The Gifts of Being Childfree

Embracing my freedom, and giving myself the life I’ve been waiting for.

A note from me before today’s post: I live in Austin, Texas, not far from the deadly floods that hit Kerr County and killed dozens this week, including many little girls away at summer camp. My heart is with all of the grieving families right now.
It feels strange to be anticipating the arrival of two baby girls when families in my own community are grieving their daughters. I know that we are all doing our best to live our daily lives after one tragedy hits after another. And the weight of what’s happened in the Texas Hill Country, and at Camp Mystic, is so heavy right now.
So I’m holding both — hopeful joy and relief at meeting these babies so soon, and grief, numbness, and pain for those lost in the floods. This is a gentle reminder to keep holding both.
If you’d like to contribute to flood relief efforts, donate to the Kerr County Flood Relief Fund.

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Hi folks,

Today, I’m so excited to share with you an essay from our editor,

Jillian Anthony

. There’s been more than usual mom talk on this newsletter because of my pregnancy — however, Jillian’s piece today takes a different and refreshing turn to talk about being a childfree and single woman in her late 30s. As someone who is unapologetically supportive of a woman’s choice to live the life she wants, in whatever direction that takes her, reading Jillian’s words filled me with happiness for her — and for the many patients I’ve had who have decided to forgo parenthood and found meaning and joy and life in a myriad of other ways that did not include having their own children.

I hope that Jillian’s words speak to you like they did to me.

xo,
Pooja

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Hiking near Mt. Rainier, Seattle, 2021.

I had just had a quiet and joyful Thanksgiving at home in Austin, Texas — complete with rest, homemade food, and my annual Lord of the Rings marathon — when I got one of the worst calls of my life. My older brother, Chris, died in a motorcycle accident near our hometown of San Dimas, California. He was 47.

jillathrilla

A post shared by @jillathrilla

Of all the emotions I experienced shortly after his death, one was the strongest: my desire to live. Chris lived a beautiful life full of love and kindness, but he also didn’t get to do so many things he dreamed of. The death of someone close to us is the strongest reminder of our imminent mortality. I am 37, and I have time now, but I can’t know how much, and I can’t assume it will be five more decades until I join Chris, wherever he is.

I’d been waiting around to do so many of the things I claimed were important to me — desires folded into my cells, quiet but insistent, underlining their cravings with each steady pump of my blood. I am breathing while Chris is not. What am I waiting for?

Soon, the plan I’d been hatching to take a left turn on my life took shape like a sculpture, a vision made solid and smooth. I would leave Austin for a long time, alone. I’d travel internationally and gain more confidence in the Spanish language of my Salvadoran ancestors, who I’ve felt a painful, lifelong partition from. I’d hike hundreds of miles along the Camino in Spain, taking two full months off of work, then immerse myself in the vibrant cultures of Central America. I would quit a financially stable job to make space for true presence, to hear my own thoughts, to learn to speak to Chris in a new way.

I leave in one month.

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As I pack up my home and make the thousands of tiny decisions that come along with a grand leap like the one I am about to take, another realization of gratitude centers me: I am so free. To be a woman who is 37, unmarried, and childfree has been considered one of the greatest failures and shames throughout human history. Yet I find myself in the right place at the exact right time to consider those qualities among my greatest gifts.

Visiting the Grand Canyon, 2020.

When I was 30 and dating a man I thought I wanted to build a future with, I felt confused around marriage and having kids. Neither had ever been a strong desire for me, but society told me that’s what I should want above all else — and what would give me value. How could I not know yet if that was something I wanted? Was something wrong with me?

After that relationship ended and the world-wiping tornado that was the pandemic took hold, I emerged on the other side so much stronger in self. I knew that I did not want to get married and have kids (unless some perfect, unexpected puzzle piece lands in my life — I am the first to never say never, because I’m well aware what I do not know forever outweighs what I do.) As I’ve dated over the past several years, something magical and healing happened: I met men who treated me like gold who also don’t want to get married or have kids, and are seeking a partner who wants the same. This was a massive unlearning for me as I continued to separate my value as a person from work, and the heteronormative assumptions that women should be mothers, wives, and caregivers, usually at the expense of their own personhoods.

I have spent the last five years building my life as a freelance writer and editor, reclaiming my soul’s title of artist, and building a life centered around art, relationships, nature, and the other things that make life truly sweet, rather than around work and money. I am so much happier than I was at a powerful desk job in New York City. My relationships with family and friends are solid and nourishing, and I know plenty of women who are unmarried and childfree by choice. My romantic life has bloomed, and I feel sexier and more confident than ever. And I’m about to pick up my life to hike and travel around the world.

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A post shared by @willmcphail4

When I’ve shared my plans with others, I receive only gushing support. Several women have said, “Wow, I wish I could do that.” Some of them are married with children, pursuing their own paths of what a full life looks like. Picking up to pursue their fancies, even temporarily, is simply not an option. Even just a few years ago, people may have felt more liberty to say to me, “You’re getting old. You should be at home looking for a husband.” Thinking of the generations before me who did not have the options that I do (and the many who also don’t in this timeline) makes me even more determined to gift myself this precious time of travel and contemplation. It’s not just an option; it’s a necessity for me to move forward.

At 37, I feel young and full of hope and possibility. I am aware of what lies ahead of me: a serious relationship, aging parents, the weight of illness and grief, perhaps the birth of a niece or nephew I will wish to be closer to (how I crave this hypothetical). More responsibility awaits me, and I will rise to the occasion. But, in this moment, as I grieve my brother, the clouds have cleared. This pocket of time, of lightness, of old-fashioned adventure, is mine to claim.

I’d love for you to subscribe to my newsletter, Cruel Summer Book Club, all about making space for your art and yourself.

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From the Real Self-Care archives:

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You are reading Real Self-Care, the weekly email newsletter written by psychiatrist and best-selling author Dr. Pooja Lakshmin MD.

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