Each time one of my friends has a baby, my heart feels two things at once: overwhelming joy for them, and a quiet, aching inner sadness. Because deep down, the years of hoping have brought me here, where I need to digest that babies are no longer on the cards for me.

For so long, through my 20s and 30s, I believed it would happen. I thought I would meet the person I wanted to have children with, and that motherhood was a given. But now, at 40, the reality feels different. The man I love has two children already, is 52, and doesn’t want more. Our time together is my whole heart; it feels like our lives have unfolded in a way that led us to each other – an unexplainable connection on all levels and everything I’ve ever wanted in a person I want to spend my life with… but as it turns out, a life that does not include starting a family of our own.

Sometimes I look at him and feel like the whole universe conspired to bring us together. The timing, the chances, the little twists in our lives that led us to cross paths – all of it feels almost too precise to be coincidence. He is my safe place, my greatest adventure. I can’t imagine choosing anyone else, and I wouldn’t trade what we have for all the hypothetical futures I once pictured. And maybe that’s part of why this ache feels so complicated – because the very thing I always wanted, a deep and enduring love, is here… just not in the exact shape I once imagined.

It brings Alanis Morissette to mind: “It’s like meeting the man of your dreams, then a year in, he tells you he doesn’t want more kids (it doesn’t rhyme – why should it? – it’s not how the story should go)… and who would have thought, it figures… See, life has a funny, funny way of sneaking up on you when everything’s okay…”

Yes, this whole message is sad. It just is. It’s sad and brutal and truthful. There is nothing here trying to talk myself in or out of anything – it’s just the truth of my now and what I am experiencing. If I 100% wanted to have children, it would be a no-brainer. If he were open to it, I still wouldn’t be sure. 

The big family I wanted would have started at 30 – 35 at a push. I’m 40 now, and I don’t want to compromise on only having one. I would want my children to have siblings so they have each other.

I waited all my life to meet the man I wanted to share that dream with, and now I realise that dream won’t come true the way I once imagined.

Sharing these feelings hasn’t helped. It’s hard to explain the ache of feeling left behind, like I’m watching life move forward without me. I once thought I would catch up – that motherhood would still find its way to me. But I can’t push for children with someone who doesn’t want more, and, honestly, I don’t think I want them anymore either. The older I’ve become, the more enormous the idea has felt; the less appealing, the less blissful. And looking at my friends – all consumed, endlessly providing, treading water – my gosh, even more frightening.

I also don’t believe the world needs more children – let alone the stress it would bring me and the pressure it might place on my happily-ever-after. Ah, but how I would love to have and hold my very own babies. But ones that stay babies – cute, adorable little ones forever. Because anything more than that feels overwhelming.

But logic doesn’t dull the ferocious biological urge. The sense that not having kids makes doesn’t stop my ovaries from aching when I’m near him. The fight against human reproductive instinct is maddening.

So… what do women like me do?

What do people think of childless women?

There’s a lingering “what’s wrong with her” smell that seems to follow me sometimes. It’s that unspoken judgement – the societal expectation that women should have children, and the subtle (or not-so-subtle) assumptions made when they don’t. But that doesn’t define me. It doesn’t define you.

Women without children, by choice, circumstance, or loss, build rich, meaningful lives in their unique ways. They nurture friendships, build careers, create communities, love animals, adventure, pour passion into projects, and live fully outside the mainstream narrative.

And that’s exactly what I’ve done.

About eight years ago, I co-founded Obs Pasta Kitchen in Cape Town- a soup kitchen with a twist – serving love as much as pasta to the homeless and needy – a community initiative with a heart. Every Wednesday, we serve a hot bowl of pasta to homeless and needy friends, but it’s much more than just a meal. I facilitate a guided meditation before dinner, creating a moment of calm and connection for everyone present.

Our space is built on warmth, respect, and belonging. Volunteers and guests share stories and laughter, building genuine human connections that nourish the soul as much as the food nourishes the body. Obs Pasta Kitchen is a living reminder that family and care come in many forms – and that serving others is one of the most meaningful gifts we can give.

Four years ago, I founded the Nyanga Hiking Club to bring children from township communities into nature – a world many had never experienced beyond their tough, gang-riddled streets. Through hiking and teamwork, we offer them a safe space to build confidence, friendships, and leadership.

The club is more than just walks in the outdoors; it’s about opening doors to hope, empowerment, and a sense of belonging. Watching these kids connect with nature and grow in strength and joy is one of the most rewarding parts of my life.

When I was younger, I always said I wanted “a hundred children” – my little exaggeration for wanting a big family of my own. Life has its own plans. And here I am, with 100 kids calling me mama in our club. Who knew? Be careful what you wish for – the universe listens and is damn literal. I also joke with them to rather see me as “aunty” or, even better, a big sister. I somehow still don’t feel “old enough” to be considered a mother yet.

I am also an English Community Confidence Coach at Hey Lady an online platform for women, where I help ladies step outside their comfort zone, find their voices, build confidence, and grow through language and conversation. This work is deeply rewarding, as I get to empower women to step into their power every day.

I adore my precious pets. At one stage, I had six. Now I’m down to three,  such devotion and loyalty – more my one doggy than my two dismissive cats, who blow hot and cold. But I am committed to my fur baby boy, Django, and having a home filled with animals is something I have never experienced life without. 

I have the freedom and flexibility to live a beautiful, full life on my own terms. And yet, when that question comes up, “So, when are you having kids?” – I feel alien, even though I know I have crafted a life full of meaning and love.

What cuts deepest is that all my life, people have told me what an amazing mum I would be. When I hold my friends’ babies, they tell me I’m a natural – that they can so see me “one day” with my own children. Those words once filled me with hope – a quiet promise of what was to come.

One of my dearest friends, who desperately longed for a child after miscarriages, finally had a beautiful baby girl. But two years later, this friend died suddenly and tragically – leaving that little girl behind. I have loved that child with all my might, fiercely and fully. That love has shaken me to my core and reshaped what family and motherhood mean to me. The times I have held her when everyone else was already holding their own babies… both “spare,” we have filled that void for each other, momentarily but deeply, many times.

I never followed the mainstream path, but I believed in trusting the universe to bring me motherhood someday. I watch friends who never wanted children end up having them – on purpose and not – others who made sure to have kids regardless of circumstances, and others who have faced heartbreaking, unimaginable loss. I know life offers no guarantees.

But I wish I had a better answer when people ask about children.

My love – the adoring and adored man who has raised my world to new heights – has a daughter who is 20 now. She talks about having kids one day, about her future husband, and her home. And I remember being that girl too – full of hope and certainty that motherhood was just around the corner.

Trusting the universe to align me with what was meant to be.

I remember being that girl, young and daydreamy.

How the hell did she just turn 40?!?!

But life, for me, unfolded differently.

The truth is, I missed the boat. Daddy issues compounded; I was waiting for a man I wanted, for certain, to be my baby’s father.

And, in this twist of fate,

I found him – too late.

And yes, that breaks my heart – deeply and sometimes unexpectedly. But alongside that heartbreak, I feel proud. Proud of the life I’ve built, the communities I’ve nurtured, and the love I give and receive every day.

Perhaps my heart’s longing has moved me to create, nurture, and mother in a hundred different ways – through my career, my heart work, my initiatives, my connections, and the life I live fully. I found purpose – my purpose – when I realised I had a gift in the way I empower people through teaching English. Over and above the language. And I haven’t stopped there.

But what to say when people ask, “When are you having kids?”

That question is one of the hardest to hear because it carries so much expectation and assumption. Over time, I’ve thought of a few ways to respond to protect my peace, and even invite understanding:

It once was, “When I find someone I want to have children with!”

Now, what?

• “I have a full and happy life, and that part of my story is private.”
  
  
• “I’ve chosen a different path, and it’s been a journey of creating and nurturing in many other beautiful ways.”
  
  
• “When I figure out how to juggle everything and stop time, I’ll let you know!” (A little humour to perhaps dispel the urge to say none of your fucking business.)
  
  
• “Firstly, that’s an inappropriate question with a complicated answer; and secondly, it’s personal and I prefer to keep it that way.”

But sometimes, when the question lands in that casual, thoughtless way – part of me wants to shatter the silence with brutal shock value – I’ve been tempted, I swear – to see the reaction if I said: “I’ve had a few miscarriages while trying if you really have to know.”

If you don’t know that already about a person, then it’s a clear sign you’re not close enough to ask that question.

Because!! Imagine!! Living through a series of trying and failing, and then being hit with that deeply personal and inappropriate question – over and over – in small, stupid talk. I wish people realised the weight that question can carry, and how deeply it can cut. Maybe then they’d steer away from it altogether. I feel for women who have had to endure that, carrying so much unspoken grief in the background. Do men ever get asked these things?

Bitterness and fiery tongue aside, these responses remind me – and hopefully others – that motherhood isn’t the only measure of a woman’s worth or fulfilment. And that sometimes, the best answer is one that honours your truth without needing to explain or justify.

This question, I still haven’t managed to deliver an answer that sits right with me. I’m forever explaining it all away – except for on the aeroplane the other day, when a Nigerian man asked:

1. “Do you have children?” (I answered no, already bracing for the follow-up.)
2. “Do you want to?”

I squinted in disapproval and, for the first time, practised my delivery: “Excuse me, but that’s a very personal question.”

It shut him up – coy and polite for the rest of the 10-hour flight. It felt good to hold my ground. And I thought I’d default to that afterwards. Yet no – I’m still caught off guard, defending what I dare to be doing with my life, as if it had the cheek to get in the way of the pride and glory of motherhood.

“I’m focusing on the life I’m building right now, which brings me so much joy,” is the smiley vanilla version, I suppose. Still makes me want to reach for a tissue and wipe the person’s nosy nose.

So when people ask, and they do and they will – I hold both truths close: the ache of what’s not, and the strength of what is. Because my story isn’t just about what I didn’t get to have – it’s about all the ways I have chosen to live, love, and create a life that matters.

I think when you’ve created such a full existence by 40, and are still so freshly in love, it’s very hard to imagine lunch boxes and school projects instead of travelling, loving, and being just the two of us. I love it – just the two of us. I do.

You see, I wish, in five years, I could think about taking the next steps.

Tick tock, they tap on their watch.

And I shrug. What else can I do?

This is my story. Raw, real, and true.

And whole. Me and my story.

Even when I don’t always feel that way. I am.

See, it’s the timeline. Like the title. That’s all.

And that’s the aaggghhhh frustration. 

Damn you, time, for outrunning me 💕