Who deserves to hear my story?

 The following is my World Childless Week 2025 Submission for the topic: Have you got kids?

Who deserves to hear my story?

Have you got kids? The question so many childless women and men dread. The question that has made us shrivel inside and want to disappear, or has sparked tears in our eyes, or that has infuriated us. I’ve had all these reactions, but these days, over twenty years since I first knew that I would never be a mother, my most common reaction is a sigh of resignation. That question again.

I sigh because it is such a lazy way of getting to know someone, of finding commonalities. If you’re talking about your children and their children, are you really getting to know someone? Or just their children?

I sigh too because it is a question that assumes that we all have children. Yet if everyone listened to signals, they would know that people either refer to their children early in a conversation, or they don’t. If they don’t, then they either don’t have any, or they just don’t want to talk about their children, for any number of legitimate reasons. The information is there if they would only listen for it.

When it is relevant, I will freely volunteer the information I do not have children in conversation. Pre-empting the question, on my own terms, casually and in passing, gets the message across in a usually painless way.

But still, the question is asked. “Do you have kids?” I sigh in frustration, because it’s just a question to them. But it is more than that to me. Even now my brain still jumps to a whole host of other questions I must consider before I answer, such as:

·         Do I have to tell them? Why?

·         Do I make a joke?

·         Do I go into any detail? If so, how much?

·         How are they going to react? Will they judge me?

·         Do I need to brace myself to hear tiresome, inaccurate and sometimes offensive cliches?

·         Do I have any smart answers for them today? If not, why not? And, isn’t it time I got some?!

·         Will I need to tactfully remove myself from the conversation? Do I feel like being tactful today?

·         Does this person really care about the answer, or do they just want me to ask them, “do you?”

·         What is my face saying right now?

I do find strength though, in knowing that it is my choice how or even if I answer. I do often wish I could decline to answer completely. Even if someone else demands to know my reproductive history or choices, I am under no obligation to give them that information. It is not rude of me to choose not to answer at all; it is rude of them to demand an answer. If there is awkwardness, I haven’t caused it. I’m afraid I haven’t yet come up with a response avoiding the issue entirely that sits comfortably with me. … Or maybe, today, as I write this, I have. Twenty years too late:

“Oh, let’s not talk about children today!” I wish I had said to the woman sitting next to me at the networking lunch for women in business who asked me this before anything else. (When I answered “no,” she turned her back on me and ignored me for the rest of the function!) It wouldn’t have given any information about my parental status. It would have just emphasised that it wasn’t the right time for that conversation.

Still, I almost always answer the question. Saying “No” and nothing more, is my most common response these days. The silence after “No” speaks for itself. It doesn’t invite follow ups. It invites a change of subject. “No” is a complete answer.

I know a lot of childless people take comfort in having a “script” so they don’t have to think about what to say each time. I’ve never had one – my answer can and does change with every person who asks the question. It depends on my mood, how well I know or want to know the person, how I think they will react, whether they might listen or not. I might choose to educate, or I might be in no mood to share. Sometimes, an open and honest conversation with a person I might never see again can be quite therapeutic. It depends on the day, the moment.

Sometimes I feel the need to share and educate. It might be as simple as letting someone know that this question isn’t the easy ice-breaker they think it is. It can be done, informally, in conversation. Or more formally. I remember the shocked looks on a bunch of engineers’ faces when, at a networking course I was running, I suggested that this was not always the best question to open with, and explained my background. They’d clearly never thought about it. And let’s face it, most people haven’t – until they have to.

If the question has been asked genuinely and kindly, then I might be prepared to expand on my answer. Even the blithely ignorant, if I think they can learn from it, might get a more detailed response. If my answer is followed up with an accusing “Why not?” I am much less likely to be helpful. That’s when the flippant “the cat/dog would be jealous” response gets trotted out.

I’m all for educating the public. But it is not my responsibility to do so when I am not feeling up to it, or when I think that the person will never understand. So I ask myself, “does this person deserve to hear my story?”

That’s the most important question, and the essence of my approach. My story – like any childless person’s story – has endured loss, disappointment, hope, expectation, pressure, and heartbreak. Even relief, and joy. That’s a complicated mix. So I don’t share those emotions lightly. And I give myself permission to say “No.” That in itself is empowering.

Who deserves to hear your story?

World Childless Week 2025