If I had a pound for every time someone asked when I’m having a baby, I could probably quit my job and fund an early retirement. Honestly, the question seems to follow me everywhere — at weddings, dinners, work events — as if my entire life is now a countdown to motherhood.
I don’t know what happens, but the moment you get married, that one question suddenly becomes everyone’s favourite icebreaker. I remember standing at my own wedding reception, champagne in hand, when an aunt leaned in and asked, “So, will we be hearing the pitter-patter of tiny feet by your first anniversary?” My jaw hit the floor. It was my wedding day — surely, I’d earned at least 24 hours before being asked about my reproductive plans?
At first, my husband and I laughed it off. But after the tenth, twentieth, hundredth time, it stopped being funny. It became infuriating.
The Truth Behind the Small Talk
Here’s the thing that most people don’t know — and really, why would they? The truth is that I don’t know if I can have children. I don’t ovulate regularly. If I’m lucky, I’ll have one or two periods a year — unpredictable, untrackable, and entirely out of my control. It means that conceiving naturally would be incredibly difficult. At this point in our lives, we’re not trying for a baby, but we’re also aware that when the time comes, it won’t be simple. My chances of conceiving naturally sit somewhere around five percent.
When I first learned this, I was nineteen. Barely an adult, and still figuring out who I was, I took the news in stride because I didn’t understand the full emotional weight of it. Over time, my now-husband and I made peace with the idea that it might never happen for us. But as we’ve gotten older, and watched friends and family start their own families, those feelings shift. There’s a quiet ache that appears — not constant, but ever-present.
The Defence Mechanism
My coping strategy has always been humour — or, more accurately, deflection. I’ve spent years pretending I didn’t want children at all because that answer shuts down the conversation quickly. It’s easier than explaining medical terms, statistics, or emotions to well-meaning people who simply don’t understand.
But then there are moments — like when my great aunt tells me I’ll “make a wonderful mother one day” — that make me want to scream. She’s in her eighties, and I know she means well, but I swear if she says it again, I might lose it. Not because I’m angry at her, but because it’s a reminder that people assume something so personal is theirs to discuss.
Why We Need to Stop Asking
I know most people mean no harm. In fact, I’d go as far as to say the majority of them come from a place of excitement or genuine interest. But intention doesn’t erase impact. For many people — whether they’re struggling with infertility, grieving a loss, or simply choosing a different path — that innocent question can feel like a gut punch.
It’s time we stopped asking people about their plans for children unless they choose to share that information themselves. It’s intrusive, outdated, and more harmful than it seems. Life isn’t a checklist, and not everyone’s path includes a pram at the end of the aisle.
If you take one thing away from this post, let it be this: follow someone’s lead. If they want to talk about babies, they will. If they don’t, respect the silence. Because for many of us — myself included — that silence isn’t emptiness. It’s self-protection.
