It was there, constantly. This question, lingering, at times gently, other times, prodding, demanding I answer it soon, or, better yet now. It held my future in its reply. If I didn’t choose correctly: yes, or no, my entire happiness was at stake. It was far too big to handle. I didn’t know what to do. Was I going to have children, or not?
I thought my body was the one asking, that biologically it was doing the whole tick, tick, tick thing. Looking back, it wasn’t that. It was society, there with its watch, pressing for answers. Like most women, ever since I was a child, I felt this invisible, unspoken expectation of me. I would be a mother. It very much felt like, if I didn’t become a mum… what’s next? There was no path to follow, the majority of people I knew were going down the parenthood route. Or, if they weren’t, they knew, it seemed to me, for sure, that they didn’t want children. I was scared, lost within my own limbo, it felt like there were only two paths: motherhood, or consistently 100% sure that you wanted to be childfree. Neither felt right.
It took a lot of time, speaking to others in a similar situation (and discovering there were lots of people out there, just like me, who were grappling with their own indecision.) Eventually, I decided I wanted to remain child-free. Though, of course, I say this knowing that so much of this conversation is not within our control. Society sends the message we must be mothers, without considering the reality: fertility is not a given, it’s a gift.
So, how did I reach this place? And, how do others, in different scenarios from my own, approach this question? I spoke to them, and unpicked my own feelings, below…
‘I looked for what would make me happy, not what I’d been told would make me happy’
Catriona Innes, 40, is Cosmopolitan’s Commissioning Director
It was a health issue that put everything into perspective. I was so tortured by the decision about whether or not to have children, that I decided (along with my husband) to simply leave it up to fate. To start trying and see what happened. I’d been in pain, and suffering dizzy spells, for a while, but it was only when I told my doctor that I was trying to conceive that they began to take me seriously (read into that what you will) and I was sent for tests. They found a cyst on my ovary that needed operating on. As I waited, a concerned friend, who was a mother, asked me how I was feeling about its impact on my fertility. I realised how low that concern was on my priority list: it was a wake-up call. I knew friends who were struggling with fertility, how much it consumed them. It didn’t consume me, at all.
I began to assess how much the societal pressure to be a mum had sunk into me. I thought of the times I most wanted children: it was often after watching car adverts (really!) - happy families, children covered in felt-tip pen wrecking (wipe clean!) seats or throwing football kit into (incredibly roomy!) car boots. I’d never thought much of this before until I learned from Ruby Warrington’s book Women Without Kids the concept of pronatalism – which is essentially a belief system that our falling birth rates are a problem for civilisation and that, ultimately, capitalism needs us to have children. This results in the messaging, everywhere, that having a family is the ‘must-have’ that, without, you’ll be miserable. And, of course, parenthood is hugely fulfilling but, as I began to unpick the messaging all around me, I realised I’d been told it was the only way to be happy. But it wasn’t what would make me happy.
So… what does make me happy? And, in what ways, would being a mother interfere with that? Would being a parent be enough to satisfy me, so much so, that I was willing to make that sacrifice? The answer to that last question I will never know. As, all of life, is a sacrifice. I have to sit within the reality that I won’t experience something that is a huge, beautiful joy in so many people’s lives.
When seeking out child-free communities I found a lot of posts on social media that essentially amounted to: I don’t have children, so I can go on a lot of holidays. I didn’t like this. There was a smugness to these posts, an us-vs-them rhetoric that, to me, tried to push our freedom as the child-free as a one-up to mothers, as if it was the better way of living. When, the truth is, there’s no one-size-fits-all approach to the way we live our lives – we have to pick and choose what we want, individually, and be able to recognise that what makes another person happy, may not make us happy. I’m reluctant to list all the things I chose to prioritise over motherhood, as everyone’s priorities are different. But ultimately, I decided I would have to either give them up or reduce how much time these things took up in my life, and that I would resent a child for that. I don’t want to inflict that on someone.
There are mornings, when I wake up, look out at the leaves turning autumnal and feel an emptiness in my arms. I wish I had a baby to cuddle up with and watch cartoons with all day. On Easter, and Halloween, I wish I had children to throw silly parties for: My mum loved a theme and would run with it. I’d love to do the same.
But do these moments of regret mean that I’ve made the wrong decision? No. I have spoken to so many mothers who also have similar pangs of want, of regret, for a life they won’t get to live. It’s natural to wonder: what if? I know I am someone who, given the chance, would want to live a million-lives, all-at-once, but I only get to pick one life, make one decision. I’m beginning to assess what I want (and my own happiness levels) in percentages, but not absolute ones. I don’t think there’s such a thing as one-hundred-percent sure. So, I’ll ask myself: How often does this longing happen? How much does it impact how I feel, day-to-day? The truth is: right now, I’m 80- t0 90% happy with how I live my life. There may be times, in the future, when that dips below 50% and then I’ll need to examine what could be changed and where these feelings come from. I also look to address my wants in other ways, I can still throw silly, themed parties or, recently, I felt bereft at having to give away my childhood doll’s house, as I always thought I’d decorate it for my own child. So I didn’t chuck it, instead I decided to decorate it anyway. Over time, I began to realise I could create a fulfilling life without children and I have, set about doing just that.
‘I’m infertile… but still felt the pressure to try and become a mother’
Ally Hensley, is the author of Vagina Uncensored: A Memoir Of Missing Parts
I grew up believing there were three “absolutes” in life: womanhood, motherhood, “partnerthood”. But, I later discovered all three of these roles wouldn’t go quite to plan.
I was just a few months into my ‘sweet sixteen’ when I was told that I had been born without a womb, cervix and a vagina – a medical condition widely termed MRKH, or Müllerian agenesis (meaning ‘absence of’), a rare congenital condition that affects over 10,000 British women, interrupting the development of the female reproductive system.
At the peak of my adolescence, I was given clear evidence I was different – and different in a way that wasn’t politically correct to talk about. While my girlfriends were whispering about getting their first periods, I was told I was never going to achieve this rite of passage. If I didn’t take extreme steps, I could never have sex. My body would never be able to naturally carry a baby. For a long and traumatic nine months, both morning and night, I would insert pink, hard tubes into this fingernail-sized dimple and push hard. Eventually, this routine, which required a white-knuckled grip, would create a vagina.
It physically worked. By the end of nine months – ironically, the time it takes to grow a baby – I had a fully working vagina. Well, kind of. I could have physical sex. I could feel pleasure. My vagina, however, was a ‘dead-end’, so I would never have a period or be able to conceive naturally.
Eight years ago, I walked into an IVF clinic with my friend, who was pregnant at the time. I was feeling an overwhelming surge of dread and hope. I had an appointment to explore egg retrieval for the purpose of egg freezing. I kept telling myself I was ‘creating options’. However, it was much deeper than that – I was trying to explore how I really felt about motherhood.
On paper, I had everything I needed – a good egg count, enough money in the bank, a belief that one day I’d find “the one”. I had even met a woman through the MRKH Foundation who was willing to act as my surrogate. Interestingly, it was this appointment that made up my mind. I realised, I didn’t want to be a solo-parent. I wanted the experiences of motherhood, without test tubes, my bank card, and a cocktail of medications to boost my follicles. I wanted a family.
That evening, I went home and put my folder of baby-making-admin in the bin. I was done. My IVF journey was over. The hardest part was telling my surrogate that her gift should be given to a woman who was sure. It was the toughest phone call I ever had to make. I had it all – the funds, the specialists, the results and a borrowed womb – but I was saying, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ At times I felt, perhaps, I didn’t want it enough.
When you discover infertility in your teens, it can feel like "the chicken and the egg" scenario. Did I want children because I was told I couldn’t? I’ll never know.
Despite being a global MRKH advocate, author, and speaker on this exact topic, I knew I’d face a year, possibly two, experiencing infertility loss, possible regret, and displacement as my friends splintered off to various “mums-and-bubs” groups. But – I didn’t plan for a decade of grief. I didn’t plan to feel like there was a timer against me to make “something of myself” in the absence of becoming a parent, before society “officially” shelves me.
Despite having had some wonderful relationships, (and some down-right car crashes), I’ve found my role in the world of sex, pleasure and intimacy. I’ve rewritten womanhood on my terms in that way. So, I remain true to myself even if it isn’t always socially OK. I speak honestly and bravely, to shake off the stigma and shame around infertility, childlessness, and sexual dysfunction.
I cannot lie and say infertility grief passes, because for me, it hasn’t, not entirely anyway. Proofing and protecting my role as a woman is a gift to myself, and no longer a personal attack on a past I was powerless over.
There is a liberation in this – a peace – in moving past the junction of: “will I, won’t I become a mother?”
So, I surround myself with likeminded women, I write books, and remain “on-call” for those who feel alone.
I don’t believe in an “us-versus-them” (infertile-vs-fertile), because motherhood’s natural divide ensures there is space for all types of women: educators, academics, nurturers, teachers, mothers, boardroom bad-asses, wives, lovers, carers, leaders, childless, childfree, gurus, followers, baby-making-machines, walking vaginas and females.
Plus, as I always say, the only thing normal in this world is difference.
‘I decided to be a mother on my own terms’
Becky, 38, from London is expecting her second child this Autumn…
The decision whether to have children hung over me, for years. After a lot of self-examination, and conversations with my husband, I decided that I did want children.
One thing which scared me about motherhood was the idea that I'd have to sacrifice so much of myself to do it. Society tells us that motherhood has to look a certain way and once you have a child, that's it. Say goodbye to ever having the time to do the things which make you feel uniquely you.
However, over the last two years I’ve worked out a way to parent on my own terms. There is a lot about modern parenting that I reject (mostly the social construct of “intensive motherhood”, and that men are ‘just not wired the same’ when it comes to sharing the domestic load). Working that out has kept me sane.
I did a lot of reading after my son was born (when I could process books again) and it was in the book The Cultural Contradictions of Motherhood, by Sharon Hays, I came across the term ‘intensive motherhood’. Hayes describes modern motherhood in the west as 'child-centred, expert-guided, emotionally absorbing, labor-intensive, and financially expensive.' I realised this was my impression of motherhood, and that there was a way to be a mother, without subscribing to that way of living. I don't read all the books or overly stress over developmental milestones, or compare my child to others. I don't allow myself to feel guilty for taking time to look after myself, my friendships or my marriage.
Within many of my friendships (and in society, in general), so much of the parenting load is shouldered by the woman in the relationship. Yet women are also expected to work, do most of the domestic work and look after everyone's emotional well-being. It's exhausting and leaves no time for joy and self care. To help understand what can be done to address this, I love Fair Play: Share the mental load, rebalance your relationship by Eve Rodsky. My husband and I are using the approach advocated for in Fair Play. Tasks are divided and whoever is responsible for said task has to take on the conception, planning and execution of it. I no longer think about washing, cleaning, the kids’ clothes or dentists/haircuts (amongst a other things) as that is my husband’s job. I have also hired childcare at weekends, at least once a month, so that my husband and I can have time together.
Yet I feel I'm very much in the minority with this compared to friends of similar means. I don't know whether it's mother's guilt at play or a perception that outsourcing typical 'women’s work ' is self-indulgent. For me it's essential and I go without other things to make it work.
I have also recommended Fair Play to many friends, and explained how we split tasks, to many raised eyebrows. Most will not attempt to have conversations with their partners about reassessing the load, they just continue to do it all. They say their partners wouldn't entertain it or aren't capable. I find that very interesting - gender norms and assumptions become so much more deep rooted once you have a child and you can change this, but it takes a willing partner, resources and some hard conversations.
Unfortunately, society is still set up to benefit the patriarchy (like why is childcare not a business expense in most workplaces? Because it is assumed there is a woman at home looking after the kids…) and this can hugely influence our lives as mothers. But I have learned that there is a way to be a mother on your own terms and understanding the systemic issues in play is step one.
Catriona Innes is Commissioning Director at Cosmopolitan, you can follow her on Substack and on Instagram.
Catriona Innes is Cosmopolitan UK’s multiple award-winning Commissioning Editor, who has won BSME awards both for her longform investigative journalism as well as for leading the Cosmopolitan features department. Alongside commissioning and editing the features section, both online and in print, Catriona regularly writes her own hard-hitting investigations spending months researching some of the most pressing issues affecting young women today.
She has spent time undercover with specialist police forces, domestic abuse social workers and even Playboy Bunnies to create articles that take readers to the heart of the story. Catriona is also a published author, poet and volunteers with a number of organisations that directly help the homeless community of London. She’s often found challenging her weak ankles in towering heels through the streets of Soho. Follow her on Instagram and Twitter.
