Dear Mr. Vance, Love, A Childless Cat Lady

I am a writer, one who sometimes touches on personal issues. But this is the first time I elaborate on why I don’t have children, no doubt, provoked by your “childless cat lady” jibe. 

I am childless or childfree; to me, it is a matter of semantics. I have two cats whom I consider my children. In many ways, I am like most Americans; I love my job, I love my students, I love my colleagues. 

And I love my cats.

But there is a difficult reason behind my not having children. And no, it has nothing to do with an uncooperative uterus. I chose not to have kids. I struggle with complex PTSD and depression. Events of the past have left me scarred and fearful of everything and everyone. But more than anything, it has left me doubting my own capabilities – I don’t think I’m smart, I don’t think I am a good teacher, I don’t think I am a good conversationalist, I don’t think I chop tomatoes well, I don’t think my dish-washing skills are up to par…in short, I think of myself as good-for-nothing. Sure, I get up, go to work, do my job – well, as evidence may suggest – my ever-smiling face and jovial nature in tow. Then I come home, totally spent. Behind it lurks a dark question – is that really me, or is it all an act, years of enforced training to “be good to others” at my own expense. You see, all my energy is invested in trying to be perfect, and when the play is over, I default to the painful memories, completely drained. Beneath the sunny exterior and desire to soar lie broken wings. 

I can honestly say gaslighting is one of the worst forms of abuse. 

For decades, I thought I was crazy. When, a few years ago, I finally realized with the help of a therapist that there was nothing wrong with me, that there never had been for thirty plus years, it became apparent that I was disembodied, dissociated. My body may be in my office or in class, but my mind is trapped in a faraway room on another continent where the walls are closing in while I gasp for breath as taunts disguised as “concern” suck the life out of me. 

It’s no wonder then that I thought I was too messed up to have children. I was scared I wouldn’t be there for my kids, because I wouldn’t know how to. Yes, there was the “oh, but a baby will change everything” – presumably for the better – advice. But I was terrified. What if it was for the worse? What if “bad mother” would be an addition to the list? What if I ended up hurting my children emotionally just as I had been damaged? What if I neglected them? What if I, in turn, perpetuated the cycle of trauma?

With the end of my childbearing years approaching, it all came to a head; I went into a deep depression. And I was angry. Angry at the abuse. Angry that I had been robbed of being a mother. On one visit to the medical center, while my husband and therapists in the room congregated around me and two years of deep sorrow, trying to soothe my pain, one of the latter uttered words I will never forget: “You were being responsible when you decided not to have children.” That line will always stick with me. And on days when I drift into that maternal territory, I try to remind myself of why I don’t have children. A reason that is far from selfish or “anti-child.” 

Mr. Vance, I respect the fact that you chose to have children; indeed, they are beautiful children. But I also exhort you to respect my decision if not understand it. 

What makes America great is its promise of hope. This country is helping me heal. For my part, I am a conscientious, law-abiding American citizen. I have assimilated well while being allowed to offer my unique blend of African, Indian and American-ness. I am happy to pay taxes that go towards bettering the lives of children that are not my own. In fact, I am a teacher who takes joy and pride in her profession which involves engaging with the future generation in a constructive and valuable way. So please, sir, don’t assume I have nothing to contribute to the country just because I am childless. In fact, with each passing day, I am beginning to feel more alive, more productive, more excited about my profession, despite not having “some of her own children” or grandkids to take care of.

On that note, a woman’s life and a woman’s body is her own. Maybe she wants to be a working mother, maybe she wants to be a stay-at-home mom, maybe she wants to be single, maybe she wants to be a career woman, maybe she can’t have children, maybe she shouldn’t have children, maybe she defies the “logic” that “every woman aspires to be a mother.” 

Or maybe she just loves cats.

Whatever it may be, the reason is deeply personal. And it doesn’t make her any less of a human being. Or woman, for that matter.