Children - what’s the correct answer?

Do I Want Children? I Don’t Know.

Recently, an old friend asked me about my position on having children. Because it was a friend asking, I felt free to be completely honest, no need to hide behind polite answers. And what came out surprised me: my response was a contradiction.

Do I want children? Yes. No. For as long as I can remember, the answer was always yes. Without hesitation, without thought, I said yes. Until the other day, when I didn’t. Over the past year, as I’ve thought more seriously about my future, my answer has shifted into something far less certain: I don’t know.

For most of my life, I believed that to be “complete” meant becoming a mother, raising children, and building a family. That was the ultimate goal. But now? I’m not sure I see it that way anymore.

Part of this comes from how the question was framed growing up. It was never “Do you want children?” but always “When will you have children?” I was told things like, “You’ll be a terrific mother,” or “When you have children…” followed by advice or lessons. I wasn’t raised to see it as a choice. That’s not a criticism of my parents, it was simply the way things were. My upbringing was more traditional than many of my peers, shaped by old-fashioned values where a girl’s future was defined by the family she created.

But then I tasted independence. I learned what it feels like to put myself first, to only be responsible for myself. And I wonder: why change that?

In today’s world, women are increasingly independent. Marriage rates are down, birth rates are down. Is it because we no longer want to be confined by traditional expectations? Or because we’re finding fulfilment in careers, in being heard and valued at work? For many women, having a child means pausing, or even ending, their careers. Yes, countless mothers balance both beautifully, but not everyone can. To achieve one goal, must another be sacrificed?

And then there’s the toll on our bodies and minds. Postpartum depression affects one in ten mothers, according to the NHS, and a history of mental health issues raises that risk. If you’ve read my previous writing, you know I live with depression. Those statistics terrify me, and I know I’m not alone in that fear.

Still, I can’t deny the pull. I want a family. I want to grow a child. Sometimes I think that desire is more biological than emotional, my body craving what it was “designed” to do. Creating life feels miraculous. When I see a baby, I feel an ache, an emptiness, a longing to experience that miracle myself. And beyond biology, I want to be surrounded by unconditional love, to build a pack of my own. Humans aren’t meant to be alone.

I also know that if I ever do have a child, I would love them with everything I have. I’m already surrounded by children, little trolls at times, like all kids, but I adore them. I see the joy they bring their parents, the love that fills their homes. And I know that if I choose not to have children, I’ll grieve the life I could have had. But if I do have children, will I grieve the life I gave up?

So, is it okay to answer, “I don’t know”? As a single woman in her mid-twenties, I think it is. I don’t even have a potential partner right now, and I still have time. But the ticking clock of fertility adds pressure. Say yes, and people warn, “Hurry up, you’re running out of time.” Say no, and it’s dismissed as “no bother.”

One thing I do know: I don’t want to raise a child alone. I deeply admire women who do, whether by choice or circumstance, but for me it wouldn’t feel fair, to myself or to the child.

And yet, society still judges. If I choose not to have children, I’ll be judged. If I pause my career to have them, I’ll be judged. If I embrace motherhood, I’ll be judged for giving in to “traditional norms.” If I don’t, I’ll be judged for rejecting them. Even climate and economics enter the conversation, whether having children is responsible at all.

So what is the ultimate goal? Right now, I believe it’s simply to live. To survive. To find success and meaning in whatever form that takes. For now, my answer remains: I don’t know. And I’m learning not to be ashamed of that.

If I meet a partner with whom I want to share that journey, maybe the answer will change. Or maybe it won’t. Either way, I’ll only know when the time, and the person, feels right.