Is a No Kidding life a radical one?

The Gateway Women Fireside Chat that I mentioned last week discussed the idea that those of us who are ageing without children are "radical old women." Apart from the fact that I really don’t feel like an old woman and I’m not ready for that term (despite being older than some on the panel!), I agreed with a lot of the opinions given in the discussion. They reiterated the key points that almost all childless-not-by-choice and many childfree women talk about when we get together. It's always worth repeating! But I came away with two thoughts that weren’t really represented.

The first is that I object to being labelled (by society, by anyone) as radical just for living my life. Sure, I don’t have children, but that's only a small part of what makes me who I am. This idea makes me bristle. I object to the idea that just because we differ in only one way – the fact that we haven’t reproduced or parented – we must be seen as radical. I know many No Kidding women (and men) who are the very opposite of radical. They live normal lives – they go to work or school, love their friends and their (extended) families, strive to be better, look after their homes and neighbours, and care about the world. They want to be accepted and recognised and seen, and considered to be an important part of society and their communities. Surely there is nothing particularly radical about that?

Of course, it comes down to the definition, and there are many definitions of “radical,” as pointed out in the panel discussion. There is the “extremist” definition, the one that automatically comes to mind when I first hear the term “radical.” To be radical means “believing or expressing the belief that there should be great or extreme social or political change.” (Cambridge dictionary) A radical holds very different views, opposing the status quo (as opposed to just differing from it), and speaking out about it. By definition, a radical view is or can be seen to be threatening to the existing dominant societal structure. I find it terribly sad that simply wanting to be accepted for being who we are is seen as threatening by those living different lives. I’m not a conformist, and never have been. I’ve certainly never understood why living life differently should be in any way seen as particularly "radical." But I don’t feel like an extremist or particularly militant either. I’m just someone who puts an alternative viewpoint – a viewpoint many people have never considered – out there, and who wants society to see us and accept us. Is that radical? It doesn't feel like it.

The second issue was the question Jody posed, “what do we want to do with our ‘radical’?”

I thought of all of our blogs, the articles we have contributed to or commented on, the social media posts we make or comment on, the art some of us make, and all the other things that we do to put the point of view of people who are childless not by choice, or who are simply living No Kidding lives. We’re already doing a lot!

Then I thought of my neglected Instagram account (@nokiddinginnz), the book I’ve written but never published, all the time I don’t contribute to other online groups (like Gateway Women), and felt guilty. Am I not doing enough with my ‘radical’? I think it is terribly important that we speak up. I think it is terribly important that people remember there are women and men out there who wanted children, but who couldn’t have them for whatever reason. And I think it is terribly important that people are reminded that any of us who don’t have children are still equally important members of society, with valid opinions, lives, and contributions to society. So I am forever grateful for those who do so, who represent us in public. I play a small part, I’ve definitely gone beyond my comfort zone, whether here on my blog when I’ve very nervously pressed “Publish,” in private conversations when I’ve made myself vulnerable by tentatively countered someone’s mainstream opinion, or by very nervously commenting under my real name in articles in national media outlets. My part might not be as big as Jody’s or Pamela’s, but it is still important, as is that of all my readers and fellow bloggers. And I'm going to keep doing it, as long as I have an audience.

But speaking up is not obligatory. Just as we don't have to find our "Next Big Thing" when we don't have children, we don't have to become spokespeople for the childless not by choice. I know that speaking up isn’t for everyone. Some of us feel much more vulnerable about exposing our sadness or perceived failures to the world, and many of us fear judgement. Some of us are uncomfortable with speaking up – so many of us have been taught that it is rude to disagree, for example, when it is really courageous. I’m personally uncomfortable with confrontation, and don’t particularly enjoy arguments, although I know others who thrive on debate. (I do like being able to put my point of view, or make someone think, by a well-placed comment or question, but it can take a toll.) It made me think. Why should any of us feel compelled to do anything with our radical? It can be hard enough just living our radical lives day-to-day, navigating this pronatalist world as people without children, let alone dealing with all the other stresses of life.

Then I came full circle. Maybe that’s the whole point of being “Radical Old Women?” The second definition of radical is as fundamental, “relating to or characteristic of the basic or inherent constitution of a person or thing” (Collins Dictionary). It brings everything back to basics. And the basis of being a woman is, in fact, simply being, whether or not we have children. Ditto, the basis of being a man is simply being. The basis of being a human is simply being a human. And we all do that. We show there is value in our being just who we are. I guess that is radical in both meanings of the word. 

Just living our lives – with meaning and kindness and happiness and love – is enough of an example to others that society is varied, and that variation is valuable to us all. Life isn’t a one-size fits all proposition. How boring would societies and communities be if we were all the same? Embracing our existence, our No Kidding lives, is, after all, a radical act we didn’t think we were capable of at one stage in our lives. Wherever, and however, we live, we are here, and we are not going away. We are living, breathing, feeling role models. Maybe that’s radical enough for us all?

 

 

 

Privacy, shame, and childlessness

 Last week, Sue at Childless by Marriage, wrote a post asking if her readers needed to read her blog in secret. It took me back to my very first forays into the internet world looking at pregnancy loss and ectopic loss. I was lucky. I found a home at the Ectopic Pregnancy Trust messageboards relatively quickly. Well, let's say I found the site quickly. I lurked through my first ectopic, but read it avidly and got to know some people who are still friends almost 20 years later. Then about six months later, I started reading and posting on their Trying to Conceive boards. I learned all about cycle monitoring, ovulation tracking etc. It took me a long time to confess (because that's what it felt like) to my husband that I was doing this. 

By the time I had my second ectopic a year later, he knew that I was well into this online community, but he never had any urge (as far as I know) to see what I was reading or saying. He knew it helped me, and that was enough for him.

So I remember the feeling of wanting to hide what I was reading and what my thoughts were. Perhaps it was because I was trying to figure out what it was I was thinking and feeling before I discussed it with him, or anyone? Perhaps it was shame? Perhaps it was nervousness that he (or others) wouldn't understand, or would mock it? It took longer for me to open up about that to friends or family. A lot longer. Even now, I don't tell many people about this blog unless it is relevant to our conversation.

Of course, I know full well that anyone could search my real name and they'd find this blog. I bumped into a woman I worked with 34 years ago at the supermarket doing pre-Easter shopping. We had a lovely long chat and catch-up, and she noted that she had read something I'd written (directed to it by an article in a women's magazine where I had been quoted) and had liked it. I will admit, I write here as if I am still anonymous! The head-in-the-sand attitude helped when I first "came out" publicly. I was worried about people being mean, judgemental, mocking. But now, I just shrug. I am confident in what I write and who I am. But it has taken time.

And I can understand that anyone first dipping their toes into the No Kidding/childless world of writing here or elsewhere around the internet might want to stay anonymous, or lurk for a while, or always use a pseudonym. Because it takes us time to discover what we think, where we belong, and who we are. It takes time to figure that out and feel free to mention it to even those who are closest, let alone in more casual relationships or with more distant acquaintances. Protecting yourself, your privacy, and feeling safe as you're going through some major life adjustments is not wrong, and it's not shameful. It can give you the freedom to be who you are, as you figure that out. And that's pretty wonderful.

Time makes it a lot easier. Then one day, you'll find that privacy doesn't matter quite so much any more. You might feel your shoulders relax, hold your head higher, and puff out your chest, proud of who you are, and how far you've come.

 

No Kidding: Coming Out as Childless

Back in World Childless Week, I reposted about Being Worthy. Since then, Sue posted about feeling worthy and talked about the issue of coming out as childless. Recently, Loribeth has written two posts about coming out  (here and here) too.

In Sue’s post, she said, “Don’t those who matter already know, and as for the rest, it’s none of their business?"

I loved this. It is exactly how I feel. I don’t hide the fact that I don’t have children. But what I do hide, a little, are the emotions around it. Well, except here! But then, I generally hide emotions around a lot of things. They’re mine, they’re personal, and I don’t want to share them! So I don’t talk about personal issues or opinions very openly. Correction. I discuss these things with people I trust, or people I think will try to understand. I’ve said frequently that I tell my story only when I choose to do so. That goes for any personal issue, not just childlessness. And childlessness and infertility is awfully personal. It involves our bodies, our reproductive systems and sex lives, our personalities and character, and – perhaps most importantly – grief. These are very personal issues, intimate issues, that some people feel comfortable sharing, and others don’t. Each of us is different. And as I've written before, coming out takes a toll.

I’m kind of in the middle about sharing. I don't hide my childlessness, and I don’t deliberately hide my feelings about it. However, I do agree that it is important to talk about the issue if we’re ever going to see people change their behaviour towards and their judgement about those of us who don’t have children. But I don’t go out to proselytise either. (There are others who do this brilliantly through blogs and groups and websites, and I thank them for their voices and their courage.) My blog here has two purposes. The first is for me to make sense of my situation, and figure out what I think and what is important to me. The second and most important purpose is to try and help those who have been through similar things or those who want to learn about what it is like to go through these things. My focus here is the No Kidding, not the rest of the world.

There is, however, no doubt though that I am “out.” I've been interviewed in a national magazine and newspapers. These were opportunities for me to spread the word. I was nervous, because doing this meant I put my pain and my otherness out on public display, and it meant that I didn’t have a chance to respond or deal with judgements that might have come up as such. It was very scary. I probably prefer the individual interactions I have with people to help them understand, or just – hopefully – make them think, just for a moment, about the No Kidding who walk amongst them.

If I want to say something to an individual or a group, I do speak up. I’ll casually mention in conversation that I don’t have children if it is relevant and then just move on. If someone has made a glaring judgement about people without children, or deliberately overlooked my situation because it isn’t the norm, I’ll point it out. As I have said, I’m not going to be dismissed or ignored! If I am asked about it, I choose how I want to respond – it ranges from saying simply "no, I don't have children" to willingly sharing more deeply, depending on the context and the person asking. I hold strongly to that right to choose how or if I respond. It gives me the power, and the confidence, in a situation where I might otherwise feel vulnerable.

But mostly, I have to say that it just isn't top of my mind to share (unnecessary) details of my story. It goes against my nature. But also, and most importantly, because being childless is really only a small part of who I am. At one stage of my life it felt like it was 100% of who I was. But no longer. It’s part of me, but only a small part now. I am not kidding.

 

From WCW 2018

 

When telling our stories takes a toll

Going public about infertility or the fact our No Kidding status was not our choice – even if we love it now – is often not easy. Some people are happy to speak openly, even when they are going through it, but many of us find it takes time, and some never actually open up about our losses or difficulties.

I began thinking about this issue (again) when I read Lori’s post noting that she didn’t want to be outed when going through it. Neither did I. At the time, I didn’t tell anyone at work about my first ectopic – I had a week off before Christmas, and by the time we all came back after New Year everyone was swapping summer holiday stories, and had forgotten I had been away. I told family (because travel plans had to be changed) and a few close friends. But then, the infertility began. I say began, because by then we realised we might need help, I started charting my cycle, learning things about my body that I wished I’d learned as a teenager, and reading message boards online. After my second ectopic and cancer scare, I was a little more open, and was very open with a group of people I met on message boards. But I still didn’t want to share in real life, and it took me a while to be able to do so.

But why not?

Because telling our stories takes a toll. When we are already vulnerable and feel like a failure, it opens us up to judgement, condescension, and isolation from "otherness." That can be tough to deal with, especially with people we know. Some people can breeze through this, but so many of us can’t. I can’t always. My husband often tells me not to care  what people think. It’s easier said than done, though I’m better than I once was. And back then, when I was vulnerable, when infertility and loss had already taken such a huge toll, when I was still adjusting to my life, I couldn’t risk further spirit-crushing judgement. It was already hard enough to deal with my own internal dialogue of failure, misconceptions, and negative stereotypes.

As we grow and develop into acceptance of our No Kidding lives, it becomes easier. But we still have to brace ourselves against the reaction of the person who is hearing our story. And it is hard to maintain that level of awareness, of preparedness, steeling ourselves against the possibilities of being misunderstood. Last year, Infertile Phoenix wrote about how exhausting that is in an excellent post here.

As time and distance heals, though, I am pleased to know that telling our stories takes a smaller and smaller toll. In fact, I think that at some stage, it changes, and the greater toll is when we don’t tell our stories, when we don’t acknowledge our reality, when we stay in the shadows. Maybe some of that is because people aren’t ready to hear our stories. But that, I have decided, is their problem, not mine.

It was worth it

On Christmas Day, my husband’s childless/free aunt and uncle arrived at our house first. Almost as soon they arrived in the door, Uncle H noted that he had seen my photograph in the paper a few weeks ago, and complimented me on the article.

“It’s true, there is a stigma,” he said, in his thick Austrian accent. “Even if it is mostly unspoken, you know it is there.”

I agreed, adding that it's not always unspoken!

And now I wonder, how many times in his life has he been able to talk to someone about this? Knowing that the answer is inevitably "not very often, if at all"  has made all those nerves I suffered over the article and photo and video worthwhile.

Feeling nervous

On Saturday, a newspaper article is due to come out that will talk about how women without children feel about this time of year, in the lead up to Christmas, and yes, I’m probably going to be in it. It is good that they intend to acknowledge that there is an overwhelming focus on children at this time of year, and that advertisements always show parents and children, never single women or men, or couples without children.

But I am nervous, because this will be in the newspaper of our city, New Zealand’s capital and my home for the last 30 plus years. People I have worked with will open the newspaper and – perhaps – recognise me, and read whatever the reporter chose to quote from me, judging or pitying or mocking or empathising. I’d feel so much happier if I had control of the words that will go in the article, but sadly, that’s not how journalism works!

Still, I have to breathe deeply, and embrace the vulnerability, reminding myself that the people I care about already know who I am and how I feel (largely). I have to hope that someone will read it and feel a little better, knowing they are not alone. And I have to hope that it will cause some people to think just a little more about those women and men around them who don’t have children, and try to make this time of year a bit easier for them.