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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
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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Kate Alderwick 