Will I regret not having kids?

As a 45-year-old woman who is 45, the question that continually echoes in my mind is: “Will I regret not having kids?”

I remember when I turned 30, a number of my close friends were already parents or were planning to become one soon.

Baby showers, first birthdays, and chats about sleep routines and teething became the norm.

Each event brought a new array of emotions—sometimes joy, sometimes envy, sometimes a sense of profound relief that I wasn’t knee-deep in diapers.

By 40, my social media was filled with pictures of teenagers attending their first prom or achieving academic milestones. There were tales of rebellion, love, laughter, and yes, moments of heartbreak too. Each story felt like a window into a parallel universe, one where another version of me might be living.

Now, at 45, as I sit with my cup of tea and watch the seasons change once more, the nagging thought returns. “Will I regret not having kids?”

To answer this question, I need to share a bit more with you about the life I’ve been living.

Living my best life

I have led a life that’s been adventurous, spontaneous, and largely uncompromised. I’ve hiked up mountains in Asia, sipped wine under the Tuscan sun, and taken up pottery classes on a whim. I’ve also nurtured my career, taken care of my aging parents, and adopted two furry companions who have brought immeasurable joy into my life.

Would any of this have been possible with children? Maybe, maybe not.

But the essence of my life isn’t just about the places I’ve been or the things I’ve accomplished. It’s also about the relationships I’ve cultivated, the time I’ve spent on self-discovery, and the countless hours of introspection. It’s in these quiet moments of reflection that the weight of the question often feels heaviest.

Have I missed out on the indescribable bond between a parent and child? The first steps, the innocent giggles, the late-night worries, and the overwhelming pride of seeing a part of you venture out into the world?

Probably.

But with every experience I’ve missed, I’ve also escaped some of the tribulations of parenting. The constant juggle, the guilt, the financial strain, and the eternal question of whether you’re doing it “right.”

Being a parent isn’t for everyone

When I was in my early 30s, a friend once told me, “Parenthood isn’t for everyone. And that’s okay.” Her words felt liberating.

Still, society often has a different script. It’s explained well in Justin Brown’s video below where he speaks about the pressure society puts on people to create a family.

Even now, I occasionally face sympathetic glances or veiled comments about the void in my life. I’ve come to understand that most of them come from a place of genuine concern or from their own experiences and reflections.

In the bustling years of my early 30s, amidst bridal showers and baby announcements, a dear friend, looking into my uncertain eyes, had whispered, “Parenthood isn’t for everyone. And that’s okay.” Those words, at that moment, felt like a gentle breeze on a sweltering summer day. They were liberating, reassuring, and something I didn’t realize I so desperately needed to hear.

Society, on the other hand, has a rather pronounced script for women, one that anticipates stages of life marked by wedding bells and lullabies. This script is so deeply ingrained that it almost feels sacrilegious to contemplate a deviation.

And so, even as the years have rolled on, I’ve been met with those lingering, often sympathetic glances, sometimes accompanied by a gentle pat on the hand or an almost imperceptible sigh from well-meaning relatives or acquaintances. Their words, while varied, all seem to hint at an underlying theme: “Isn’t there something missing? Don’t you feel an emptiness?”

Reflecting on these interactions, I realize that many of these sentiments aren’t rooted in judgment but stem from genuine concern, or perhaps they are reflections of their own life choices and the lens through which they view fulfillment. In their lives, children brought a purpose, a profound joy that they perhaps couldn’t imagine living without.

However, as years turned into introspective nights, I discovered that life is not a one-size-fits-all journey. The realization hit me gradually, like the soft light of dawn dispelling the darkness.

For some, fulfillment comes from nurturing a child, hearing the gleeful laughter resonate in their homes, and watching tiny feet take giant strides in the world.

For others, like me, contentment is found in different corners of life: in the pages of a book, in the embrace of a loved one, in the thrill of a new adventure or the satisfaction of personal achievements.

My legacy will be created differently

I’ve contemplated the kind of legacy I’ll leave behind. Will there be anyone to pass down family heirlooms or stories? Will there be someone who will remember me with fondness decades after I’m gone?

But legacy, I’ve realized, isn’t just about blood. It’s about the impact we make, the love we give, and the memories we create. I’ve mentored countless young adults in my profession, supported charitable causes, and have an incredible circle of friends who I consider family. These relationships, these imprints I’ve left on hearts, are my legacy.

Throughout my life, I’ve had the privilege of guiding and mentoring numerous young souls in my professional sphere, each one a beacon of potential, looking up to me for a spark.

I’ve poured my heart into causes that resonate with my values, sowing seeds of change in fertile grounds of need.

And amidst life’s roller coaster, I’ve fostered connections that transcended the traditional definitions of family – an incredible circle of friends, companions, and confidantes who’ve stood by me, not bound by blood but by the unbreakable bonds of love and shared experiences.

These connections, these indelible marks on countless souls, are the essence of my legacy. Each life I’ve touched, each tear I’ve wiped away, each dream I’ve helped nurture – they collectively form the tapestry of my existence.

When generations yet unborn speak my name, it may not be in the context of familial lineage.

Instead, it might be a tale recounted by an aged protégé about a mentor who once believed in them, a story retold by a charitable foundation about a benefactor whose generosity sparked change, or perhaps a reminiscent smile shared between old friends, remembering a bond that defied time.

There’s no one-size-fits-all answer

I’ve also considered the reality of loneliness. What if, one day, I look around and find myself truly alone? It’s a valid fear, but then I remind myself that having children is no guaranteed antidote to loneliness. Life, with all its uncertainties, offers no guarantees.

One particular evening, amidst a conversation about life choices with a dear friend who is a mother of three, she said, “Sometimes, I envy your freedom. But then, when my youngest wraps her arms around me, all those feelings vanish.” We both had a moment of realization. There’s no one-size-fits-all answer. Regret, like beauty, is in the eyes of the beholder.

So, will I regret not having kids? The honest answer is—I don’t know. Just as there’s no perfect answer to many of life’s big questions, there isn’t one for this either. Life is a series of choices, each leading us down a unique path filled with its own joys and challenges.

For now, as the leaves flutter to the ground and winter beckons, I wrap myself in the warmth of the present. I embrace the life I’ve built, cherish the love I’ve received, and continue my journey with an open heart. Whatever the future holds, regret or contentment, I’ll face it with the same courage and curiosity that has guided me so far.