Morsa Images/Getty Images
When my friend Christa told me she was going to be a mom, I cried. I felt selfish for grieving things that seemed trivial — cocktail-filled dinners, late nights in Annapolis, and a London trip we'd dreamed about for years — but I couldn't shake the feeling that everything was about to change. I could already sense it slipping away.
More people than ever are choosing not to have kids. The US birth rate reached a historic low in 2023, and over half of childless adults under 50 say they're unlikely to have children because they don't want to, according to Pew Report.
Even so, as a woman who chose this path, it still feels isolating.
I didn't always know that I didn't want kids. For most of my life, I assumed I did, and my relationships were built around the future of parenthood.
Then, a month before a wedding that never happened, during a final argument with my ex, he blurted out, "You don't even like kids!" His words stayed with me, and in the following years, I began to wonder why I'd always assumed parenthood was in my future.
I know now that being child-free is the right choice for me, but it's made my friendships with moms more challenging. I don't know what it's like to hold a positive pregnancy test, but I do know what it's like to be the child-free friend on the other side of baby news, watching my friendships shift. Our spontaneous meet-ups have become scheduled visits, with conversations sometimes interrupted by meltdowns and naptime. Plans now revolve around kid-friendly options or the availability of childcare.
These shifts have also brought unexpected emotions. While I miss the days we shared, and I know some of my mom friends do, too, I struggle with guilt and self-doubt. Do they resent that I don't share their struggles? Do they bond more easily with other parents who just get the life of playdates and school schedules? Does it annoy them when I complain about my relatively uncomplicated lifestyle?
These doubts also surface outside my friendships. Whenever I tell people my partner and I don't want kids, I often hear, "You might change your mind." Even though no one says it directly, I can't help but wonder if they hope I'll come around to their perspective. But at 40, I'm happy with the life we've built. We enjoy quiet mornings and slow weekends together. We love exploring the world and collecting artwork from near and far. We find fulfillment in each other, our work, and our individual and shared passions.
Even if these comments are well-meaning, they make me feel like an outsider, as if the life I love is less meaningful than parenthood.
When Christa was pregnant, we had long, honest conversations about how our friendship might change. She expressed her own fears — that I'd drift away or that her life would become unrecognizable.
She's had two more kids since then, and we live a few states apart now, but our friendship is still going strong. When my first publication came out, she sent me a bouquet of tulips with a note that read, "I am so proud of you! There's nothing in this world you can't do." We're nearly 20 years into this friendship, and she's still the first person I text when I need a brutally honest opinion. The friendship has changed, and our priorities have shifted, but the foundation remains.
Sometimes, I wonder about the road not taken. Would I fit more neatly into society if I were a mom? When those doubts creep in, I remind myself that my child-free path has its own share of rewards, including lazy Saturday mornings and a lot less laundry.
As I get older, I value all of my friendships more deeply. With my mom friends, I'm grateful for the mutual support and happiness we share, knowing we're each living the life we've chosen. Our day-to-day lives may look different, but the connection is still there.
