Managing our energy and boundaries

 Well, I blithely wrote about The Freedom of Caring Less last week. But here's a confession. Sometimes I am much better at putting myself first than others. Friends this morning reminded me - in a good way - of the importance of boundaries, and ensuring that we have enough energy (or spoons) to get through the day. I'm talking about "spoon theory" - a concept that explains how we manage limited energy. I'm not always good at this. 

Setting boundaries and not sacrificing or silencing ourselves for others is easy when we do it with people who might be a little distanced from us. But it's a lot harder when people are closer. When we don't want to hurt people we love, but don't actually have the capacity to do more, to listen more, to be the friends or family support we really want to be. Or would be, in other circumstances. But we want to hold those people close too. Because they matter.

I guess that's life, isn't it? We all have limited spoons. We all deal with different issues and situations, and therefore are in completely different grief or crisis circles or rings (see "ring theory") when it comes to the comfort-in/dump-out ideal. Putting comfort in can be really hard if we are already in crisis in a different situation. Likewise, dumping out to someone who is already in crisis isn't really appropriate either. The rings don't overlap, do they? But it's really hard when there are several active crisis rings in my life, and I'm at a different place in each of them. As are my family and friends. There are no rules or maps for navigating that. And no extra spoon/energy allocations for any of us.

I guess I'm saying, I don't want to give the impression that all or any of this is easy. Even though it is easier than it was, and I'm much better at it. I still struggle. I'm trying to find an even path that feels right to me. And I still have limited spoons, and none in my bank, so I need to be careful and take care of myself. It's good to have good friends who can remind us of this.

The freedom of caring less

I think I'm the classic middle child; always the peacemaker, the diplomat, the one who thinks about everyone else but not always myself, agreeable. Maybe that's not middle child, maybe it's just me. I was shy too, so a lot of my younger adult life and career was spent pushing myself to do what scared me, and - it felt - to go against some of my natural tendencies. It usually paid off, but it wasn't always comfortable. However, this was really about defending my own views, or even about developing them. As a child, I'd not felt as if my views mattered. As a student, and then a young worker, I had been intimidated by people who would confidently speak up definitively, even when they were definitively wrong! By my late 30s, though, I felt much more confident that before. The humility of a middle child was morphing into someone who could recognise that, actually, I knew as much as (or more than) the people around me, and I felt more able to speak up. 

After a few years out as a result of the confidence-destroying ectopic pregnancies and infertility, it picked up, full steam ahead, in my mid-40s. Especially helpful were the psychology lessons of adapting to my life through pregnancy loss and subsequent childlessness, volunteering daily for the Ectopic Pregnancy Trust where I learned and gained confidence from wise women around me, and then later, blogging. My confidence grew as the way I thought and approached life became more one of enquiry and knowledge and growth. I bit my tongue less, felt better able to discuss rather than just agree even when I had questions or doubts, and decided that other peoples' opinions and feelings (mostly) did not matter more than my own. 

So I'm still polite, but I don't agree with making myself or my views invisible just to keep the peace. I may not have raised children, and therefore I haven't had to sacrifice my own needs or wants or even opinions in that way, but I've certainly silenced myself for years. And it came to a point where I just said enough. These days I own my views, my opinions, my dignity, my worth. And I'll speak up about it if I need to. I'm still measured about it. Thoughtful, I hope. But I don't want to be silent.

Infertile Phoenix here highlighted a blog post that talks about why women in their forties and fifties (and beyond) suddenly stop biting their tongues. Go and read her post, and then the linked post explaining the neuroscience behind it. 

I'm not sure to what extent the neuroscience explains my own transformation - I'm on estrogen-only HRT, but maybe that's not sufficient - and my personal and career development at the time seemed to explain it to my satisfaction before I read the article. But it is still extremely validating to find that I'm not alone in my feelings about previously putting myself last. And that I can be confident in my choices now to put myself first - or somewhere in between, but always with the knowledge that it is up to me, and me alone.  It gives me the freedom to be myself. What a gift!

 

 

Also relevant: 

Gifts of Infertility series: Self-confidence
Gifts of Infertility series: Self-discovery

 

Anxious anticipation, and support

I recently took part in a social media discussion about meeting up with an old friend when we're childless. A poster was nervous - since she had last met up with this friend her long term relationship had broken up, she hadn't had children, and she'd had some difficult times. She was dreading the "what's happened in your life since I last saw you" question. And she felt embarrassed and ashamed about how her life had turned out.

I recognised her feelings acutely, remembering back to the years immediately after my last ectopic and attempts at IVF. I dreaded meeting former acquaintances who had taken on the "earth mother" mantle. I don't have those feelings anymore. If people want to judge me for not having children, or having pursued a different career path, or retiring early (partly by choice, partly not), then that tells me much more about them than anything about me. Because I have had years to deal with this and figure it out, and I'm content.

I said to her that her feelings were familiar. And that the worst of these situations were never how people acted towards me, or reacted to my childlessness (some good, some not so good). The worst was always what I imagined people might say or think about me. This made the anticipation of an event so much more miserable than it needed to be, and always worse than the event ended up being. 

Of course, as I've said here a lot, it was the voice in my head telling me to that they would think I was less, that then made me wonder about it too. But then I realised that I could retrain my brain, ask myself if those thoughts and feelings were true, and then dismiss the thoughts if/when the answer was no. I have written about it, in slightly different contexts, frequently under the label "negative thoughts." With this visual:

 

I reminded her too that she is worthy, worthy of friendship and love, regardless of whether she has children or not, is in a relationship or not, etc. 

There was a lot of good advice for the anonymous poster, and I was so pleased to see social media being used to support and help someone.  Here are some of the best suggestions for her from the others:

1. You are in control of what you tell her and what you don't. Another person said, you don't have to have a deep and meaningful conversation - keep it light, meet over an activity (eg go for a walk) as a distraction.

2. Everyone has something going on. You might be surprised that her life isn't as perfect as it seems.

3. Is the anxiety more about what we internalise from society's expectations of us as women, rather than what she may think of you?

4. Your friend might be feeling nervous too, after such a long gap. "She's going to judge me for being so family oriented," etc. 

5. See it as a low stakes situation. You're just having (insert lunch/coffee/walk etc). If she is judgemental, don't give her any more of your energy, and if she is not, great!

6. Be yourself. You don't need to overshare. Stories can be shared over time. 

7. "Half my friends are single and childless." The social norm is still considered families and mothers, but the reality is different.  There's nothing unusual about you.

8. Highlight the things that make you shine. If she is the right person, talking can be healing. Your friend will be over the moon just to see you again.

 

Looking back on the blog: 2025

This last year my blogging has suffered. I was seriously considering whether I would do a review this year, but I like being consistent, so here goes!

So, looking back on No Kidding in NZ in 2025. I wrote 28 posts here last year, a reduction of almost 50% from 2024, and less than one a week. The reason for that was a major health upheaval for my husband. I just couldn't stick to regular posts. My mind was understandably elsewhere.

It also influenced my theme of the year, writing more about how we give and receive support, as I both received it, and didn't, from various circles. But I also found that coping with diagnoses and treatments and yes, grief and anticipated loss, have similarities with my journey through infertility, pregnancy loss, and childlessness. Many of the lessons from that time have proven to work for me now too. Taking joy in little things. How we want support, and how to support others. (Because life didn't stop, and I had to seriously support a close friend at the same time). And most of all, being kind - to myself, as well as the person I'm caring for. Giving myself permission not to stick to a rigid weekly blogging schedule helped a lot. I'm going to try to blog a bit more this year, but I'm making no promises.

The issues of ageing without children are also topmost in my mind - but perhaps I've articulated those less this last year. I'm sure it will be a theme in 2026. I have a lot of thoughts! 

The end of the year finished on a bright note, when we were able to travel together, once treatments took a pause. We were very lucky to be able to do so. You can find my travel photos on instagram as travellingmali. 

Thanks to those who have stuck by me this year. And whether you comment or not, whether you’re a long time reader or have just stumbled across me for the first time, I want you to know how much I appreciate you. Sending love.

Hoping you all have a very safe and happy 2026!  

 

Happy No Kidding New Year!

Hi everyone! I'm sorry I have been away for so long. But I want to say Happy New Year, and send very my best wishes for 2026, whatever it may bring.

My silence has had two reasons. The first was the continuing saga of a health situation, that really took my attention from almost everything - reading/audiobooks/podcasts/radio listening, interesting TV watching  (other than comfort binges), writing (here and on A Separate Life), etc. Suddenly last year, my No Kidding status was secondary to a grim health prognosis, and a different future than I had imagined. That idea at least was familiar.

But the second reason for my silence has been our decision to live life while we can, and to take a bucket list trip. We hope there will be more. We are by no means confident that there will be. So we took the opportunity, and took off. I'm going to blog about it on A Separate Life. But here are some of the No Kidding thoughts I have about it now that we have returned.

We chose a trip that had two possible timings - December/January, or April/May. Our doctor advised that the first was the wisest choice. It did not bother us at all that it was going to occur over Christmas and New Year. A couple of relatives had been seriously thinking about joining us. Until they knew it would be over Christmas. They couldn't possibly be away from their (adult) kids at the time. We shrugged. This was not a problem or obligation or desire that we had to contend with.

Second, the trip included a cruise. It was on a line we wouldn't normally choose, and in general, the passengers made us feel quite young! Whilst kids were allowed (another cruise line advertises itself in NZ as "No kids, no casinos!" lol), there were only about four or five children under ten, and a bored looking teenager. I'm not sure what their parents were thinking. So all the activities were adult-focused.

Thirdly, as we queued for entry to the ship, we got chatting to an Australian couple. Almost instantly, the woman made us aware of how many kids she had, and where they lived. It was as if she was justifying relocating for her retirement. I was amused and a little sad for her that she felt she had to mention this. It seemed as if she had either faced criticism over the move, or wasn't happy with it herself. And I hoped that they were on the cruise out of sheer excitement for the opportunity and itinerary, rather than as a way to fill the holiday period with activity. (Yes, I can overthink things!)

Finally, and most importantly, we met a lot of people on the cruise. Yet, aside from a younger woman mentioning how much better constructed/lighter/easier modern day prams/pushchairs/strollers are these days compared to 15 years ago (and it was in an appropriate context, though that completely eludes me now, so I just nodded), not a single other person mentioned children or grandchildren. Well, apart from the aforementioned Australian woman. (I'm sure the two or three parents who had children with them would have, but we never interacted.) No-one talked about work either. We talked about cruise lines, and food, and destinations, and where we lived. A few people tried politics, but when they didn't get the reactions they wanted, it was easily dropped. It was gloriously without posturing or judgement. (And considering the obvious wealth of some of the people on the cruise, there was plenty of opportunity for that.)

Actually, now I think about it, one other couple mentioned children. They said, quite simply, in a cautious way that I recognised, that they didn't have children so could retire anywhere they chose. "We're in the same position," I said. We then had an interesting conversation about great places to retire, whether to move away from friends, different considerations, etc. Our lack of children, or how that came about, just was not important. But it meant we had things in common.

I compared that with poor Infertile Phoenix's experience on her trip. I don't know if it is our age (though grandchildren discussions could easily dominate), the fact we didn't provide any openings for children/grandchildren discussions (whereas her travelling companions might have), the nature of the cruise line, the nationalities on the cruise (dominated by Australians and Brits), or the itinerary (very much a destination-based cruise rather than swimming and sun and fun), but it was gloriously child free. 

 

 

Time passing

I have a niece staying for a couple of days. She's come from overseas with a friend, and our house is the last stop on a whirlwind tour of half of NZ. I had my first ectopic, and was still being treated for it, in December 2001. We had planned on going south to my family for Christmas, but doctors wanted me to stay close to the hospital, so we had to cancel. And my BIL and SIL arrived with their four month old baby, to meet the in-laws. I don't have much memory of that Christmas, except the first time I saw them with the baby, my BIL absolutely doting on her. It was hard.

24 years later, this intelligent, compassionate, vibrant, beautiful young woman is visiting. It's nice getting to know her as an adult. She mentioned how sad she was that her only female cousins around her age were overseas, and she has never actually met them. I debated saying anything, and then thought it was timely. I don't know what my BIL/SIL have said to her about my ectopics and how we became childless. So I just said, "well, I'm sorry. We did try to give you a cousin about your age." She nodded, and I think she must have known. But it's worth talking about. She's in her mid-20s now, in a long-term relationship, and maybe starting to think about kids. Or not. Her choice. But she needs to know it's not easy. Not everyone gets what they wanted.  Lifestyles can be very different, but still okay. I hope that's her takeaway from our conversation last night, anyway. 

As for me, because I try not to think about it, it was a reminder of the child we could have had, and the stage of life they are in.

However, childless perk alert! I happily think about things that happened 13 years ago, or even 30 years ago, as not that long ago! Until you have two 24 year olds at the table saying, "13 years was a long time ago!" Ouch. But they'll learn! ha ha. And in the meantime, I can be in ignorant bliss about time and ageing, without the constant reminders from young people that I am old! People say kids keep you young. I think not having kids keeps me young. In my head, I'm still about that age! (Okay, maybe a little older. <wink>) 

Hope vs Optimism

 I was reading something by Rebecca Solnit on social media the other day.  (She wrote "Men Explain Things to Me.") Whilst she was talking about society and politics, something she wrote stood out to me as being totally applicable to infertility and childlessness.

"But hope for me has never been optimism. Optimism is "everything will be fine ..."  

How many times did we have that kind of optimism thrust back at us during infertility and loss? "It'll work out," or "don't worry, it will be fine" comments from either those who got what they wanted, or those who never had to try to have children, or those who were just uncomfortable with the topic and wanted us to be quiet and be happy so they didn't have to worry about us. This is how I see and define optimism, rather than hope. I know not everyone does.

Solnit continued:

"Hope for me is always that there are possibilities. And we have a responsibility to try to realize (sic) them, and to not realize (sic) the worst possibilities."

This is so true, when we apply it to our No Kidding lives. Hope for the childless is hope for something different, for making the best out of our life, for enjoying what we have, for thriving, not just surviving. The worst possibility for us is to always focus on what we lost or never had, rather than our current lives. Because then we will live a life that is sad and lonely. Or to refuse to accept our diagnoses and prognoses, and live on unrealistic optimism which puts our lives on an indefinite hold, until age catches up with us. I also include ignoring our situation or belittling it as unimportant, or being marginalised, is one of those negative possibilities. Someone going through infertility always seems to think that the worst possible outcome is to be childless, but they are so focused on what they want, thinking about an alternative future without children is too scary for them. And so they don't see or (often) choose not to see what other wonderful possibilities there can be in a No Kidding life, or the changes we can make for ourselves and for those coming after us. 

There are so many opportunities to have a good life, to change people's attitudes, to embrace our situations. Simple optimism doesn't really address these.  But hope does.

I tried to explain some of this to a friend a few months ago when talking about our situation now. She was preaching the importance of optimism, and how important it is to recovery and even survival. I am  aware of the studies that show a positive outlook can be beneficial. But to me, you can be positive and feel gratitude, life your life positively and have better quality of life, but at the same time and prepare for the worst whilst appreciating and enjoying what you have. 

I don't agree however that blind optimism is beneficial. It might be fine if you're not aware of realities, of statistics, of science, or prognoses. But if we are people who like information, then we can't ignore science and facts. And so blind optimism goes against our intellects, and even our instincts. It doesn't prepare anyone for what is coming, and most importantly to me, doesn't necessarily allow you to feel gratitude for what you have in the moment, because you're only looking to the future you want, not the future you are going to have. We can be realistic, but still have hope. 

And being realistic doesn't have to be negative either. It winds back around to that idea of acceptance. Acceptance means you're not fighting against a prognosis (eg childlessness), even if you maintain hope that the statistics might fall in your favour. It just means you're not wasting energy railing against things you can't change. That your focus is not negative, but positive on the things you can control, the opportunities that are still open to you, and the life you have left to live and how you want to live it. Hope allows you to make changes that will help you, or others. I believe that being positive in this way improves our quality of life. Optimism doesn't necessarily do that. And I believe that it applies to those with serious or terminal illnesses, just as it applies to infertility and childlessness, and just as it applies to societal attitudes or political situations. 

Interestingly, I searched my blog for the word "optimism." I've used it under ten times in 15 years! But hope - the word "hope" comes up all the time. 550 times, to be exact. Even a post Optimism vs Pessimism really talks about the word and concept of hope! Maybe I shouldn't be quite so pedantic or rigid, though. Maybe I need to simply ask the question, "optimistic for what?" And that's where hope comes in.
 

 

15 years

This week, on Wednesday, in fact, my little blog turns fifteen years old. Fifteen years ago, I found I needed an outlet for thoughts about not having children, at a time when I was almost daily volunteering on the Ectopic Pregnancy Trust's messageboard, helping and reassuring women who were going through ectopic pregnancies, that they had a 90% chance that their next pregnancy would be in the right place. Ironically, as I think back, three of the five main volunteers over those years did not go on to have successful pregnancies, yet daily we reassured women that the odds were in their favour. It felt good to help them. But it also felt good to help those who were not going to be that lucky. They needed us. They needed me. 

There were no other No Kidding communities where I felt I could go. I searched blogs, and found Pamela's Silent Sorority blog, and Loribeth's Road Less Travelled. Both were women about my age and situation. I could related. But I didn't just want to read. After six years of volunteering, I had all those thoughts and growth of my own, and a lot of gleaned wisdom from my wonderful fellow volunteers, that I felt deserved to be continued to be voiced too. I was finally confident in how I felt about not having children living a No Kidding life that meant I wasn't yet ready just to put it all away and pretend it hadn't happened. 

15 years later, I'm still not ready to do that, although I know my posting has slowed down considerably! But I still have things to write about. I see a comment pop up in a completely different context, and see how it applies to those of us living No Kidding lives, and feel the urge to write about it. That's next week's post (accidentally published for this week until I reverted it to a draft when I discovered it was my 15 year anniversary).  

15 years later, No Kidding lives are talked about a bit more. But pronatalism/natalism is still dominant in our societies. Here in New Zealand, in my peer group, I am thankfully usually free of it. It makes my everyday life easier. I'm grateful for that. 15 years later, my name is now out there as someone who has spoken out for those who don't have children. I'm still not sure how I feel about that, but if I don't think about it, I'm fine! 

15 years later, I have real friends through this blogging community. Some have children. Many don't. We chat on blogs, or via zoom, on whatsapp, or other means. And of course I've been lucky to meet a few bloggers in person - Pamela, Klara, Lilly, and Lesley. I was going to say "in real life" but of course, over 15 years of interactions, I consider this "real life" too. Meeting in person is very special though, when we already know each other "inside out." I hope to meet more of you, here in NZ or on my travels.

Thanks for reading, being here, writing in parallel on your own blogs, being part of my No Kidding life. I'm not sure how much longer I will continue, as blogs seem to fall out of favour, and readers dwindle. But if I can reach one new person, it's worth continuing. And keeping you all in my life is important to me too. I'm not kidding. I love being part of an intelligent, thoughtful, supportive community. Thank you all.

 

Where do I belong?

Loribeth's post here, about a dream prompting questions about where she belongs, got me thinking. As she rightly said, many childless and perhaps even childfree people ask that question. 

I without doubt belong in New Zealand. Right now I belong in my city too, although my affections for it have plummeted these last few weeks, as our house has been battered with spring winds. I was caught thinking about where else I could live. I could move to the South Island where I have another sister and nieces and great-nephews, and one or two old friends. I have a fondness for that area. But my life has been very different, and so I don't think I belong there any more. There are other spots around the country that might be nice to live in, but where I might struggle to belong. A wealthy farming area has a charming wine village we love to visit but might be stifling to live in. Big cities can be thrilling but lonely. At one stage I belonged in Bangkok. I lived and worked there, loved being in an exciting environment, and felt very much at home amongst the Thais, even though I stuck out like a sore tall white thumb! But each time I return, I feel like I belong less and less. A friend has recently returned there, and feels that maybe she was trying to recapture a life that has passed. At one time we belonged, but do we still?

Even when I travel, I feel I belong - maybe as a tourist, rather than a local. But I'm not bothered by that. Sure, there might be some environments when I feel "out of place," but as long as I am engaged and exploring and enjoying myself, it's easy to feel comfortable, to feel as if I belong. Or perhaps I lie. Because when I travel too, on my own, I can feel terribly alone. Though I know it is possible to feel that without leaving home too.

But do I need to belong anywhere? I'm "at home" wherever I am if my husband is with me. We've been together for so long, he is my home. But I now know that's not going to be permanent. So I ask these questions anew. I think I prefer to belong to people rather than places. And that's the area I struggle. I need more people in my life. In the meantime, I have my sisters, nieces, and most importantly on a day to day basis, my friends who have also become my family. 

I remember after my ectopics and final resolution into a No Kidding life, I was desperate to travel and learn a language and spend time living somewhere else. I wanted to escape. I forgot, though, that I could not outrun my grief. I couldn't leave myself. My childlessness would follow me everywhere. 

I think maybe that's why we question where we belong. Because without children, we have always felt on the outside, as if we don't belong. Not in the way many parents feel they do - in their religions, schools, communities, and wider societies. We are always marginalised. I feel it less these days, as I mentioned here. But I still feel it. In all those places where parents feel validated, I feel othered. 

Belonging becomes something I've learned to do without. It doesn't mean I like it. But I've never quite thought about it this way before. As I read Loribeth's post, I jotted down my instinctive answer. I belong wherever I am. I belong in myself. Because that's who I need to survive. A healthy, contemplative, open and objective Mali with all her flaws. I take it all with me, and belonging comes with contentment, with acceptance, and with gratitude. I sometimes have to be reminded to find all those, but when prompted, it's possible. And then I can face the future. That's my answer. Wherever I am, I belong with me. Or perhaps, 

I am, therefore I belong.

 

 

Ageing out of Childless Perks

I'm a member of a social media group called "Childless Perks." This is not a group for the always childfree, but for those of us who might have tried to have or wanted children, and have had to adapt to the life we didn't know we would have. And in that we have looked for the joys in that life, the benefits, advantages, gifts, and perks. I've written a whole series on this, as many of my readers know, that you can find by clicking here. And I have always been determined to embrace the benefits of my life, at the same time facing the realities of not having children.

The thing is, many of the perks that I used to think about are largely irrelevant now that I am older. On a daily basis, my life is not much different to those friends of mine who have children. We all share in these gifts of life at our stage of life: 

• We can all sleep in whenever we like.
• We can all be spontaneous because we have no-one dependent on us (except for those of us who might be caring for elderly relatives) 
• We can all eat what we want, when we want, and we can drink wine and not have to care for children or pick up a teenager from a party/social outing etc afterwards
• We can all go to adults only destinations  
• We can all travel outside of school holidays (except for the poor, dedicated teachers among us), 
• We are all (or will soon be) free of financial burdens, such as school/university fees, sports expenses/music or dance lessons, etc.
• Et cetera 

So I see posts about these "perks" on this social media group, and I am speechless. Especially at the moment. I struggle to name a gift of my childless life that those with children don't share. Rather, it is the opposite.  

Right now, I see others who are ill being supported and wrapped in comfort by their children. (Even though I know they'd rather the children don't have to do it). 

I face a future on my own - not in the immediate short term, but certainly when I am older. So I need to prepare for that, without children to help, to comfort, to be in my life. (And yes, I know that is not guaranteed even if I had had children, but complete isolation from children is not common),

A now-single friend said to me recently that her children are her world. With her parents now gone, and in one sentence, she discounted everyone else in her life. Even though I know she loves and values her friends. But of course I know friends are always secondary - I know that from direct experience, but also because I am not a complete idiot! So I wonder, what does she think my world consists of? Yes, my husband, of course. And I acknowledge how lucky I am to have someone I like being with, and can still converse with about all sorts of things. But long term? Is my world empty? 

Anyway, as I'm writing this, I have discovered one perk that still applies! I was chatting with someone earlier, and I talked about something being romantic. She noted that she and her husband can only talk for about 15 minutes on a "romantic" date, and then start complaining or worrying about her (adult) kids. We've never been able to or felt we had to centre our entire conversation around children, and so my husband and I can quite happily go on a three-month trip, let alone a three-hour date, still have plenty to talk about, and not get tired of each other! 

So even when I feel quite gloomy, I am glad I can still find a gift in my childless life.

 

 

Biting my childless tongue

Over the last month, my husband and I have had three separate groups of visitors. Two crossed over with each other so we could have family dinners together. But I didn't estimate how exhausting it would be dealing with all the stresses and emotions of the visitors, the catering, the cleaning, the planning and the conversation. I guess starting at a high stress level doesn't help, does it? 

We had lots of laughs, and good times, and I appreciated all the visits, the wine, the avocados, the lunches and dinners bought for us. The adults-only nature of the visits was a change too, and made it easier. I am not ungrateful, and overall the visits were wonderful.

But I have to get a few things off my chest that I am pretty sure only my readers and one or two friends will understand. 

Actually, although I'm sure parents in my situation would feel the same, they might not be quite so afraid of saying the wrong thing, because they're never going to be hit with "you're not a parent, so you know nothing!" Not that anyone said this to me. It's just that I am always conscious it could be coming. 

Sometimes I laugh, and pre-empt the comments, saying, "I know I don't have kids, but at least that means I can't be criticised for doing the wrong thing, or doing the opposite of what I say I am doing!" Often that's enough to get a message across, and to point out the obvious before they do. 

Then I bite my tongue, as I hear about:

• kids not being given the freedom to choose what they study
• assumptions that only certain professions will a) make money, or are b) worthy for their kids
• kids who rarely get told "no" because their parent feels guilty 
• anxious kids, who desperately want a parent's approval, but the parent doesn't realise it or won't give it
• kids who are almost neglected, because they are "out of sight, out of mind"
• kids who are still treated like kids, and manipulated and encouraged in the direction that the parents want, when they have been adults for years!
• parents who are in complete denial that they are infantilising their adult children
• parents who believe they are allowing their kids to make their own decisions, but are clearly not
• parents who are horrified that their children are treating them the exact way they (the parent) treated their parents.

And yes, I know that last point dates me! 

It's also really frustrating to see male parents modelling traditional male behaviour to their daughters and sons, while their very capable (perhaps much more capable) wives bear all the emotional labour as well as all the physical work of parenting. So it also frustrates me to see the wives model traditional female behaviour to their daughters and sons too. As an old feminist, you can just imagine my stress levels rising, cumulatively, over the last month!

Mostly, though, I wanted to reach out and hug the (now adult or almost adult) children who were the subjects of many a conversation. And tell them that to wish to be someone else is to waste the person they are. Or to succumb to someone else's wish that you be someone else is to waste the person that they are. There are things we learn through pain and loss that could really help the next generation. 

 

And given that this is a bit of a rant, I'm going to finish saying that it is also frustrating to be spoken to as if I am indeed a teenager or young adult who knows nothing of the world, because this is how the parents speak now! Especially when the parents show little or no self-awareness of that. (Okay, I did not keep silent about that.)

So I bit my tongue, daily, sometimes hourly, sometimes every minute! Well, mostly. Ha ha!  

The thing I most wanted to say, though, and didn't, was "make your own damn cup of tea!"

And now I am going to make myself, and only myself, a cup of tea and relax.
 

 

 

 

Systemic bias against the childless

The following is my susbmission for the World Childless Week 2025 topic: Childless Healthcare.

Systemic bias against the childless

“You know how babies are,” the nurse said to me after I asked her to keep the door to my hospital room closed, because the baby down the hall kept crying. “No, I don’t,” I responded. “Mine keep dying.”

On the gynaecological ward where I was being treated for a complicated ectopic pregnancy, pregnant, but already grieving the loss of my second pregnancy and facing the prospect of a pregnancy related cancer, the sound of a baby crying was like a knife to my wounds. I would have hoped that a nurse might have thought about her response with a degree of sensitivity. Unfortunately, she barged into my room, even after I had pointedly shut the door, and interrogated me about how long I had been married, and then asked me accusingly, “why did you wait so long?”

On that same hospital stay, I was sent to radiology for extensive scans. I was asked if there was “any chance I was pregnant?” I had to explain that technically I was pregnant, but that it wasn’t viable. They hadn’t even read the referral that noted the scan was specifically to rule out gestational trophoblastic disease.

Fortunately, most of my health professionals have been a bit more tactful. For example, a wonderful midwife in the outpatient Women’s Health unit made sure I didn’t have to wait with other noticeably pregnant women. And on the aforementioned hospital admission, I had already been moved from another four-bed room, when one of the patients was visited by multiple children and babies. A kinder nurse had seen me leave the area, heading for the sitting area, a little upset, and had moved me into a single room. Drs rushed to explain in advance that “spontaneous abortion” was unfortunate medical terminology simply meaning miscarriage if they slipped up and used it. And I haven’t been (openly) judged about weight, age, etc when going through infertility. So I guess in this way I have been lucky.

 

But systemically, healthcare fails women, including or maybe especially women going through infertility or pregnancy loss, as we are the minority. And our emotional health, when we are often at our absolute lowest, can be cruelly ignored. Hospitals are not set up for us, and actively make our experience worse. For example, our hospital had an ultrasound scan waiting room with walls covered with posters illustrating the development of a pregnancy. Important information, but very painful to those losing their pregnancies. And of course, the waiting room was full of pregnant women. My eyes stayed low. Not the best choice of location to receive the diagnosis of a second, more dangerous, ectopic pregnancy, but that’s where the consultant chose to give me the news, even though there were more discreet side rooms that could have been used.

Over the months it took my ectopic to be treated, I also had to attend several outpatient clinics, once again surrounded by other pregnant women. I forced myself to have compassion because they may also have been experiencing difficult pregnancies. But the belly-rubbing (a stage I never reached) never stopped, and I once again feigned interest in the carpet. (These days I would at least have a phone to stare at. Not so easy to escape twenty years or so ago!) Would it be so difficult to have screens in waiting rooms, or in some way ensure that those losing or having lost pregnancies have reduced exposure to the heavily pregnant?

The Dr at the fertility clinic was kind when telling me that I had reached the end of the road. Still, in his haste to get me out of his office now that there would be no more lucrative payments from me, he offered to get the counsellor to call. Of course, that call never came. Cast adrift in my lowest hour, I received the message that I was no longer a priority to anyone.

Fortunately, in New Zealand, regular smear tests are given by our GPs or family doctors, and so I didn’t need to see another OB/GYN until I needed a hysterectomy more than a decade later. At my initial consultation, the wall behind the examination bed was festooned with baby photos, and was like a smack in the face to me, bleeding and uncomfortable, and acutely aware that my uterus had never been of any use to me. I could have accepted – begrudgingly – if the photos from his grateful patients (with successful outcomes) had been in his main office or in the reception area. But above the bed with the stirrups? That smarted. And after the hysterectomy, when I was recovering in hospital, the surgeon’s nurse dropped in to check on me, which I appreciated, but then she cheerfully told me all about the lovely family dinner she was having later to celebrate Mother’s Day.

Unfortunately, we are mostly exposed to these comments, images, and situations when we are feeling the most vulnerable. I’m a well-educated, confident woman, and could and would stand up for myself if these comments were made to me today. But every time I experienced bias, it felt impossible to speak up for myself, or to protest the assumptions and systems that discriminated against me, and that diminished me. I wish I had done more. It's why I speak up now – here, on my blog, and in the media from time to time. And I really hope that things are improving for the women who follow me.

World Childless Week 2025

 

 

 

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