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There is something I have never felt comfortable saying out loud.
I never wanted to be a mother.
I knew that long before I ever became one.
When I was younger, I remember telling friends I didn’t want children. They thought I was joking. They told me I would change my mind.
I didn’t.
In university, when I started getting serious with my first boyfriend, he told me he couldn’t have children. He said it as if he was disappointing me.
I remember letting him believe that.
Not because it was true, but because I thought saying I didn’t want children at all might make him think less of me.
So I stayed quiet.
And eventually, I followed the same path most people do.
You date.
You get married.
You have children.
My husband and I did the same.
Years later, we talked about it and realised something neither of us had said at the time.
Neither of us had strongly wanted children.
If we had been honest with each other then, we likely would not have had them.
But we weren’t.
So we did what we thought we were supposed to do.
When I became pregnant, I wasn’t excited.
There was no emotional moment, no overwhelming sense of anticipation.
Even then, I knew.
After she was born, I took care of her. I did everything I was supposed to do.
But the role itself never changed for me.
I didn’t enjoy the “mother” parts of life.
I’m not a hugger.
I was the one who thought, if you’re not bleeding, you’re fine.
I avoided field trips whenever I could.
I didn’t take photos at every event or occasion.
I didn’t get emotional when she started school, went to camps, or left for university.
Those moments never felt like losses to me.
They felt like things moving forward.
That never changed.
Recently, she was home for about a week and a half over spring break. She had surgery while she was here, so I was taking care of her — making sure she was eating, taking her medication, and that she was comfortable.
And I did all of it.
But it was exhausting.
By the end of that time, I was ready for her to leave and go back to university.
Not because I don’t love her.
But because being needed in that way has always felt like work to me.
Now that she is grown, I enjoy our relationship more than I did when she was younger.
I like talking with her. I like hearing about her life.
I like the parts that feel more like friendship.
But there is still something added to it because I am her mother.
And that part has never felt natural to me.
For a long time, I thought something must be wrong with me.
Because no one says this.
No one admits they never wanted to be a mother.
But loving your child and wanting motherhood are not the same thing.
I love my daughter.
But I never wanted to be a mum.
And that has always been true.
— Kate
The first time I realised I might be different from other mothers, we were standing in a driveway on prom night.
Our children were dressed up, awkward and beautiful, posing for photographs before heading off to dinner. I was chatting with another mum about university plans — where her son was looking, where my daughter was considering.
She mentioned a school in Florida her son was thinking about. A local community college her daughter might attend. Then she said, almost wistfully, “Honestly, I hope they both decide to stay here. I’d be perfectly happy if they never left home.”
I remember nodding politely.
And thinking, Why wouldn’t they leave?
I love my daughter. Fiercely. I am proud of her independence, her ambition, her willingness to move eight hours away and build a life of her own.
But I have never understood the desire to keep her close simply because it makes me feel better.
When her final year of school approached, other mothers spoke about the coming emptiness as though it were a tragedy. They asked if I was ready. If I would cry. If I would miss her terribly.
I smiled and said I would miss her.
Which is true.
But I did not feel devastation. I felt readiness.
I have always believed children are meant to leave.
Not because we want rid of them.
But because we have raised them to stand.
When she chose to stay at university for the summer, some were surprised I wasn’t heartbroken. I shrugged. She is building her life. That is the point.
Perhaps I am odd.
I did not build my entire identity around motherhood. I did not centre my world solely on her schedule. Even when she was young, I encouraged sleep-away camps and independence. She thrived. So did we.
Loving your child and longing for an empty nest are not opposites.
They can exist side by side.
Pride does not always look like tears.
Sometimes it looks like stepping back and saying, Go on then. Live.
– Kate
I have been content on my own for as long as I can remember.
My grandmother likes to tell a story about me as a toddler. I was in one of those old wooden playpens, happily occupied. If I wanted out, I would remove a slat, climb out, let her into the room while my mother was napping, and then climb back in.
Not because I was trapped.
Because I was content.
My mother says I didn’t cry much. I didn’t fuss. I wasn’t dramatic. I was observant. Quiet. Self-contained.
For most of my life, I never thought much about it.
I did not feel misunderstood. I did not feel wrong. I simply assumed everyone processed the world internally the way I did.
Friendships were uncomplicated. Which was perhaps made easier since most of my friends were boys. There was very little emotional analysis, very little drama. We talked, we laughed, we moved on.
I did not unravel easily. When something hurt, I thought about it privately and then moved forward.
It wasn’t suppression.
It was regulation.
As I grew older, I began to realise not everyone moves through life that way. Some people need to speak their thoughts aloud. Some need reassurance. Some need visible affection and affirmation.
I have always needed very little.
That independence has served me well. It has made me capable. It has made me resilient. It has allowed me to stand firmly on my own two feet without demanding much from anyone else.
But I sometimes wonder what it costs.
When you are the steady one, people assume you are fine. When you do not cry, they assume nothing hurts. When you handle things quietly, they assume you prefer it that way.
And often, I do.
I am not a worrier. I do not spiral easily. I am rarely overwhelmed by emotion.
But being reserved does not mean being empty.
It simply means the waters run deep and still, rather than loud or visible.
The girl in the playpen did not need rescuing.
She was content.
The woman she became is much the same.
Independent. Measured. Observant.
Still capable of letting herself out when she chooses.
And perhaps still learning that sometimes, it is all right to let someone open the gate for her.
– Kate
There is a kind of grief people don’t often talk about.
The quiet grief of leaving a church you once believed would always be your church home.
For many years, our lives were deeply connected to one church. We didn’t just attend on Sunday mornings. We were there for Sunday school, morning services, evening services, and Wednesday nights. I sang in the choir, participated in specials, and played in the orchestra. Our daughter went to the school connected to the church.
In many ways, our lives were woven into that place.
And for a long time, it felt right.
We had joined not long after beginning to attend. The sermons were meaningful, the people seemed welcoming, and our daughter loved being there with her friends. After leaving another church where we no longer felt connected, it truly felt like we had found where we belonged.
For years we were all in.
But sometimes things change slowly, almost quietly, until one day you realise something feels different.
For us, that shift began with a situation involving the pastor’s family many years ago. It was handled in ways that raised questions for us. At the time, we tried to move past it and continue focusing on our faith and the good things happening in the church.
But when trust shifts even slightly, it can change how you hear things afterward.
Over time we began noticing other things more clearly.
The turning point came during our daughter’s senior year of school.
The pastor’s wife was coaching the volleyball team. Throughout that season, our daughter was placed under increasing pressure as the only senior on the team. She was told she should attend practice even when she was sick because she was supposed to be the leader.
At the first home game of the season, she was not named captain. Instead the captains were the coach’s daughter and her best friend. During that game our daughter made a diving play and was immediately criticised by the coach and removed from the game.
After the game the criticism continued.
I was so upset I had to leave the gym. My husband stepped in to support our daughter while the coach continued speaking to her.
What followed was a meeting with the pastor and his wife that felt less like a conversation and more like pressure for my husband to apologise for disagreeing with how things had been handled.
That meeting changed something permanently for him.
Respect once lost is very difficult to rebuild.
After that point, he continued attending Sunday school with me because we loved the teacher and genuinely felt we were learning there. But his trust in the pastor had been broken.
For a while we kept attending anyway.
Sometimes people stay longer than they should because leaving feels harder than remaining.
Eventually I realised something I hadn’t wanted to admit.
The only parts of church I still felt connected to were Sunday school and the music ministry I loved being part of. When our Sunday school teacher announced he would be leaving for a job out of state, it forced me to admit something to myself.
If the only reasons I was still attending were Sunday school and music, then perhaps I was no longer truly part of that church.
And church should never be reduced to a schedule of activities you feel obligated to attend.
So we left.
Looking back now, something else stands out to me that we didn’t fully recognise at the time.
Toward the end, getting to church had begun to feel like something we had to push ourselves to do. We were always there, but often rushing in at the last minute. Sometimes arriving just as things were starting.
Since leaving, something curious has happened.
On the Sundays we do attend church somewhere, we are ready early. So early that we often arrive and sit in the car for a few minutes before going inside.
Recently I mentioned that to my husband. I said perhaps that tells us something about the church we left.
He thought for a moment and said something that stayed with me.
“Toward the end it started to feel like a job. Like keeping up appearances. Not like going to worship.”
And hearing him say that made me realise he was probably right.
When we stopped attending, I assumed at least a few people might reach out.
After all, we had been deeply involved for years.
One person did.
Just one.
It was not the pastor, not the assistant pastor, and not anyone in church leadership.
Another message came months later, but it felt less like concern and more like someone confirming something they had already heard.
And that silence told us something important.
Perhaps the sense of family we believed existed there had not been as real as we thought.
Even so, leaving did not damage our faith.
If anything, it clarified it.
Our faith was never meant to be tied to one building or one group of people.
Faith is something steadier than that.
We still attend church most Sundays, visiting different congregations and learning what we can along the way.
We haven’t found a new place to call home yet.
But for now, that feels alright.
Because sometimes leaving a place is not the end of faith.
Sometimes it is simply the beginning of seeing it more clearly.
— Kate
I work a steady 9–5.
I am not underpaid. I am not mistreated. I am not overlooked.
In fact, I am valued.
I manage an office where I am trusted with details that matter. I am asked for my opinion. I am relied upon. There are days when I leave knowing I made someone else’s work lighter, easier, more organised.
There are parts of it I actually genuinely enjoy. Walking through properties with a notebook in hand. Taking photos. Noticing the details others might miss. Turning information into something presentable and polished.
And then there are the other moments.
The quiet stretches when there is nothing urgent to do. When I sit at my desk and feel the clock instead of the purpose. When I look out the window and think about all the things I could be doing if I weren’t here because I am “supposed” to be here.
It’s a curious tension — to be grateful and restless at the same time.
I know how fortunate I am. I know many would be thankful for the steadiness, the respect, the regular pay. I do not take that lightly.
But there is a part of me that wants more autonomy than appreciation.
I want to wake up and decide what the day will require of me. I want to work because I choose to, not because the clock says I must. I want to leave in the middle of the afternoon without calculating how it looks.
If money were not part of the equation, I would have left already.
Not out of anger.
Not out of rebellion.
But out of a quiet pull toward something self-directed.
Perhaps this is what happens at forty. You begin to notice the difference between security and freedom.
I am grateful for the life this job supports. Truly.
And yet, somewhere underneath the gratitude, there is a small voice asking,
“What would it look like to build something of my own?”
I don’t quite have the full answer yet.
But I am listening.
– Kate
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I married young.
Twenty felt grown at the time. It does not, in hindsight.
We did not have a dramatic love story. There were no grand gestures or cinematic moments. No lightning bolt when our hands touched. I was attracted to him, yes — but our beginning was steady, not electric.
If I’m honest, I used to wonder whether that meant something was missing.
I’ve read the novels. The ones that describe a spark so strong it feels almost violent. The kind of chemistry that consumes the room. I’m not sure we ever had that. What we had was conversation. Laughter. Ease. A shared sense that life together would be calm rather than chaotic.
Over twenty years, that steadiness has held.
We have never had a disagreement so sharp that I thought we might split. There have been seasons of distance. Moments when I wondered if we married too quickly. A period, around ten years in, when I quietly questioned whether I had mistaken comfort for compatibility.
Those thoughts did not linger. But they existed.
What we have built is something less dramatic and, perhaps, more durable.
We talk. Constantly. The best parts of our holidays are often the drives — long stretches of road where conversation unfolds without effort. We were careful, even when our daughter was young, not to lose ourselves entirely in parenting. We did not want to wake up to an empty house and realize we were strangers.
Now, with twenty years behind us, I can say this:
I am still myself.
Marriage did not swallow me. It did not shrink me. I have always known I could stand on my own two feet if I needed to. That independence has never threatened him, and his steadiness has never confined me.
Do I sometimes wish for more tenderness? Yes. I wish he would come up behind me in the kitchen and wrap his arms around me without prompting. I wish for small, unasked-for gestures. Not grand passion — just quiet closeness.
But longing for more does not mean lacking love.
It means I am still human. Still wanting. Still alive to the idea that marriage can continue growing, even twenty years in.
There is something deeply reassuring about choosing one another, again and again, without fireworks. Without spectacle.
Just two people who talk well. Travel well. Think similarly. Believe similarly.
It may not be the sort of love written about in novels.
But it is ours. It has grown with us — quieter, deeper, more certain.
And after twenty years, that feels like something rare.
– Kate
Kate Alderwick 