I was never sure I wanted children.
At family functions, I was never the clucky one wanting to cuddle the baby; dreaming of becoming a mum one day. It just wasn’t me.
When I shared these feelings with my first serious boyfriend, Matt*, the man I would later marry, I was surprised to be issued with an ultimatum.
‘I want to get married and I want to be a dad. If that’s not what you’re up for, I would rather not waste my time now,’ he told me.
Devastated, we split up.
I took some time to think about what I really wanted. It was so hard to imagine my future without Matt in it. If kids were what was going to make him happy, maybe that would make me happy too?
I talked myself into the possibility of one day becoming a mum and we got back together.
Looking back, this was a sliding doors moment for me. Because now I have three children, I think back to this crossroads in my life often and wonder: If I’d remained child-free, would I have been happier?
Sadly, I’m almost certain the answer is yes.
A mother who had children because her husband wanted them has admitted she sometimes asks herself if it was all worth it (stock image posed by models)
Matt and I got engaged in our early 20s, bought a house and then I fell pregnant. We weren’t exactly ‘trying’ but I was being lax enough with my contraception to accept this was practically inevitable.
While Matt was excited, I started to panic. I felt like I was just starting to climb the ladder in my career – now my progress was going to stall.
Money was a big concern, too.
‘How are we going to afford this?’ I worried to Matt.
‘We’ll manage,’ he reassured me.
Even as my pregnancy progressed, I had this deep sense I was getting into something I was completely unprepared for. Something I didn’t truly want.
I had to be induced at 34 weeks due to pre-eclampsia and high blood pressure. The birth was traumatic and when the nurse finally laid my son James on my chest, I felt nothing.
He looked like a tiny, crying alien. It was surreal.
My husband Matt* was the one who really wanted kids, whereas I was too busy climbing the corporate ladder to stop and think about it (stock image posed by models)
I didn’t feel that immediate rush of love most mothers talk about. It took a good six months before I started to feel connected to him.
The recovery from the birth was tough, as was breastfeeding. Getting up every two hours to feed him was the hardest thing I’d ever done. I was used to managing multiple clients and being put under pressure, but this was a whole new level.
I was really in the trenches now. And as much as I’d been determined not to let being a mum become my entire identity, it was impossible to avoid. Of course I talked about dirty nappies and sleep schedules all day long… what else did I have to contribute to the conversation?
You might wonder why I went on to have two more kids after this. Well, it was five years before we had our second, and another five before our third – I needed that long to get over the birth, newborn months, and toddler years each time.
Plus, there was a part of me that hoped the next time might be different. That I might get it right; that I might actually feel the way I was supposed to about motherhood.
But I never did.
The weight of it all – the responsibility – is crushing. The never-ending noise in my head asking if I’m doing enough is deafening.
It’s all too much, all day, every day. And it never stops.
Whenever I catch up with a child-free friend, I want to cry when I see how well-rested they are. I seethe with jealousy as they tell me about their latest career achievement, holiday booking, or expensive, frivolous purchase.
How I’d kill for a lie-in on a Saturday morning. Or even just a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. An hour to read quietly. An afternoon to get my hair done or have a massage.
I used to be like you, I think. I used to be happy and carefree. I used to be a person – not just a mother and a wife.
I want to scream: I knew I didn’t want this life! Why didn’t I listen to my gut?
Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids fiercely. I’d do anything for them. But most of the time, that doesn’t feel like enough. I just wish someone had told me the truth about what it’s really like.
The hardest part? I’m mostly doing it alone.
Matt talked about kids with a certainty I didn’t have – now he’s barely home. When he is, he gets to be ‘fun dad’ – the one who wrestles on the floor and buys donuts.
Meanwhile I’m the one with the lunchboxes, the emotional labour, the mental checklists and the late-night spirals about whether I snapped too much today or forgot to say ‘I love you’ when I dropped them off at school.
Feeling regret about having kids is the ultimate taboo for women. You feel like the worst person alive just for admitting it to yourself. There’s no way you could face the judgement you’d receive if you confessed it publicly.
But I know I can’t be the only one.
If I could go back in time and make a different choice, I’d ask one question: Would I still get these exact three kids?
Because if the answer was yes, I’d do it all again – every messy, broken, beautiful moment. Because they’re mine. They’re magic. I cannot imagine this world without them in it.
But if the answer was no – if it meant different children or a different path – I’d say no. And that truth lives quietly inside me, like a secret I’m not sure I’m allowed to hold.
You see, I don’t enjoy motherhood on principle. I don’t consider it a blessing or a duty. I’m simply lucky I have good kids. If I didn’t, my life would be one of total regret.
My advice to you if you’re on the fence about having kids is don’t make a decision based on social pressures and expectations. Choose your own path and understand what you truly want.
- *Names have been changed. As told to Carina Stathis
