Alisha Saavedra - Mexican-American (Chicana), living childfree after infertility

Eight hours over coffee?! How is that possible, you say? Before I tell you about how I spent eight hours over coffee when meeting another person from the childless community who shared the same cultural heritage as me, let me introduce myself.

I am a 4th generation Mexican-American, raised by parents who strongly instilled the value of honoring my ancestry and never forgetting our cultural customs and practices. Growing up in Southern California, my local community was made up of families who looked like mine and I personally identify with the Chicano culture. While English is my first and primary language, there is a saying we have in Spanish, “Ni de aquí, ni de allá”. Not from here, not from there. Growing up so close to my country of origin added a complex layer to my identity development as a child and young adult. There were, and still are, consistent societal messages telling me I am not Mexican or American enough. So, where do I belong if I am not really from here or there? Having experienced direct and indirect forms of racism, it is exhausting trying to preserve my identity and safety in spaces where I am hoping to be accepted and feel a sense of belonging.  

This also resonates with me in my childless identity. Where do I fit within my social circle or workplace when conversations are focused on parenthood or raising children? How do I engage in my social relationships or attend events that are child- or parent-centric? Coming from a Latino culture, the need for belonging and having community connections are something I greatly value. When I discovered World Childless Week and the childless community on social media four years ago, I was so relieved to find a place where I could be in community with others and explore my feelings surrounding not being a parent. Like many others, I was yearning to be seen and have my story honored. While I felt a sense of relief, one major piece was missing, I didn’t see any people who looked like me. The medical offices and infertility clinic I went to along with the social media accounts talking about childlessness all had one thing in common: they featured white women’s stories.

Representation matters. And I don’t say that lightheartedly. Many of us in the childless community seek a sense of belonging and acceptance because society repeatedly sends us messages that we are less and not worthy. Our childlessness unites us and provides an anchor of some sort that allows us to come back to a safe harbor where we can openly share about our lived experiences as childless people. Much like the mental gymnastics and trauma I go through to preserve my identity as a Mexican-American woman, it requires anadditional layer of mental and emotional energy to navigate all the pronatalist bingos that are present in everyday life. At some point I stopped to ask myself, can you be the change you want to see in the childless community so that others who identify as Chicana, Mexican-American, or Latinx could see their story represented too? I set forth on a personal goal to show up authentically when two major parts of my identity were consistently being challenged by cultural expectations and societal pressures.

Fast forward to the summer of 2023. I declared that I was in my childless friend era. Even though it is hard to make friends as an adult, and find childless friends at that, I made a promise to myself that I would fulfill my personal goal of meeting childless friends in person.

I pushed beyond my comfort zone and that is where my 8-hour coffee date comes in. Liz was introduced to me via social media by a mutual online childless friend. We were initially introduced to each other based on our geographic location but little did we know we would quickly develop a “sister” connection.

In a local Cuban cafe, we had an instant level of understanding and comfort over coffee, a meal, and then more coffee and a Cuban pastry. We truly saw each other that day, not only as childless people, but racially and culturally. There was no reason to filter how we spoke or be anxious about being judged; it was easier to breathe and just be ourselves. That level of validation is almost indescribable and hard to fully capture in words.

Since then, we have added another “sister” to our little group of childless chicas (Spanish term of endearment meaning girl or friend). We met Alex in the Childless Collective online community and since we are somewhat in the same geographical location, we typically coordinate a get together every few months. As we are nurturing this new friend group we often laugh and offer a supportive space to share openly and feel seen. Maybe it is because the three of us are in similar places of acceptance with our childlessness, but I also would like to think it is because we share our Mexican ancestry and are comfortable talking about our unique lived experiences. Together we have celebrated birthdays, met for tea, and most recently had our very 1st sleepover. We ate some of the best tacos, treated ourselves to a paleta (Mexican ice cream), spoke in Spanglish, visited beautiful Mexican murals that were nearby, and had deep meaningful conversations.

Alex and Liz have no idea how they gifted me much needed healing during that girls’ weekend. On the way home I was reflecting about why this particular weekend felt so significant for me. I realized that my inner “niña” (child) had healed from an incident that happened to me over 30 years ago. I was about 12 or 13 years old when I went to a classmate’s house for a slumber party. The topic of identity came up and I proudly said that I was Chicana. I’ll never forget how sharply my classmate’s mom told me I was wrong and scolded me in front of everyone. It sent me into identity confusion and I didn’t know how to speak up against her or navigate the shame that set in. I remember how upsetting it was when I told my parents what had happened. They raised me to be proud of who I was and celebrate our culture.

During my weekend with Alex and Liz, I had the pleasure of meeting Alex’s parents. It felt warm and familiar, and provided me with an added sense of being welcomed in. Her dad mentioned that he overheard us laughing and how that was a sign of good friends. My inner niña smiled when he said that. She wasn’t shamed and was free to just be herself. That day my heart got to rewrite the story of my childhood and put that pain to rest. Spending time with my childless chicas is not just a matter of feeling included, but a vital need for our well-being. Our identities are complex and beautiful, and hold so much more beyond our childless connection.