This is a continuation of yesterday’s entry, where I wrote about why I’ve chosen not to have children. Today, I go deeper into the reasons behind that decision—rooted in my experience of abuse, my fears, and my observations of the world around me.
“I will not bring life into this twisted world.”
Some of my friends, now in their forties, are raising children and seem to be loving it. One of them once asked me, eyes sparkling,
“Would you like to have kids of your own?”
I remember frowning in disgust. I didn’t explain it to her, but I had my reasons.
First, I’m sure I would abuse my children. That’s how I was raised. I tend to communicate the way my parents did—with emotional withdrawal, criticism, or bursts of anger—toward my partner (though I no longer even know if I should call him that). I don’t want to repeat the violence. I’ve only recently started learning about non-violent communication. But I’ve already hurt him, especially when I was stuck in what I now understand to be sexual abuse accommodation syndrome.
I can’t even take care of myself—how could I raise a child? I can’t hold a job without sinking into imposter syndrome. I can’t shower regularly. The smallest comment can trigger a months-long depressive episode.
What surprises me is how many survivors of childhood abuse go on to have children of their own—and, often, continue the cycle. I know some break it. But I doubt there are many.
Even people who weren’t abused manipulate their children “for their own good.” I’ve watched this closely.
A close friend used to force-feed her toddler to distract her from scratching at breakouts. One time, the toddler still had food in her mouth, and the mother told me to keep feeding her more.
When the child was only two, her mother pretended to cry because her daughter wasn’t eating.
The girl took a bite, looked up at her, and said,
“Are you OK now?”
Talk about conditioning your child…
I don’t believe she means any harm. She’s even told me she wanted a second child so her daughter could have a sibling. But her husband didn’t want another child. Fair enough—neither of them has a stable job. Their relationship grew cold because of that difference in values.
Later, she whispered to me that she was pregnant with her second. She waited until her husband wasn’t around and said,
“I didn’t know when to tell you.”
Her husband is apparently anxious about the second child. I couldn’t bring myself to say congratulations. Only when someone else congratulated him did I repeat the words, more out of obligation than joy.
He smiled brightly, but I know he has mixed feelings.
And I feel bad for him.
I feel bad for the child—not fully wanted, yet brought into this world.
These things—things that might seem trivial to some—cut deep for me.
Raising children requires time, energy, and emotional presence. It’s not something you can do half-heartedly.
I’ve known that since I was very small. I was apparently helping my mother care for my brothers from the moment they were born. I wasn’t just a young caregiver—I was her emotional sandbag. My mother, emotionally immature herself, leaned on me like I was the mother she never had.
I was also a victim of a father—and a mother—who had never received any real sex education.
My father repeatedly insisted that women are ‘ukemi‘—a Japanese term meaning passive, submissive, and compliant. And knowing how deeply he lived in the world of porn, I understood that he meant it especially in a sexual sense.
After my mother gave birth to my brothers, she began to resist him. And so, I became the low-hanging fruit—the one left to bear the weight of his beliefs.
My mother was gaslit so easily by him—because who would imagine that your husband could abuse your toddler while you’re sleeping beside him in the same bed?
Unless you’ve done at least a little research about childhood sexual abuse, you wouldn’t even think it possible.
You don’t have to come from an abusive family to end up abusing your own children.
But if you do come from one, you can see it happening a mile away.
The irony is that, when I frowned at my friend in disgust, she probably thought I didn’t like children. She often makes cynical comments like
“I feel like their slave,”
when we follow her child around. Or apologetic ones like
“I hope it’s not boring you,”
referring to the jokes her daughter makes.
I’m surprised every time she says these things, but I figure she’s just trying to humor me.
What’s actually going through my mind is the opposite:
I enjoy watching her daughter grow.
I’m happy to see her laughing—even knowing that her parents’ relationship is rocky. Children are so sensitive; there’s no way she doesn’t notice.
The irony is that I can love children—even when I’m not raising any.
In fact, my love for children stays pure because I don’t have to experience the hardship of raising them.
In my mind, I’m the aunt of all children.
Parents may be trying their best to raise their children, but that doesn’t always mean they’re doing what’s best for them.
If you choose not to become a parent, you avoid the risk of being a bad one—and instead, you can be a valuable role model for children.
You don’t have to be an unhappy parent.
You can be single or child-free—and still be truly happy.
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