Childless Thirty-Five-Year-Old Woman

Yesterday was my 35th birthday. Thirty-five feels icky, like a big fat reminder that my youth is gone. Every person who found out I was turning thirty-five responded by asking if I had kids. When I said no, they weren’t afraid to remind me that my biological clock is ticking. Childless thirty-five-year-old women seem to be an anomaly, especially among older white folks.

My childhood best friend recently gave birth to her fifth kid. Our post-high school paths could not have been more different. She did everything “right” according to societal norms. She found a guy who makes a lot of money, tied that shit down early, and now homeschools five little ones. I, on the other hand, did everything “wrong.” The only thing I’ve done five times since high school is get arrested.

The full moon in Pisces brought a heavy wave of grief. The older I get, the more aware I am of how unorthodox my life has been. My life experiences do not fit a traditional mold, requiring me to pave my own path without a blueprint from past generations (Alexa, play You’re on Your Own, Kid by Taylor Swift).

One thing I never thought I’d say is: I spent my 35th birthday alone and wouldn’t have had it any other way. I had the day off from work and stayed in my PJs. I took two naps, ate four pieces of cake, and took my dog for a 39-degree, vitamin D-replenishing bike ride. I attended three Tempest calls, pulled some tarot cards, meditated, and ordered take-out Thai food for dinner. I let myself cry and grieve and process.

That might not seem like a typical birthday celebration, but spending a day in solitude is the most soothing practice in my sobriety toolkit. To recharge, I need at least one day each week where I can just be without having to fake or change my emotions. Resting and metabolizing in silence is a luxury.

Being alone feels like a revolutionary act because I avoided it for almost thirty-three years. Pre-sobriety, I spent all my free time with bulimia and alcohol. To be alone and not self-harm is the ultimate celebration.

This morning I noticed that my grief has morphed into relief. Honestly, I couldn’t be more grateful to ring in my 35th year without kids. Maintaining my mental health, processing complex PTSD, navigating recovery in a diet and alcohol-obsessed culture, paying my bills in late-stage capitalism, staying out of jail, and keeping myself alive is hard work. I can’t imagine having the extra responsibility of kids. 

Being a proud childless thirty-five-year-old woman and breaking free from my conservative upbringing might seem controversial, but if Chelsea Handler can do it, so can I. My worth as a woman is not dependent upon reproduction. I am allowed to make my own decisions about my own body.

Trying to fit into the narrow, heteronormative, misogynistic box of womanhood almost killed me. Childless thirty-five-year-old women are not a sign of immorality. We are a sign of freedom. Just because my life doesn’t look a certain way doesn’t mean I did anything wrong.

Someday I will get my driver’s license back, buy an RV, travel with three dogs, and write a book. My biological clock might be ticking, but that doesn’t mean I can’t give birth to my dreams.

Progress.