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I’m so glad I never had children. I’d be a terrible mother. I’m old enough now to know that. I’m also old enough that Instagram ads have almost completely stopped screaming “You’re almost out of eggs, are you SURE you don’t want to have a baby?" at me, and people no longer badger me about having kids. All round, it’s a peaceful existence, I must say.
There was a time in my life where I assumed I would have kids. There was a time when I wondered whether I should have them. I briefly worried I would regret not having them. And now, I’m so glad I never did. My reasons for remaining childfree have changed over the years, but relationship status, financial concerns, biology, fear of loss of autonomy, lack of overriding maternal instinct, and simply not wanting to all played a part. Dwarfing all of those factors though is my absolute conviction that I would make a hames of it.
I don’t know how parents don’t spend all day, every day, worrying that they’re creating monsters. Or passing down generational trauma. Or damaging this small person’s mental health in ways that will cost thousands in therapy in 20 years. We don’t have time for that, you childfree dose is what the parents reading this are probably saying, rolling their eyes and wondering how this week could possibly already have been midterm when the Christmas holidays just ended yesterday. Oh, and two of the kids have nits. Again.
The thing is though, I know they are worrying. And I know that the ones worrying the most are the women in my life who are raising boys. Yes, specifically mothers and specifically boys, because the responsibility of bringing up sons in the hope that they won’t continue the societal cycle of misogyny seems to me to be one of the greatest burdens a woman can carry in 2026.
One friend estimates that she devotes about one third of her parenting brain power to it. Another says she is terrified of keeping dialogue open with her small son as he gets older, but hopes that modelling the behaviour she’d like to see him grow into will set him on the right course. Every mother of sons I spoke to about this demonstrated how much they are engaging in efforts to raise “good” men.
We’re trying to change narratives that blame women for what they wear, or what time they choose to walk home alone at, and to shift the responsibility instead to the men who commit acts of violence against women. However, the labour required for that shift to happen is immense. It’s the emotional labour of mothers who want their sons to be kind, to embrace and normalise differences, to prioritise consent, to temper their strength with patience and rationale.
Most of the mothers of boys I know have expressed hope that they might have a queer son. The tired joke used to go that gay men are less likely to leave their mothers, but really, it’s the hope that an LGBTQI+ son might more readily treat others with empathy. Of course, it’s “not all boys” and “not all men”, but clued-in parents can at least recognise that it’s some boys and some men, and that the work starts at home.
In a recent Instagram post, US psychologist Dr Colleen Reichmann praised the mothers in her life for the work they’re putting in and said “their future partners will thank us later. But really, it’s just as much of a gift to our boys as it is to anyone else”, and what an important detail that is. We’re not trying to dull or hinder little boys so that girls and women can shine above them, we’re trying to raise adults who will be happier and more decent to each other across the board.
My friends with children are all frightened of social media, of access to violent and misogynistic pornography, of not being able to protect their children without wrapping them up in cotton wool. Millennial mothers are the first generation to raise children in a completely digital world, in a post #MeToo world, in an Andrew Tate world.
There are brilliant dads too. And the dads are so important, but in my life it’s the mothers I’m most attuned to. It’s the mothers I see doing the emotional labour, the worrying, the redirecting. It’s the mothers that the little boys are obsessed with, that the little boys want to marry, that the little boys deafen with their play. I am in awe of them. And I’m so glad it’s not me.
I’m so glad I never had children. I’d be a terrible mother. I’m old enough now to know that. I’m also old enough that Instagram ads have almost completely stopped screaming “You’re almost out of eggs, are you SURE you don’t want to have a baby?" at me, and people no longer badger me about having kids. All round, it’s a peaceful existence, I must say.
There was a time in my life where I assumed I would have kids. There was a time when I wondered whether I should have them. I briefly worried I would regret not having them. And now, I’m so glad I never did. My reasons for remaining childfree have changed over the years, but relationship status, financial concerns, biology, fear of loss of autonomy, lack of overriding maternal instinct, and simply not wanting to all played a part. Dwarfing all of those factors though is my absolute conviction that I would make a hames of it.
I don’t know how parents don’t spend all day, every day, worrying that they’re creating monsters. Or passing down generational trauma. Or damaging this small person’s mental health in ways that will cost thousands in therapy in 20 years. We don’t have time for that, you childfree dose is what the parents reading this are probably saying, rolling their eyes and wondering how this week could possibly already have been midterm when the Christmas holidays just ended yesterday. Oh, and two of the kids have nits. Again.
The thing is though, I know they are worrying. And I know that the ones worrying the most are the women in my life who are raising boys. Yes, specifically mothers and specifically boys, because the responsibility of bringing up sons in the hope that they won’t continue the societal cycle of misogyny seems to me to be one of the greatest burdens a woman can carry in 2026.
One friend estimates that she devotes about one third of her parenting brain power to it. Another says she is terrified of keeping dialogue open with her small son as he gets older, but hopes that modelling the behaviour she’d like to see him grow into will set him on the right course. Every mother of sons I spoke to about this demonstrated how much they are engaging in efforts to raise “good” men.
We’re trying to change narratives that blame women for what they wear, or what time they choose to walk home alone at, and to shift the responsibility instead to the men who commit acts of violence against women. However, the labour required for that shift to happen is immense. It’s the emotional labour of mothers who want their sons to be kind, to embrace and normalise differences, to prioritise consent, to temper their strength with patience and rationale.
Most of the mothers of boys I know have expressed hope that they might have a queer son. The tired joke used to go that gay men are less likely to leave their mothers, but really, it’s the hope that an LGBTQI+ son might more readily treat others with empathy. Of course, it’s “not all boys” and “not all men”, but clued-in parents can at least recognise that it’s some boys and some men, and that the work starts at home.
In a recent Instagram post, US psychologist Dr Colleen Reichmann praised the mothers in her life for the work they’re putting in and said “their future partners will thank us later. But really, it’s just as much of a gift to our boys as it is to anyone else”, and what an important detail that is. We’re not trying to dull or hinder little boys so that girls and women can shine above them, we’re trying to raise adults who will be happier and more decent to each other across the board.
My friends with children are all frightened of social media, of access to violent and misogynistic pornography, of not being able to protect their children without wrapping them up in cotton wool. Millennial mothers are the first generation to raise children in a completely digital world, in a post #MeToo world, in an Andrew Tate world.
There are brilliant dads too. And the dads are so important, but in my life it’s the mothers I’m most attuned to. It’s the mothers I see doing the emotional labour, the worrying, the redirecting. It’s the mothers that the little boys are obsessed with, that the little boys want to marry, that the little boys deafen with their play. I am in awe of them. And I’m so glad it’s not me.
