the freedom of not following the clock

i don’t want kids, and no, that doesn’t mean i don't love them

Bear with me while I start with a poem—one I wrote after another woman assured me, “Don’t worry, you’ll change your mind when you meet the right person.”

They tell me, you’ll change your mind.
As if my body is a rental car,
and one day I’ll wake up craving a car seat
instead of an open road.

They say, but you’d be such a good mother!
And maybe I would.
Maybe I’d braid hair with steady hands,
pack lunches with little love notes,
memorize lullabies and monster-proof closets.
My ovaries do quake when I see babies—
their moonbeam cheeks, their dimpled fists,
the way they clutch your finger like a secret.

But love is not a summons.
And knowing what I could be
does not change what I choose to be.

They call me selfish with mouths full of demands,
as if the world is starving for more people
but not more love.
As if I am hoarding something I was meant to give.

And yet, here I stand, arms wide,
heart spilling over for the children
who are already here—
the nieces and nephews, the students and dreamers,
the kids who need books and safe hands,
a world that holds them like it means it.

I do not need to be a mother to mother.
I do not need to birth to love.
I do not need to choose their life
to know that theirs should be full of light.

And if that is not enough for the inquisitive,
well—the nerve of them, honestly.

A Radical Love: Living Life Without Reproach

I’ve known I don’t want children since I was 18. It’s probably the first truly responsible adult decision I ever made. It wasn’t a phase or a rebellious streak—it was a quiet, undeniable certainty that settled into me like a well-worn coat. At 18, I could barely figure out how to wash my sweaters without shrinking them, let alone understand taxes or insurance plans, yet I understood this about myself with an absolute clarity: my heart didn’t - and doesn’t - yearn for motherhood.

I can already hear the chorus of the responses - “You’ll change your mind,” they say. The assumption, always, that this decision is something to be cured, something that can dissipate the moment I meet someone “worthy” of changing it. I’d love to know what kind of magic they think that is, that a person can unlock a deep, unspoken yearning that’s apparently always been part of me.

It’s not that I don’t love children. I do. I adore them. My love for children is vast. I have spent my life advocating for their well-being, delighting in their curiosity, absorbing their messy, magical ways of seeing the world. The softness of a baby’s cheek, the light in a child’s eyes when they discover something new, the way their laughter can fill up a room like it’s the most precious thing in the world. But for me, love is something that exists in all kinds of forms, something that transcends biology. My love for children is not confined to the ones I would bear, but rather to the nieces, nephews, students, friends’ kids, the children of the world who deserve more than to simply be born—they deserve to be seen, nurtured, cherished, and protected.

And so I stand as a woman whose life is defined not by what she doesn’t want, but by the love she gives to those already here. I am as much a mother as anyone—no, I haven’t carried a child in my belly, but I hold space in my heart for children everywhere. I do not need to give birth to make a difference. I do not need a biological tie to know that every child deserves a world filled with care and dignity.

The Pressure to Conform

But for all the love that surrounds me, there are always the voices, those well-meaning but intrusive remarks that come with the territory of being a woman who is resolute in her decision. "Who will take care of you when you’re old?" they ask, as if I need someone to care for me in my old age to justify my very existence. The irony is not lost on me—why should I give birth simply to be cared for in my later years? As if the love of a child, born to meet my future needs, is somehow more genuine than the friendships, the family, and the love I cultivate throughout my life.

"You’ll change your mind when you meet the right person," they say. The assumption that my uterus can be swayed by a partner’s presence as though it is some kind of dormant seed waiting to sprout. But the truth is, it’s not about waiting for someone else to change my mind—it’s about my own agency in deciding the path that feels right for me.

“Don’t you want your genes to go on?” they ask. But I’m not so sure my particular genetic mix is the one that humanity desperately needs more of. My genes, for all their quirks, won’t be the reason the world is better. The world is better because we care for each other, because we raise one another up, because we make it better, together, in ways that don’t rely on who we are, but how we love.

And then comes the ultimate one: “My children are my world. Don’t you want something to give you purpose?” But I already have purpose. My purpose is not defined by procreation but by the impact I can have on those around me, by the art I create, the relationships I nurture, the causes I support. And yes, one of those purposes is being the best damn aunt and friend to the children in my life as I can be.

Selfishness or Liberation?

And yet, there is always that one word that lingers in the air: selfish. “How can you be so selfish?” they ask, as if the very act of not wanting children makes me somehow less worthy of compassion, less deserving of understanding. But let’s talk about this word, shall we?

Selfishness is a term often weaponized to keep women in line. It’s a way to shame us, to remind us that our lives are supposed to be about giving to others, particularly in the form of children. But what if it’s the other way around? What if it’s selflessness that is truly radical? The ability to be self-aware enough to know what you do and don’t want, and to live that truth unapologetically? What if selfishness is merely a projection of societal expectations, a tool used to keep us in roles that don’t serve us?

If I were to have children out of obligation—because society says that’s what I should do, because the narrative of womanhood is incomplete without them—would that be selfless? Or would it be the truest form of selfishness: the kind that demands we conform to an outdated ideal, rather than living freely on our own terms? To me, choosing not to have children is an act of liberation. It’s about carving out space in my life to grow in ways that are uniquely mine, without constantly having to justify myself, my choices, or my body.

The Biological Clock? Never Heard of Her

Here’s the thing I’ve never understood: the biological clock. You know, the one everyone seems to think will kick in at some magical age and suddenly compel me to start having babies. I’ll be the first to admit, I’ve never once thought about my biological clock. Not a single tick or tock of it has ever crossed my mind.

It’s almost as if I’m immune to it. I don’t feel a ticking countdown or a panic to do something that everyone else seems to think is inevitable. Maybe that’s how I know my decision is the right one—I’ve never been swayed, never been unsettled by some imaginary deadline. And every time I hear someone talk about “the biological clock,” I can’t help but feel grateful that I’m not burdened by it, that my life isn’t measured by someone else’s timeline.

Because if I had waited for that clock to tell me what to do, I might have missed out on all the things I’m already doing: carving out my own space in the world, growing the relationships that matter, and building a life on my own terms.

Love Will Be Enough

So, what if we stopped putting women’s lives in a box, as if our decisions must all lead to motherhood to be legitimate? What if we celebrated women who choose their own paths, regardless of what society expects? A woman’s life is full of possibility, not limited by expectations of who she should become, but expansive in who she can choose to be.

Maybe we’ll raise children, maybe we won’t. Maybe we’ll create art, run businesses, spend our lives in activism, or perhaps we’ll have no clear “purpose” at all—but one thing is certain: we will love, and that love will be enough.

So to those who ask, “Why don’t you want kids?” I simply say, “Because I have everything I need right now—love, adventure, agency, and a future built on my own terms.”

And if that makes some people uncomfortable (*ahem*, Mr. Vice President), well - perhaps they should spend less time worrying about our wombs and more time wondering why it’s so threatening to let women live.

xo,

liv

P.S. To the mothers—your choice is beautiful too. We don’t have to want the same things to respect each other.