D. Rose
Do you have kids?
This is a question I’m asked 99% of the time when I meet someone new. It never fails. Maybe the first question is my name. But the second? Almost without exception:
Do you have kids?
Why is this the go-to question?
Is it truly the most important thing to know about someone? Is it the defining detail of a woman’s worth, her identity, her place in the world?
What if I told you that question, as casual as it may seem, lands like a punch to the gut for someone like me?
I don't have children.
I wanted to. I tried. My body didn’t cooperate.
So now, when I’m asked, I’m left with choices I didn’t ask for:
I can simply say “no.”
Cue the awkward silence.
I can say “no; I wasn’t able to”.
Even more awkward silence.
I can say “no, but I have pets.”
Cue the condescending smile and the common response:
“Well, that’s not the same.”
No matter how I answer, I’m put in a box I didn’t choose, defined by an absence I never wanted. And every time it happens, I’m reminded—again—that my body couldn’t give me what I longed for most. And you? You’ll go on with your day. But I’ll sit with that sting for hours.
And then, after all those awkward silences comes the follow-up:
“Well, why not?”
Why would someone ask that?
Because even if I answer—no matter how honest, how raw, how vulnerable—people don’t know what to say next.
So, it gets even more awkward. More silence. More staring.
It’s as if the question was asked out of habit, not care.
And now I’m the one left to carry the weight of it… again.
I wish people knew what that question costs some of us.
I wish we could shift our small talk to something truly kind, like: “How are you today?”
Or even just: “What brings you joy lately?”
Because if a woman has children, she’ll mention them.
They’ll come up naturally. Moms can’t help but talk about their kids—and that’s beautiful. Given the opportunity, I would do the same.
But if she doesn’t bring them up?
Pause.
Be gentle.
Please don’t force her to say out loud what already hurts in silence.
