Not All Childless Women Were “Waiting for a Man”…Some of Us Just Didn’t Want to Parent on Our Own

We all deserve to choose our own paths to motherhood

“It’s such a shame she wasted her whole life waiting for a man.”

“I know, right? She could have just adopted.”

“That’s not even the only option. She could’ve chosen IVF. Or used a surrogate if she has fertility issues. But she was so obsessed with finding a man that she didn’t even think outside the box.”

“Well, doesn’t that say it all? Obviously, she didn’t really want to be a mother. This was about validating herself by finding a husband. She says she’s sad she didn’t get to have children, but that option was always open to her. She just couldn’t see that because she was so obsessed with getting a man.”

“That’s how you know someone is a fake feminist. They say they’re so independent and believe in women’s empowerment, but when it comes right down to it, they can’t see any possibility for following their dreams without a husband.”

“Pathetic.”

Where does the road to motherhood begin? Many might say at conception, but weren’t some of those pregnancies planned? And don’t those plans count as a beginning point?

And what about the fact that many of those women wanted to be mothers years before even that? Perhaps since they were teenagers. Or little children. Surely that must count, particularly because not all women are going to have babies the “traditional” way — i.e. conceiving a child via a heterosexual relationship.

What about women who aren’t heterosexual? What about women who are infertile? What about women who know they want to adopt from the beginning?

We all take a journey when it comes to motherhood — whether we become one or not. Where does it begin?

I could say my own journey to motherhood began in early childhood. Isn’t that the case for so many women born into patriarchal cultures? Little boys gets cars and tools to play with. Little girls get dolls. It wouldn’t be inaccurate to say we were indoctrinated into motherhood.

And it worked like a charm for me. I had so many dolls, my bed was almost covered with them. My mother constantly reminded us that there was nothing more noble or fulfilling than becoming a mother, and she seemed to love being a stay at home mom.

I knew I wanted to be a writer by the time I was in second grade. But that was in addition to a role I didn’t even question I would fulfill: motherhood.

I learned about adoption early on. It was the 80s, for god’s sake. Annie was my life.

Adoption was so romanticized back then. Whether it was a musical or other media portrayals and societal scripts, it seemed universally acknowledged that there were far too many children in the system who didn’t have loving, stable homes in which to grow. And wouldn’t it be so noble, so beautiful to swoop in and bring them into our homes?

It’s a little cringy to think of now. For so many reasons.

And one thing I have learned is that few actually think it’s noble, at all. They’ll whisper about you behind your back that you “cut corners” and “took the easy way out.” You’re not a “real” mother until you push a baby out of your vagina.

It was exciting to see the pathways to motherhood expand as I grew into adulthood. I was thrilled at the realization that I didn’t have to have a male partner in order to become a mother. There were so many options.

However, it’s hard to choose anything beyond the traditional path in this culture when doing so puts you in the crosshairs of constant judgment. I saw that, too. The women I knew who pursued motherhood on their own were constantly deflecting the criticisms that came their way. Desperate, sad, pathetic, couldn’t get a man so she took the only option she had left.

It was brutal. Even my friends who were divorced mothers — which was most of them — were constantly judged for “not being able to hold on to a man.”

For a long time, I just wanted to fit in. The women I knew who were happily married and taking the traditional route to parenthood were lauded. The social clout they had was enviable.

Yes, I wanted that. I wanted to feel like I belonged. Like I was normal.

Wasn’t it all just easier, anyways? Being with a man meant I didn’t have to fill out paperwork, didn’t have to put myself through medical procedures, didn’t have to deal with the challenges of contracting a surrogate. All I would have to do is have sex.

And I wouldn’t have to deal with the judgment. I would fit in. I’d be invited into the fold with other women.

For a long time, that option was so appealing to me.

In fact, if I’m being honest, it wasn’t just appealing. I couldn’t imagine doing it any other way. I was too scared not to follow the pack.

I thought I was going to get married and have a baby in my thirties. I was certain of it. I’d met a man who definitely wasn’t a perfect fit, but it just seemed inevitable that we were going to take that journey together. He constantly talked about it in the early months of our relationship. He wanted it as much as I did.

But once we moved in and he started exhibiting signs of cold feet (frigid, really), I didn’t know what to do. Everyone told me to walk away. I only had so many childbearing years left. I should run and never look back, they all said.

But I was astounded by their overly-simplistic advice. Leave? The man I was so in love with?

None of them had ever been in that position before. Would they really have walked away if there was a chance they wouldn’t get to fulfill their dream of motherhood?

Which do you want more? The man you’ve loved for years or the baby you always dreamed of? I was stunned by the grief of being expected to make a choice like that, and being judged for making what seemed to be the wrong one.

I was 38 when he left. No one was surprised. His new partner had a young child from a previous relationship. He was so excited to adopt him, even though he had spent the last years of our relationship telling me he wasn’t sure he wanted to be a parent, after all.

No one was surprised about that, either.

Did I have regrets? A different feeling about the choices I had made with the benefit of hindsight? Honestly, I did not.

My dream wasn’t that I wanted to be a mother.

My dream had always been creating a partnership with someone who would take the journey of parenthood with me.

For years, everyone reminded me that the clock was ticking. I was 38, remember? I was about to lose my chance to have a child.

They told me to adopt. They told me to try IVF. They told me to get a surrogate.

I chose the most unforgivable option: To let things play out.

I wanted children and a partner. I wanted to experience parenthood as part of a team. I wanted adult support within reach.

I was surprised by how many people tried to intervene. Didn’t I know there were other options? They even often snapped at me, “Why don’t you just adopt?!”

I didn’t need interventions. I didn’t need suggestions. I didn’t need lists of options.

I knew what was available to me. And none of those options were right for me.

I felt ashamed for a long time. People told me I was not brave. Not a real feminist. They called me selfish. Lazy. Someone once even told me I was a terrible example to the young women of the world.

I never understood all the vitriol. Or even the invasive interest in my personal choices. How did any of my decisions around motherhood affect anyone?

But one day, it occurred to me that women are making choices on their journeys to motherhood every single day. They choose whatever is best for them. Whatever works for them. Many of them get to choose when they conceive. Many get to choose how and where they want to have their babies. They all have their preferences about how they become mothers.

Why shouldn’t I have the same privilege? I wanted a certain kind of family. And the other options were not right for me. It’s as simple as that.

I chose to let things play out, knowing I might have to navigate many years of grief if I didn’t get to experience what I’d dreamed of. But how is that different from any other choice we make? Every single one comes with the risk of loss. Every single intervention we make — and those that we don’t — can cause us grief on the other side.

I’m proud of myself for knowing exactly what I wanted and not compromising on that vision. I’m proud of myself for knowing that being a single mother wasn’t the right path for me. I’m proud of myself for respecting my dream.

And I’m so, so proud that I managed to do this in the face of constant, overwhelming criticism.

I didn’t waste my life waiting for a man. I found my life in his absence. And though I will never have the daughter I dreamed of, I am living this life as if she is watching everything I do.

I would have wanted her to be a strong woman who knows herself well and remains loyal to herself no matter how much pressure the world puts on her. Just like her mama.

© Yael Wolfe 2023

Yael Wolfe is a writer, artist, and photographer. You can find more of her work at yaelwolfe.com. If you love her writing, leave her a tip over at Ko-fi.

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