Frankie Hockham
“Have you got kids?”
It’s such a simple question. Casual. Common. Usually asked with no malice. At family gatherings. At work. On dating apps. In GP surgeries. By hairdressers. In places you’d expect, and places you wouldn’t.
And every time, I feel that flicker. That tightening in my chest. That moment of decision…how honest am I going to be this time?
Some days, I make a joke. I change the subject. I say something vague and move on quickly, trying not to notice the lump in my throat. Other days, I just say “no” and leave it at that. I let the silence hang. I watch the slight awkward shift in their expression as they realise, they might’ve hit a nerve, but they don’t quite know why.
Because there’s rarely space to explain what no really means.
No, I haven’t got kids…
But not because I didn’t want them.
Not because I never met the right partner. I did. I married him. He’s kind and patient and funny and all-round amazing. He would make the most incredible dad.
But my body had other ideas.
I live with polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS), endometriosis and adenomyosis. A perfect storm of conditions that make conception and pregnancy incredibly difficult, sometimes impossible. Between the pain, the cycles, the hospital appointments and the hormone chaos, it often felt like my own body was working against me.
Still, we tried. We tried everything we could.
Fertility drugs. Ovarian drilling. IVF. We sat through the appointments and the scans and the endless questions. We took hope where we could find it. We rode the rollercoaster of maybes.
And we lost pregnancies. More than once.
Each one a quiet heartbreak. A future imagined and then gone. And every time, I kept going. We both did. Until we reached the point where we had to ask, “How much more can we take?”
So no, we don’t have kids. And it wasn’t for lack of trying, love or hope. It simply wasn’t meant to be.
And that’s not the kind of answer you can give in a quick exchange with a colleague or a chat with a stranger. So I say “no,” and leave it there. But that “no” carries the weight of years.
If I tell the truth, I risk making people uncomfortable. Or I get the kind of well-meaning but painful replies I’ve come to expect:
“You still have time.”
“You could always adopt.”
“At least you’ve got more freedom.”
“You can have mine”
The truth is, being childless, whether by circumstance, choice, loss or illness, is rarely understood. It’s rarely talked about. And when we do talk about it, we’re expected to do so quietly, without taking up too much space.
But behind the polite nods and brushed-off answers, there’s grief. Sometimes huge, sometimes quiet. Sometimes lifelong.
There are days when I feel grounded in myself, strong in the life we’ve built together. I know I’m not defined by whether I have children. I know my life is full of meaning in other ways. But there are also days when a simple question like “Have you got kids?” feels like it knocks the air out of me. When it reminds me of everything we hoped for and didn’t get. When it reminds me of how invisible that loss can be.
It’s not that we want people to stop asking questions or feel awkward around us. It’s that we want them to listen when we answer. To understand that the experience of childlessness is as layered and complex as parenthood. That we too have stories worth telling. Lives worth honouring.
So how does the question make me feel?
It depends on the day.
Some days, it stings.
Some days, I brush it off.
Some days, it brings tears.
Some days, I carry on as though nothing happened.
But every day, I wish we could talk about this more openly.
It is time to change the narrative.
Time to stop assuming that everyone has, wants, or mourns the absence of children. Time to recognise that childless people are not lesser. That our lives are not empty or sad by default. That we too build families, just in different ways. Through friendships, through community, through nurturing the world around us.
Changing the narrative doesn’t mean never asking personal questions. It means asking with care, listening without assumptions, and being willing to sit with a bit of discomfort if the answer isn’t what you expected.
It also means giving voice to those who rarely get to speak. Those of us who have sat quietly through the baby shower. Who have smiled through the comments. Who have cried in bathrooms and carried on because there was no other choice.
World Childless Week gives us space to say the quiet parts out loud. To connect. To be seen.
So if you’ve ever made a joke to deflect, or stayed quiet when you wanted to cry, or answered “no” while holding a whole world behind your eyes, know you’re not alone.
And to anyone reading this who’s ready to listen: thank you.
Now let’s change the narrative.
