By Tea Campbell
In lion prides, lionesses take care of each other’s cubs as if they were their own. In orca pods, grandmothers play a crucial role in caring for the calves, so that their mothers can hunt.
A friend’s mum sees us playing with her grandkids and tells us we’d make great parents. My partner and I exchange glances before I laugh awkwardly and tell her we’re not having kids. I expect the conversation to end there. She keeps pushing and prodding, asking, “Why not?”
My grandma used to hint to me—unsubtly—that she wanted great-grandkids. As soon as I came out, she stopped. A part of me wanted to reassure her that I could still have kids, just so I wouldn’t feel like I was letting her down. But I knew I never would.
I never fantasized about being a mother. I never played with baby dolls. I didn’t spend much time with babies or little kids. My mum told me that it changes when you have your own, but that always felt like a ridiculous risk to take. The idea of having kids as a social obligation was being phased out when I was growing up. I wasn’t going to have a baby just for the sake of having one.
The pressure to become a mother did ease once I came out publicly. Your sexuality shouldn’t change your desire or ability to have children, but being confidently bi made me more comfortable defying heteronormative gender roles. Even if I ended up with a man, that didn’t mean I needed kids to feel fulfilled. There was, however, the fear that my future partner would want them. How do you compromise on something like that? I know that children are such a valuable and wonderful part of many people’s lives and I wouldn’t want to take that away from someone who desperately wanted it. But I had plenty of my own reasons to stay away from motherhood.
Pregnancy scares me. It’s the epitome of body horror for me—a parasite draining your life from you, then emerging painfully over the course of many hours. Not to mention all of the complications for both mother and child. I always feel guilty for saying this because childbirth is beautiful—for some people. It’s a miracle of nature, it’s the start of a new life, all of that mushy feel-good stuff. But when I think about giving birth, I can’t see past the pain and blood. And I know it doesn’t end after you bring the baby home. Years of sleepless nights, and your body might never return to what it once was.
I’m disabled. I have chronic pain, not to mention a reproductive issue known as polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS)—that means I might not even be able to have kids if I did want them. I already spend a significant amount of time bedbound, unable to do anything due to intense joint pain and debilitating migraines. That’s just not something you can do with a baby around. I need a lot of space and time to myself, otherwise I get extremely overwhelmed. I don’t want to traumatize a child by yelling at them for just being a kid and needing their mother. It wouldn’t be fair on a hypothetical child, and it wouldn’t be fair to me or my partner who would have to pick up my slack.
I had been openly bi for a while before my amazing partner and I got together, and I was the first person to whom he came out. Being a bi-for-bi couple let us avoid so much of the jealousy and spite that I see so much with straight couples. It wasn’t just our sexualities, though—we are on the same page and connect so deeply that it makes me believe that soulmates are real after all.
It took us a while to bring up whether we even wanted kids. Initially, I said no, but I could change my mind down the line. He said about the same, and we left it there. Then our friends had a kid and the answer turned into a hard ‘no.’
I love my friends’ kids (there’s a second one now!) but as I’ve told them, it’s just not for me. I’m happy to spend time with them and be the cool family friend, as long as I can hand the child back at the end of the day. It’s still a trial—I have to step away when the kids are screaming for too long. I reach a limit, and I feel ashamed, but I’m prioritizing my health. I shouldn’t feel selfish about that.
We spend a lot of time with those friends. They’re our chosen family, and I love all of them to pieces. Being around their kids has made it clearer than ever for me that motherhood isn’t in my future. I’m extremely grateful—if I didn’t have these beautiful toddlers in my life, I might doubt my decision to remain childfree. I might always question whether I’m making the right choice and let societal pressure trap me into a decision I will only regret.
I love kids. I love my friends’ kids. But I’m content never to have my own.
There are plenty of social animal groups like lions, wolves, and meerkats that only have one breeding pair. The rest of the community—aunts, uncles, and other relatives—help to raise the young. That’s where I fit in. If entertaining toddlers for a few hours helps take some pressure off of my friends, I’ll gladly do it.
Tea Campbell lives in rural Australia and is a writer, artist, and crafter. When she’s not writing about her experiences with queerness and disability, she’s drawing “ugly” animals and playing D&D.