I’m a 34-year-old woman, and I’ve been telling people for over a decade that I can’t have children. My closest friends know this. My extended family believes it. Even some past partners have heard this from me. But it’s not true. The truth is: I don’t want children.

I’ve never wanted them. Not once in my life did I imagine myself as a mother. When I was younger, I thought the feeling might change with time. It never did. And as I got older, I realized that if I ever admitted this to people—really admitted it—they’d treat me like something was wrong with me.

I grew up in a very traditional household where women were praised for being nurturing, selfless, and family-oriented. My mother had four kids. She still calls it her life’s greatest achievement. The idea that a woman might choose something different? It would have shattered her. And I wasn’t ready to have that conversation.

So at some point, probably around 25, I started saying I couldn’t have kids. I never gave details, just a quiet shake of the head and something like, “It’s complicated.” And people, uncomfortable with the subject, would usually leave it alone.

It gave me freedom.

Suddenly I didn’t have to explain why I wasn’t “trying yet” or when I’d start a family. I didn’t have to deal with pitying looks at baby showers or feel guilty about not sharing my sister’s joy when she got pregnant (for the third time). I was, in a weird way, protected.

But now, after so many years, I feel like I’m living a quiet lie.

I’m currently in a relationship with someone wonderful. He’s kind, curious, creative… and he says he’s not sure if he wants kids. We’ve talked about it in vague terms, both of us dancing around the issue. And he’s heard the same story — that I can’t. Part of me thinks that if he knew the truth — that I chose this, that I’m at peace with it — he might feel even more connected to me. But another part of me worries it would make him question who I really am.

Worse, I’ve started to wonder what will happen if I ever fully embrace the truth publicly. Will my family look at me with disappointment? Will my friends wonder what else I’ve lied about? Will I suddenly become the “cold” one, the one who “doesn’t get it”?

I don’t regret my decision. I love my life the way it is. I have hobbies, deep friendships, meaningful work, and quiet mornings. I like my freedom. I like sleeping in. I like silence. I like not being responsible for another human being’s entire existence. But I do regret not having the courage to own that choice out loud.

Sometimes I wish there were more stories like mine, so women like me didn’t have to feel ashamed of living a different kind of life.

So this is my confession.