Childless but Chosen

Alright, let’s talk about the elephant in the room… well, not every room, but a lot of them.

I’m 37 years old, a Christian woman in a loving marriage, and I don’t have children.

Not because I don’t love kids—because I do.

Not because I never wanted to be a mother—because I was always open to it.

But because, from the very beginning, my husband and I made a decision: we would leave it in God’s hands.

I have PCOS, which makes getting pregnant, not impossible, but much more difficult. When my husband and I were dating, I was upfront about that. I told him that if he saw children as an absolute non-negotiable in his future, he needed to know that having them might not come easily. I also told him I wouldn’t put my body through fertility treatments. Not because I judge anyone who does—because I don’t. I know the deep longing that so many women feel to become mothers, and I understand why they pursue every option available. But I also knew, in my heart, that if it didn’t happen naturally, I wouldn’t force it.

Thankfully, my husband felt the same way. He told me he loved me, not just the idea of a future family, and that whatever God had for us would be enough. So we agreed: if God blessed us with children, we would welcome them with open arms. And if He didn’t, we would still choose to be joyful and content, knowing that our lives and our marriage were no less complete.

I wish I could say that others have shared in our peace about this, but the truth is, being childless in the church can be lonely. Most people my age have at least one kid, if not more. Bible studies, small groups, and church events often revolve around parenting struggles, school schedules, and how to raise Godly children in today’s world. And while I love the children in my life—I mean, I really love them—I don’t always know where I fit in these conversations.

Then there are the questions. The well-meaning but frustrating, invasive, and at times deeply hurtful questions.

“When are you going to start a family?”

“Don’t you want kids?”

“Have you thought about adoption?”

“You’d be such a great mom!”

People assume we are waiting. That we’re putting off something we’re supposed to do. That we haven’t thought this through. And the hardest part? The implication that our marriage, just the two of us, isn’t enough. That we aren’t enough.

But we already have a family. It may not look like theirs, but it is just as real. And more importantly, it is whole.

I think people forget that God’s design for families isn’t one-size-fits-all. Yes, children are a beautiful gift, but not every God-ordained family unit includes them. There are couples who long for children but never conceive. There are people who never marry. There are single parents raising their kids alone. And in every one of those circumstances, God is still present. He is still working. He is still good.

The thing that seems to confuse people the most is that I’m not devastated. They expect grief, sadness, or some deep unspoken longing. And for some women in my position, that is their reality. I honor that. I recognize the pain many feel when their arms remain empty after years of waiting. But for me, there is no sorrow. There is no feeling of loss. And that is simply because I know—deep in my soul—that we have left this in God’s hands.

How could I be upset when I trust the One who sees the full picture? How could I feel like I’m missing out when I know He is the one writing my story? If I had chosen this path out of fear or control, maybe I would feel regret. But I didn’t. I surrendered it. My husband and I placed it at God’s feet, and we told Him, “Your will, not ours.”

And so far, His will has not included children. And we are okay with that.

But here’s the incredible thing—while we don’t have children of our own, God has surrounded us with them in abundance. At any given moment, we are knee-deep in nieces, nephews, friends’ kids, church kids, and young people who seem to find their way into our lives. And we love it.

We may not be parents, but we have the honor of being a safe place, a source of encouragement, a steady presence in so many young lives. We get to pour into them, speak life over them, and plant seeds of truth, love, and wisdom that we pray will grow in their hearts. And that? That is a privilege. It is a gift to be trusted with someone else’s child. To be allowed to love them, guide them, and be part of their story, even if only for a little while.

I fully recognize that being a mother is one of the greatest honors there is. I will never diminish that. I have seen the beauty of motherhood in my friends, in my sisters, in the women I admire. I have seen their sacrifices, their joy, their exhaustion, their deep, unwavering love. And I celebrate them. I have no bitterness, no jealousy—only love and respect. But I also recognize that God’s plans don’t look the same for everyone. Some of us will raise children in our homes, and some of us will pour into kids around us in other ways. Some of us will be biological mothers, and some will be spiritual mothers. And some will fulfill entirely different callings that God has placed on their lives.

But none of us are less than.

If you’re feeling insecure about not having children—or even about not wanting children—I want to remind you: God does not make mistakes. He did not forget you. He is not withholding something just to be cruel. Your worth is not found in the title of “mom” or “wife” or any other role people expect you to have. Your purpose is not defined by what other people think your life should look like.

So to the woman who dreads the questions at every family gathering.

To the woman who sits quietly in small group while the moms bond over shared experiences.

To the woman who feels unseen in the church because she doesn’t fit the mold.

To the woman who just doesn’t want kids and wonders if that makes her less godly—

I see you. More importantly, God sees you.

And He is not measuring your life by the world’s standards.

I don’t know what God will do with this crazy, childless cat lady, but I do know one thing—He is good. And that’s enough for me.