaning, spiritual alignment, and sore nipples. What needs to be done to prolong the species. At least, that’s what the movies, relatives, and suspiciously enthusiastic Instagram accounts would have you believe.

From a young age, I believed I’d absolutely, definitely, most certainly have kids. It was a non-negotiable item on the list of Things One Must Do to Be a Proper Adult. Like paying taxes, owning scatter cushions, and pretending to enjoy sparkling water. That's the way it has to be.

I didn’t just want kids—I planned for them.

First: find a loving partner who doesn’t chew too loudly.

Second: build a career, preferably one where I don’t cry into daily target.

Third: save money, buy a couch that isn’t from the street, and maybe get one of those vegetable spiralizers just to prove I’m thriving.

Then, and only then, would I be ready for the pitter-patter of little feet.

Well, friends... the feet never came.

The love came. The home came. The career came. The spiralizer didn't came, but other kitchen appliances came. But those little feet? Nope.

Despite our best efforts, several attempts, a few hopeful calendar apps, and assuring my gynecologist that my hips are perfect for childbirth it just didn’t happen.

And one morning, instead of heartbreak, a strange thing happened—we felt relief... Sweet, unexpected, guilt-soaked relief. Like cancelling plans you didn’t want to go to, only those plans were 18 years long and included toddler tantrums in public restrooms.

Suddenly, the downsides of parenthood started showing up like pop-up ads. Sleepless nights. Shrinking bank accounts. School runs in traffic. Sticky fingers on everything. A terrifying dependency on coffee and Cocomelon. And then, in a moment of clarity, we looked at each other and said: “Wait... do we actually want this? Or have we just been on autopilot?”

It’s not that I don’t like children— genuinely admire every parent who manages to keep a child alive, clothed, and somewhat emotionally stable. I bow to you. Really. You are superheroes. But I’ve realized I’m not destined to be Supermom. I’m more like Super Auntie—the one who flies in dramatically from abroad with candy, bad jokes, and way too many questions about your crush in math class, Sophie.

And I LOVE my role.

I have seven nieces and nephews. Some of them I’m close with, with some of them not. All of them are wonderful and loud. I am proud of them. I love them with every fiber of my being—especially when they go home. Because after a few hours of joyful chaos, I can sit down with a glass of water (and a backup headache pill), bask in the silence, and send prayers to their parents who still have bedtime routines, lunch boxes, and potential tantrums ahead of them.

And yet, despite all this, people still say to me with that tilted-head, condescending smile, “Oh, but you’ll change your mind someday.” Ma’am. Sir. We are almost 40. If we change our minds now, it would not be parenting—it would be panic. You want me to turn my peaceful life into a caffeine-fueled horror show of teething, tantrums, and toilet training, just to make you feel comfortable with my choices? So you’d be happy?

Besides, when I ask those same people if they’d still have kids knowing what they know now, many of them pause... stare into the distance... and say something like, “Well…It's wonderful but hard...probably not.” But I also know people who are made to be parents. Who glow with purpose while holding a baby covered in snot and mashed banana. And that’s beautiful. That’s their calling. Just don’t assume it’s everyone’s.

You see, we like our life. We like spontaneous getaways, uninterrupted sleep, clean throw pillows, and absolutely zero marital arguments about who’s driving Junior to the 7 a.m. football game. We enjoy our full nights of rest. Our fridge is stocked with adult food and our weekends don’t involve glitter or glue sticks or mystery illnesses with names like “Hand-Foot-and-Mouth Disease.”

So to all the parents out there: I respect you. I see you. I applaud your effort, your exhaustion, your unmatched ability to function on 3 hours of sleep and a juice box (Btw How can you drink cold coffee?). You are doing something sacred and heroic.

But please, return the favor.

Respect the Not Mothers and Not Fathers. The ones who chose differently, or who didn’t get a choice at all. The ones who find joy in other paths, in being the supporting cast, the doting aunties, the spontaneous travelers, the quiet observers with soft hearts and zero diapers to change.

Because guess what? We’re complete too.