She Didn't Want Kids. I Nodded And Said Nothing.

Photo by Alina Nichepurenko on Unsplash.

"I don't want to have kids." My client said firmly. There was an air of calm around her statement. As if she just said "no, thank you" to sparkling water at a restaurant. She was genuinely fine with it. Her face appeared neutral. Not angry or elated, just somewhere in the middle. Content.

From my perspective, the half of her I could see through the screen, was totally at peace with her statement. A decision we discussed for so many sessions, now diluted to 6 single-syllable words. "I don't want to have kids." I wondered what it was like for her to say that out loud to me.

Outwardly, I could feel myself nodding, almost automatically. A motion that came naturally to me, to show a sign of solidarity with my clients. Almost as if I was whispering, "I'm here with you. I understand you."

It was in this exact moment, I noticed myself picking at the skin on my thumbnail. I was truly present with her in this moment, but I would be remiss if I didn't admit what was going on in my head at that moment. When a client told me she doesn't want kids, I had 3 competing reactions inside of me.

The first reaction was one rooted in compassion. I know how much this decision weighs on women, how enormous this choice is, and I was supportive in her taking it seriously. I understand how important it is to truly feel ready to step into a role that hardly follows a manual. I also understand how incredibly important it is to feel truly safe with your partner, and knowing you can rely on them when you become parents. Knowing that once you bring that child into this world, that you will have to be a united front when it comes to raising your kids. That involves heavy lifting…like teaching your kids morals, passing down your values, styles of discipline, support, schooling, and most importantly, how you will co-regulate each other when you just. cant. even. anymore. Feeling supported by your partner in all of that is fundamental. That inner knowing is your intuition, and should not be ignored.

My second reaction was one that related more to myself than to my client. Of course I would want to have kids. I started to think about my own privilege and the fact that I do have so much support, whether paid or from family, in taking care of and helping me raise my kids. This capability allowed me to fulfill my desire to have kids….but it also showed me my own limits. After having two kids, I realized how complete I truly feel, and the yearning for more truly does not appeal to me. Perhaps this feeling of resolve is similar to what my client was feeling as her statement echoed in my ears, "I don't want to have kids."

Nothing prepared me for my third internal reaction though. I found myself feeling…well…bad for her. Sitting across from me, mid-30s, fairly attractive, successful, in a healthy relationship, but usually filled with so much melancholy. It didn't help that I objectively understand that I have no right to feel bad for her. Who am I to feel bad for a woman who seems resolved in her decision not to procreate? Why do I feel like I want to both hug and shake her at the same time? I felt an urge to congratulate her for making her decision and stating it so boldly, and an opposing one that yanked at me like a toddler on their mother's shirt. The competing urge was to tell her it's ok to feel scared.

Becoming a mom is an incredible experience to have. Knowing that you have someone to live for outside of yourself and outside of material goods is unmatched. The thought of creating someone who can potentially create something bigger than you in the future is such an intense thought, it feels almost surreal. I began to build a case in my head, a rebuttal of sorts, that I could present to her in an effort to get her to truly think about her future. For the next few decades it would be fun. At forty. At fifty. At sixty even. But what will happen to her at 70? At 80? What will happen when inevitably…her parents and siblings are no longer there? What will loneliness feel like for her?

And that's when I realized what I was doing. These thoughts weren't concern for her future. They were concern for my own.

My client held up a mirror to my own worry. I noticed I just described kids as insurance against my own loneliness. I realized I was building a case for kids out of future return. I was thinking about them as a source of something I can pour into, like a cup that runneth over unless there is a catchall in the shape of 10 tiny fingers and toes to receive it. As if that would be the thing that makes my cup just perfectly half full. Or half empty. My own fear was what if no one gives a shit about my cup at 70?

I don't know what the appropriate response should have been in that moment. But I quickly realized that we were both afraid of the same thing, but from opposite directions. We're both looking at the same empty cup in the future…we're just betting on different ways to fill it. I'm not sure which of us is braver, or which of us is right.

So I nodded, and I stayed with her, because that was the only thing I was sure of.

A note on privacy: this isn't about one specific person. It's a composite drawn from patterns I've seen across many years and many rooms. No real client, session, or otherwise identifying markers. That matters to me, and it should.

This piece was originally published in Little Notes from Your Therapist.

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A note on privacy: this is not about one specific person. It is a composite drawn from patterns I have seen across many years and many rooms. No real client, session, or otherwise identifying markers.

This post is written for educational purposes and is not medical or mental health advice, nor a substitute for care from a licensed provider. Reading it does not create a therapist-client relationship. If you are in crisis or need urgent support, call or text 988 in the United States, or call 911.