I’m Happy I Don’t Have Children.

As a 6-year-old, I wished to never have kids, and I still don’t 20 plus years later.

People often dismiss my childhood experiences with, “You were just a kid, what did you know?” But even at six-year-old, I knew exactly how I felt: I was quietly (and bitterly) unimpressed by my peers. I couldn’t stand the unappealing tantrums, the casual bullying, or the way other children seemed to get away with everything while the grownups looked the other way.

Between the pinching, the stealing, and the sheer overstimulation of being surrounded by active, needy kids, I found the whole environment exhausting. Even as a child myself, I never quite liked other children. I couldn’t understand how adults tolerated the chaos—especially when they’d simultaneously complain about how tiring we were and remind us to be “grateful” to be born. I was equally baffled that other kids didn’t seem to mind each other’s behaviour as much as I did.

The “Eldest Grandchild” Epiphany

As the eldest grandchild, I had a front-row seat to a literal parade of cousins and neighbours’ children growing up. The rhythm was always the same: a quick trip to the hospital, and a few days later, my mother or an aunt would breeze back through the door with a new, tiny bundle in their arms.

I’ll admit, there was a genuine buzz that came with a new baby in the house. For a lone child, the prospects were exciting—a new sibling, a built-in playmate, a “mini-me” to mentor. But even back then, through all the cooing and celebration, I had this crystal-clear realisation: I was happy for them, but I knew that life wasn’t for me.

And let’s be real—my “main reason” at the time wasn’t some deep philosophical stance. It was much simpler: I was having a pretty crappy experience being a kid among kids. While the adults saw “precious miracles,” I saw tiny humans who generally created a level of overstimulated chaos I wanted no part of. I didn’t just want to “grow up”—I wanted to opt out of the playground drama entirely.

The “Selfish” Narrative: When Your Well-Being Becomes a National Debate

In Malaysia where I live, the math for our future isn’t adding up. By Q1 2025, our birth rate plummeted to an all-time low, echoing a similar pattern seen across the globe. To keep a population standing, the ‘magic number’ is 2.1 births per woman—yet we are currently sitting at 1.6. It is a bitter irony of the modern age: as our economy climbs and prosperity rises, our cradle-count drops.

And a few months ago, I was scrolling through Threads when these latest birth rate stats dropped, and let’s just say the vibe was… intense.

One news outlet tried to explain the decline by reporting, “Beyond costs, there is the growing embrace of individualism and changing lifestyle preferences.” If they were looking for a reaction, they definitely got one. The comment section turned into a total battleground. Netizens were out in full force, and most of the heat was directed at women—specifically those choosing to delay marriage, prioritize their PhDs or careers, or just opting for the childfree life altogether.

Once again, that heavy, loaded word was thrown around: “Selfish.” As a childfree woman who prioritised my education and my mental health, I watched myself and others like me be villainised as heartless. It makes me wonder: What is it about my personal choice that matters so much to complete strangers? They call it “individualism” as if it’s a character flaw, but for me, it’s a personal choice.

Or…

Maybe in some aspects, I am selfish. Let’s just go with that. I’m selfish for loving my life exactly as it is. I love my three cats, my husband, and the almost unlimited freedom I have as a housewife. I love the rhythm of freelancing—earning my own money and having the absolute audacity to spend it on myself and small family.

I love that we can decide on a last-minute staycation or a random trip to the mall without checking a diaper bag or a school schedule. I love buying as many books as I want, filling my shelves without once having to wonder if that money should have been tucked away for the baby.

If minding my own business, protecting my peace, and being genuinely happy makes me “selfish,” then I have to ask: Since when did happiness become a “crime” in my own community? There shouldn’t be a definition for being selfish that applies to someone simply living a life they don’t need a vacation from.

If the “replacement rate” requires me to trade this peace for a chaos I already know I don’t want, then the math was never for me anyway. I’m not heartless; I’m just finally, unapologetically, full.

The “Monster” Myth and the Right to My Own Reality

What baffled me most in those Threads comments was the bizarre leap in logic: the idea that being childfree is somehow equivalent to being a child-hating monster.

“Well, as long as you don’t hurt them (the kids).”

“You’ll change your mind, surely you don’t mean permanently.”

Let’s clear that up. I don’t “wish ill” on children. I simply don’t like them in my personal space. In the architecture of my life, there is just no room for them—and that should be an acceptable, neutral stance. Yet, in some eyes, if you aren’t actively obsessed with motherhood, you must be a threat to it. Ro Kwon beautifully explains the reasoning behind this situation, “I’m a woman; as one, I’m expected to look after others. To nurture. To mother: a child, most often. Plus anyone else who could use my time, really. That’s the most uncontroversial kind of woman to be: one devoted to caretaking.”

It is the disrespectful assumption that my carefully considered life plan could somehow be “wrong.” There’s a certain audacity in people telling me I’ll “change my mind” or that I “don’t know what I’m missing,” as if they have a better view of my internal world than I do.

I am the one living my life right now. I am the one who navigated her Master’s degree, the career hurdles, and the mental health journey to get to this point of clarity. To dismiss that as a mistake isn’t just a difference of opinion—it’s a fundamental lack of respect for my autonomy. My “no” isn’t a symptom of heartlessness; it’s the result of knowing exactly who I am and what I can handle.

What I Think Being Selfish Is

People keep using that word—”selfish”—but I think we’ve been looking at it backward.

To me, being “selfish” is bringing a small, breathing life into this world simply because you were told to, or because you buckled under the pressure of family, friends, and society. It is a lack of respect for that child to bring them here without truly wanting them for themselves.

I have total respect for devoted mothers; they are badass women who make sacrifices I can barely fathom. But when I picture my own life in their shoes, I don’t see a “noble sacrifice”—I see a disaster. I see a version of myself trapped in panic, drowning in stress, and eventually, simmering with resentment.

It isn’t fair to an unborn child to give them a mother who can’t experience joy in their existence. Choosing to be childfree isn’t about being heartless; it’s about having enough heart to realize that every child deserves a mother who is “all in.” I’m not “all in,” and I’m honest enough to admit it. But even that is too alien for so many to understand, unfortunately.

Being a Childfree Muslim

It never takes long, does it? You mention the words “childfree” or “not yet,” and suddenly the conversation shifts from birth rates to your spiritual standing. In our community, choosing not to have kids is still a massive taboo. I’ve seen the comments firsthand—claims that I’m “less of a Muslim” because I’m not actively trying to “multiply and prosper.”

The word rezeki gets thrown around like a conversational checkmate, the ultimate “gotcha” to imply that children are a divine blessing that could never be a burden. But here are the part people often skip over:

Freewill is Also a Gift
It’s ironic how we talk about rezeki but completely forget about freewill. God gave us agency. Choosing a different path isn’t about “rejecting” a blessing; it’s about using that agency to focus on other ways to please Him. We need to stop acting like children are the only metric for a successful or spiritual life. “Blessings” aren’t one-size-fits-all. They show up as:

• The energy to serve your community.
• The peace found in personal growth.
• The freedom to excel in a career or passion.
• The capacity to show up fully for the loved ones already in your life.

The Weight of “Amanah”

Yes, having children is encouraged, but they are also described as a sacred responsibility—an Amanah. It’s far too easy for people to demand we fulfil the “multiplication” part while totally overlooking the weight of the “parenting” part.

I’ve sat at community gatherings and heard many, many parents being passive-aggressive about their kids right in front of them, like “It’s fine, I’ll just do everything myself like I always do. Don’t worry about me, I’m just the maid.” or “Look at how neatly Sarah is sitting and eating her food. Why can’t you be more like her?”. It’s painful to watch.

Redefining the Blessing

To me, treating a child as rezeki means ensuring they are born into a home where they are truly wanted and cherished—not just brought here to check a religious box.

If the choice is between being a “perfect” statistic or being an honest, healthy human who knows her limits, I’m choosing the latter every single time.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve defaulted to a polite “Not yet” just to keep the peace. I’ve smiled through countless occasions where people—with a level of confidence I almost admire—informed me that I’ll “change my mind.” It’s a bizarre experience, having someone act like they’re more familiar with my own heart and body than I am.

I think a part of me was always afraid that my private choice of being childfree would feel like an insult to someone else’s dream. I didn’t want my “no” to sound like a judgment on their “yes.” But honestly? Eventually you get tired of putting your opinion second-place for others all the time that maybe for once, I’ll just be honest, “I don’t want children. I never have.” It doesn’t feel like a “lack.” It still feels like a full, complete life.