People say you’ll know – but will I regret not having children?
I’m about to meet a friend for lunch when an ad catches my eye. It features a woman about my age, wearing a blazer and, like me, clutching a takeaway coffee cup. “Live today. Try later,” it reads. “You do you.”
The ad is for “free egg-freezing events”, limited spaces available. Like a mass harvesting, I think. The image stays with me as I alight the train.
Then I feel a sudden cramp, so painful that I momentarily lose my breath: my period’s coming.
A reminder that another one is gone – unfertilised, not frozen. Limited eggs available.
As a thirtysomething woman, the question of children – to have, or not to have – is one I’ll carry until, one way or the other, the train leaves the station for good.
I can count on one hand those friends who have always been certain that they want children. Now, they have them. The rest seem mired in uncertainty, waiting for the opportunity to arise – or pass. Even decisions don’t seem to readily stick.
All my life I’ve felt fairly sure that I don’t want children of my own. This is convenient, given that I’m 32 and single.
And yet, without my bringing it up, the question seems to keep rebounding on me, like signposts along a highway warning of the last chance to turn: am I
sure?
It’s hard to feel sure of anything these days, let alone whether to take on the responsibility for another human life. 2023 is set to be the hottest year on record, and the future looks increasingly apocalyptic. My social media timelines are full of grief for the children dying in Gaza. Closer to home, the costs of housing, heating, childcare –everything – is rising. People have started prepping for doomsday.
Meanwhile, time keeps passing and, with it, my life. I’ve never forgotten being told by a fertility doctor I once interviewed for a story: “If you think about it, women have to get almost all their life events into a period of about 15 years: career, having children.”
I’ve felt keen resentment that men are granted the luxury of a longer window in which to decide, and left to do so on their own terms. And I’ve felt daunted by the decades that lie ahead, if I do indeed remain childfree: how will I generate meaning and momentum, entirely on my own steam?
The friend I’m meeting for lunch has a one-year-old. Over a glass of wine, she says she recently went six weeks almost entirely without sleep, while working full-time. She seems haunted by the memory. “I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy,” she says.
At the same time, she lights up while talking about her little boy. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”
The dismal daily news alerts, the baby boom within my circle, the steady