No Kidding: Coming out as Childless - Part 2

Elaine made an excellent comment on my post last week, asking how others deal with keeping blogs (or social media or interviews etc) anonymous, and therefore separate from their families. She wonders about how that feels, because such a significant part of our lives is kept separate from them. She spoke out in an interview, and that was really brave. She did it under a pseudonym, but that was still really brave! But her family don't even know. This is a really good point worth talking about. I'd love to hear your views too.

I started my blog about seven years after ending our fertility efforts. So I was less vulnerable at the time when I was gradually quoted in newspapers, or wrote for the Huffington Post, and I decided I could do it under my own name. Likewise, my blog never had those raw emotions from those early days - those were all well hidden in pregnancy loss messageboards from years earlier. So I never had to face the prospect of these being discovered. And there was enormous comfort in that anonymity, and privacy, that helped me work through those very difficult times. Maybe I never would have "come out" from being Mali at No Kidding in NZ if my blog had filled that role. Or if I had, perhaps I would have protected my blog - or the writings from those early days - from being linked to my name. Though I know that my writings here call on all my memories of the emotions of those hard days. The difference is that I no longer feel them with the same intensity.

My parents died before Otherhood came out. My father died before I made any of it really public. I hope he would have been proud of me. I wonder if he would have been a little embarrassed by it. He came from a family and generation that did not talk about these things! But hearing my name on the radio (even if I wasn't personally interviewed! lol) and seeing it in print would have been a thrill for him, as it would have been for my mother, a lifetime listener to our National Radio programmes. She knew I had blogged, and that I'd been interviewed in the past. But blogging was not something a late 70s-early 80s woman could really understand, and she wasn't able to track me down on the internet, unlike parents/grandparents today. My in-laws never discussed it with me, even though we pointed out articles that quoted me. However, more importantly, an uncle-in-law (also childless) thanked me for speaking out on behalf of the childless in an article. I tear up at the thought that I might have been the first person he had ever heard speak about how isolating Christmas can be for those who don't have children. And it was someone he knew. So for that reason alone, I'm glad I came out.

My friends know I blog. One is a regular reader, and we chat about the issues quite openly. She's a parent and grandparent, but was there for me through my pregnancy losses, has always been keen to learn and understand, and has, most importantly, listened to me when I've needed to talk, even if I've ranted about other parents and their pronatalism. Another friend has bought Otherhood and acknowledged how personal it can all be. Other friends and my sisters or sisters-in-law or nieces may or may not read. One sister reads occasionally, but I doubt the other does. If so, she's never said. I don't really mind if family or friends find me here anymore. I occasionally talk about conversations with friends or family, but try to keep them both anonymous, and balanced. I don't mind if people read about my thoughts on a particular issue or comment they might have made. They might get upset with me. But if so, they need to wonder why they would be upset. Maybe it's a teaching moment. Maybe it's just me getting something off my chest. I find it better not to know. And ... so far ... amongst people in my real, offline life, I've never had a bad reaction. I know I'm lucky!

So I suppose I do have a part of my life that is quite separate from many of my family and friends. But then, that's not new to me. I was an exchange student in Thailand at 17, and the only people in my life who can understand or relate to me about that were my fellow exchange students. We form a group on social media. The same with my ectopic pregnancies, and volunteer work. There's a group from my messageboards and volunteering colleagues who keep in touch on social media. We're the only ones who truly know what we have each been through. I have "book" friends, friends who only talk about travel, old school friends, etc. My work has often been overseas, so even my workmates haven't shared the same experiences. And of course, I have all of you - my No Kidding blog friends. I don't find it necessary that all my family and friends should know everything about me. We all share different parts of each others' lives, so it is fine that other parts of my life are relatively separate.

I guess the difference is that none of these experiences are hidden. My childlessness is obvious, given the absence of children. That can never be hidden. That's not news. My blogging is known by friends and family in principle, but I suspect few have actually ventured over to read No Kidding in NZ. I know that occasionally former colleagues have found my blog. When they needed it, I'm happy about that. If they didn't, then I don't need to have an opinion. They either liked it, or found it irrelevant. Cool.

But what if we don't want to share our support groups, our thoughts, feelings, confessions, etc? That's okay too. It's certainly not selfish. It is self-protection, comfort, and provides us with a rare safe space. Speaking out can be done in many ways. We can do it, like Elaine, anonymously, low-key like myself, or as a full frontal assault, like Jody Day and actively promote their blogs and books in their own names. Or we can choose to keep it all private. It's simply a choice. I have often said that people have to earn the right to hear my story, and only when and how I want to tell it. That works for intrusive questions, and also with our blogs. I consider who we wrote for." Ourselves? Our family and friends to understand what we were going through? People experiencing the same things some years later?  Maybe all three, or a combination. We're all different after all! And time changes us too. Whilst thoughts today might quite freely be shared with family and friends, our feelings when we first learned we'd never have kids might be intensely private, intimate, shared only due to our anonymity. If we feel we need to keep those private, for our own sake, then we can and should feel free to do so.

So, to state the obvious, the question of when, or if, to "come out" is a tricky one, and individual to each person. I've written about this before, when I wrote No Kidding: Coming Out as Childless, When Telling Our Stories Takes a Toll, and Privacy, Shame and Childlessness. Whatever you choose, if it feels right, then it is right for you. Ultimately, though, I find that time has helped enormously. Not just months, but years, even decades!

As I said in "When Telling our Stories Takes a Toll":

"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."

 

 

Unplanned inspiration

Elaine's latest post, highlighting an interview and other opportunities she has had as a result of her No Kidding status, blog, and life, has inspired me. She writes: 

"... this newspaper article is one of the positive surprises of the “branch without a child.”"

I love this! Her comment also reminded me of all the opportunities I've had as a result of my No Kidding life. I've volunteered online, been to a function in the House of Commons in the UK, written in the Huffington Post, been interviewed by magazines and newspapers, and quoted on national radio from my essay in a published book. But still, a lot of that was scary! And if I'm honest, I sometimes feel odd about being proud of any small recognition I've had through articles, quotes, interviews, etc about my No Kidding life.

I think it's because I still struggle as being identified as a "childless woman." I have never wanted that as my identity - not for the obvious reason (ie,  not wanting to be childless), but because I've always thought that I am so much more than my childless status. I know I would have felt the same if I had been a mother. After all, I have great role models - of all my friends who are mothers, none of them take "mother" as their sole identity. And so it has almost felt like a "cheat" to be considered a writer, or an author (albeit joint with 29 other people) of a book, when it has come from not having children. It's something I've fallen into, not something I've worked hard to achieve.

But that's the thing. I have, in fact, worked hard at this. Just without a real motivation other than figuring out my own thoughts, and helping people with theirs. Being childless IS part of my life, and I'm proud of how I've handled it, and what I have written about. If I'd written a travel book (still a possibility), I wouldn't have dismissed that simply because I was lucky enough to travel. It doesn't matter where I've found inspiration, or how I found my voice. My No Kidding writing is just as important, and just as much part of my life, as anything else. I need to own it!

The key, I think, is that not having children is part of my life, but it doesn't dominate it. Not any more, anyway. (It did in those early months/years that I wrote about last week!)  I've absorbed it into my wider being, accepted it, embraced it, and travelled forward with it. And for the most part, travelled forward with it comfortably. I like thinking about it like that. 

Thanks, Elaine! (This first photo is for you.)

 

Monday Miscellaneous: No Kidding - Otherhood, and On the Road

The last week has been interesting in a No Kidding sense. We travelled on Mother's Day, and so had booked a restaurant for dinner for Sunday evening. Although there were lots of family groups, some of them multi-generational, there was nothing triggering there. We relaxed, relieved after hours on the road, and enjoyed good food and service. No obsequious Mother's Day wishes to fob off. We were treated as just another customer, and I loved that. Without watching programmed TV or listening to programmed radio, it is all so much easier to avoid these days. Except of course the next day, when the North Americans were celebrating and I always forget and always have to get off social media!

Travelling in autumn, when the international tourists are off in warmer climes, the cruise ships have stopped calling, and the kids are all in school and university, is the best time! I loved the the chill in the air (even if it did feel as if I was cold for a week!), and more relaxed travel schedule. I mentioned to someone that that "sensible No Kidding folks" don't travel in summer when everyone else is on the road or in the vineyards, and then had to qualify it to ensure that I wasn't saying that the non-No Kidding are not sensible. Then I had to qualify that too to say that not all No Kidding folks can choose to be sensible and travel off-season (the lovely teachers, for example), and by that time my point was lost! Of course, those whose children are now living away from home can travel at this time too. That's part of what I love about it. We're not obviously the "couple without kids" when we are on holiday in May. We're a little older, which means we blend in more!

Of course I mentioned Otherhood to a few people we spent time with. I suggested they buy the book for a relative, who in recent years in their late 30s had tried to get pregnant. We had an interesting discussion, as I don't know their relative personally. "They don't talk about it," said my acquaintance. And so the two of us talked about the various reasons why they might not talk about it. Perhaps they're actually okay, perhaps they're worried about judgement, perhaps they're scared to be vulnerable and open when they're dealing with it all, perhaps they feel isolated and wish people would ask, perhaps they would just appreciate having their reality acknowledged, without pity or condescension. My acquaintance acknowledged - perhaps after reading my essay and the introduction to the book* - how isolating it must be, in the same way that assuming everyone is hetero/cis or of a particular race is isolating and dismissive. They said it as if it was a new realisation. That's a breakthrough, thanks to the book. And I really hope they do buy it for their relative. Or that it at least prompts a discussion at some stage. If that is the case, then being in the book has already been worthwhile. Awareness matters. It makes the world a more compassionate, considerate place.

Back on the 8th May, there was a radio interview with the editors of Otherhood. I get a mention** at the very end. You can read about it and listen to the interview here.  My sister and a friend heard it, and I got excited texts from them. (My 15 seconds of fame! lol) The launch event too was lovely, and a few readings covered the diversity of those of us in the Otherhood - for example, those whose religions affected them, teachers/foster mothers who were childfree by choice, etc. But they were all emotional. I took an Otherhood friend, who hasn't been involved in communities, messageboards, blogs etc in the way I have. I think it was a revelation to her too, that her reality is worth talking about. However happy she is with her Otherhood life, society isn't really that inclusive. She was a great help to me when I was going through losses, as she didn't value people's lives on whether or not they had kids. "Life is for enjoying," was her most radical statement to me. I remember being shocked, but have come to completely agree with her. (And for anyone who wants to disagree, enjoyment comes from many sources, including involvement with children, volunteering, helping others, etc. It is not of itself selfish!)

* I'm mentioned in the intro. It's thrilling, even if it makes me feel like the old lady of the group of contributors and editors! lol

** Not as Mali, of course. But if you read No Kidding in NZ regularly, you'll recognise my quote.

No Kidding Voices Count

If you haven’t read Jess’s post about speaking, from a No Kidding childless not by choice perspective at the function for the book Adoption Unfiltered (frequent commenter here, Lori Lavender Luz is a co-author) then I urge you to do it. Do it now! She talks from the perspective of someone who tried to go the adoption route, but is now living a kick-ass (her words) life without children. Many of you might share her perspective, or recognise some of her concerns from your own experience. There was an interesting series of posts from different bloggers some years ago about why we did not adopt. Here’s my post at that time, and it includes links to other posts.

She noted that she hoped her comments would not be seen as sour grapes, given that she did not get the child(ren) she had hoped for from adoption. It was this sentence, above all others, that set me thinking, and that inspired this post.

Why should we feel that our comments on a process that did not work for us should be disparaged as “bitter” or “sour grapes” compared to those who are considered the “success” stories? Answer = we shouldn’t. Our views are just as valid, and perhaps more so, because we are evidence that the processes are not infallible, that they don’t work for everyone, and in many cases, they don’t work for the majority. Everyone needs to understand why that is. Our voices count, and should be heard.

In general, people who get what they wanted understandably find it hard to critique the processes that gave them their heart’s desire, however hard they were to go through. Stepping back and looking at these difficult processes objectively can be very confronting to them. (Though Lori LL is a notable exception, and is doing great work talking about adoption.) How can someone who got the child they wanted critique the process if, in doing that, they feel they’re betraying that child? How can they critique a process or agency or clinic when that can be seen as a critique of their own decisions, or of them and their families. It’s not surprising some might react defensively, or simply be unable to step back and review the process without bias. Those of us who went through these processes but came out without a child have a very different perspective on what is good, what needs to be changed, and why. But for the adoptive/IVF parents, it is as if they wouldn’t have their children if things needed to be changed. And that becomes terrifyingly unimaginable for them.

And of course, the best form of defence is attack. So yes, it is true, just as Jess feared, that some of the “successes” of assisted reproduction/adoption etc will label us as bitter, our perspective as “sour grapes,” and any criticism is seen as “not getting over it.” Or they think we’ve taken the easy way out, and didn’t deserve their “success.” I’ve seen all these reactions in the media, in blogs, and in email exchanges. Our own Pamela Tsigdinos has been subjected to this view in the media, but is undeterred, still speaking out on IVF still speaking out on IVF and patient rights just last week. It’s a case of being prepared to see things from a different perspective. We all have different points of view, and those who didn’t get the “golden ticket” may even have a wider perspective. We learn to see a subject from all sides, because we’ve been on both sides – the hopeful who desperately want it to work, and those for whom hope wasn’t enough.

It is precisely because of this differing perspective that we are the ones who should be speaking out. I see both the joy of the wanted results and the problematic issues around the assisted reproduction industry and adoption – the so-called success rates, regulation and limits and lack of limits, over-pricing and prescribing, the treatment of birth parents, care or lack of care for the children involved, payment and non-payment, support and lack of support, and all the myriad international and cultural issues, etc. It’s not a contradiction to both be pleased that there are paths to parenthood for the infertile, and to want to ensure these paths take care of those prospective parents during and after this process, as well as act in the best interests of the children who may emerge from this. That’s not sour grapes. It is in fact much more holistic. And maybe we might actually be better placed to think about the children’s interests, because we don’t have that deep, personal parental relationship that can at times (understandably) trigger defence mechanisms and block honest reflection.

It should be a requirement to consider all these factors in any discussion about assisted reproduction or adoption. All of these processes are far more complicated than the public discourse or industry advocates ever acknowledge. Along with the details – the science, financial, emotional and societal issues – of adoption or assisted reproduction, they don’t talk about the hidden results that no-one involved really wants to acknowledge. The No Kidding. Us. Me. My existence suggests an outcome no-one wants to admit is real or is statistically very significant, and is terrifying to those people entering these processes. It’s easier not to consider us, talk to us, or include us.

Yet we might be the ones who understand best what the data means to real people. Many of us who walked away from IVF or assisted reproduction or adoption – either before by choosing not to go through the process, or after, when it was clear there wouldn’t be a baby coming as a result – are the ones who recognised these risk factors, who understood the data, the implications of all the various options and avenues, and made the hard decision – or had it made for us – and had to walk away. That was never easy. But it is an outcome that everyone needs to acknowledge, and more importantly, understand.

After all, our message is that our outcomes should not be hidden, ignored, or feared. We shouldn’t be erased from the conversation. We should be an important part of it. Our perspective counts.

That is why I’m immensely proud of Jess that her always wise perspective was included in the conversation around Adoption Unfiltered. (Of course, I’m immensely proud of Lori LL and her co-authors too.) In fact, I think it is terribly important, and moving – monumental even – that someone who didn't get the baby they wanted should be the one to talk about that. An unfiltered discussion indeed!

Our voices count, and our voices matter. Sadly, the opportunities to use them are still too few and far between.

 

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?