Reader, I Was Going to Be Iconic at This
Let me set the scene. Past me, in her early twenties, had a whole plan. There were going to be two children, possibly three if I was feeling generous, beautifully named in a way that suggested I read poetry. They were going to wear linen. We were going to have a kitchen island. I had absolutely no concept of what raising children actually involved, but spiritually, I was already on Pinterest curating their nursery.
And I had every reason to believe this was the trajectory. Babies love me. Dogs love me. Old people love me. I have this energy, apparently, that small creatures and elderly people find deeply reassuring, which is honestly hilarious for someone who also owns a demon cat and has been described, generously, as a lot. At every family barbecue growing up, I was the one handed the babies. Not because anyone asked. Because everyone knew. The children would gravitate towards me like I was emitting a frequency only they could detect.
Firm but fair, people called me. A natural. It was genuinely agreed upon by every adult in my orbit that I was going to be a spectacular mother. I believed them. I had a whole vision. The universe, as it turns out, had notes, an entire editorial pass, and the audacity to send it back covered in red pen.
The Aquarius and the Plot Twist
In my late twenties, I ended a relationship with someone I genuinely cared about. An Aquarius. Lovely in the way Aquarians are lovely, which is to say brilliant and emotionally unreliable, which is honestly a them problem and not the point of this story. The reason we ended wasn’t the chaos. I wanted children, he didn’t, and to me that was a difference so fundamental there was no future worth building in its shadow. So I let him go, mourned the version of life I’d been quietly building around him, and got on with it.
About a year later, I found out I couldn’t have children anyway. The Aquarius was not contacted for comment.
Here’s the science, since I know someone is going to ask. I have a rare intolerance to phytoestrogens, which are female plant hormones that mimic oestrogen in the body. Mine treats them like a hostile takeover, and the resulting hormonal chaos means a viable pregnancy was never going to be on the table. My uterus, apparently, just categorically refuses. No negotiation. No exceptions. My body is essentially a small, dramatic country with a no-fly list. I sat with the verdict, I cried for a hot minute, and then I had a very long exhale and thought, well, at least my shoes will always fit.
The Life I Did Not Plan but Looks Suspiciously Good
That sounds flippant, and it wasn’t entirely, because the grief was real and I let myself have it. But underneath it was something I didn’t expect, which was relief. Not because I didn’t want children. Because the decision had been made for me, and I didn’t have to spend the next decade in a panic about timelines, or scanning every man across a candlelit table for “co-parent potential.” I didn’t have to mourn the Aquarius any more, which was its own quiet gift. The path I’d been squinting towards simply wasn’t there. So I looked around and found a different one.
What followed, frankly, was a riot. Enough addresses to confuse a census. Enough feral men in my history to staff a moderately sized wildlife sanctuary, with two left over for emergencies. Great shoes. Excellent wine. A career that has bent itself around my ambitions instead of school holidays. A fluffy black hellcat named Lulu who bites my toes, has the personality of a Victorian villain, and was clearly spawned from a dimension where chaos is the primary export and I am the chosen vessel.
It is not the life I planned. In many ways it is significantly better than the life I planned. But I want to be honest with you, because if I sit here and tell you it was all good shoes and great wine I am gaslighting both of us. There were quiet moments, usually on the bus home from a friend’s baby shower with leftover sausage rolls in my tote, where the question would creep in. What exactly am I for? If I’m not passing anything on, not raising a small person, not leaving that particular biological mark, then what is the point of me? I Googled “evolutionary dead end” once. I do not recommend it. Truly bleak reading. The phrase “reproductive cul-de-sac” was used and I have not been the same since.
Enter the Allmother
But I kept scrolling, as one does, and stumbled into something that reframed the entire question. In every village, across every culture, across every century where humans have organised themselves into anything resembling community, there has been a woman like me. Childfree. Whimsical. Probably had strong opinions about fermented grapes and impractical footwear before those were even categories. She was the one who took the babies so the mothers could sleep. She looked after the elderly when their own children were busy surviving. She explored, she travelled, she brought back stories and information and, almost certainly, an inappropriate souvenir nobody asked for.
Anthropologists call it the Allmother theory, and the actual research is genuinely beautiful. The idea is that childfree women in community have always served a specific and vital function, and that communities with them in it thrived differently from those without. She wasn’t the spare. She wasn’t the cautionary tale. She was structural. She was the connective tissue holding the whole thing together while everyone else was occupied with the urgent, relentless, genuinely impressive business of keeping small people alive and vaguely educated. She was the one you called when things got complicated and you needed someone with both hands free, no school run to worry about, and a slightly chaotic but ultimately reliable energy.
I read this and felt something physically settle in my chest. Because it gave me a framework I hadn’t had, one that wasn’t about consolation or making peace with less. I’m not an evolutionary dead end. I’m not a cul-de-sac, reproductive or otherwise. I am an Allmother, and there has always been a place for women like me in the village, and there always will be, and the village absolutely cannot function without us, no matter how loudly the world insists motherhood is the only legitimate way for a woman to be useful.
What an Allmother Actually Looks Like in 2026
Forget the village for a second, because we don’t live in one any more, we live in group chats and WhatsApp threads and the school pickup queue. But the role hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s just adapted. The Allmother in 2026 is the woman at the birthday party with enough energy to chase toddlers around the garden while their parents have a full conversation for the first time in four months. She’s the one who held a stranger’s screaming baby on a flight from Berlin to Glasgow, had him settled within minutes, because of course she did, and spent the rest of the flight passing him between them like a very small, warm baton while his exhausted mother slept.
She is the friend who turns up with wine and snacks the night her best mate’s marriage cracks open, and stays until 2am, and doesn’t say I told you so even when she absolutely did. She is the aunt the teenagers text when they can’t talk to their parents about the thing, because they know she will not panic, will not lecture, will not tell anyone, and will probably have a useful and slightly inappropriate take. She is the colleague who notices the new mum in the meeting going pale and quietly offers to take the action item. She is the woman at the funeral with the tissues, the water bottle, and the ability to make small, kind small talk with the elderly relatives nobody else knows what to say to. None of this is small. All of this is essential.
So if you are forty, or close enough to smell it, and childfree, and occasionally wondering whether you missed the point of being a woman, I want you to hear me clearly. You did not miss it. You are not a footnote to someone else’s family tree. You are a whole chapter. You have a purpose, you have a place, and you have a lineage of women going back thousands of years who did exactly what you are doing now, and were celebrated for it. You are not behind. You are not less. You are not waiting for your real life to start. You are in it.
A Love Letter to the Wine Aunt
Let me be extremely clear about what the Wine Aunt actually is, because popular culture has done a genuinely terrible job of it, and I am here to issue a correction. She is not the cautionary tale. She is not the sad woman with the good handbag who secretly wishes her life had gone differently and cries into her Pinot Grigio at Christmas. She is not the woman you feel vaguely sorry for while being privately, smugly relieved you are not her. I reject this narrative with my whole chest.
The Wine Aunt shows up. She makes the sausage rolls even when she wasn’t technically invited to contribute. She knows every child’s name, every child’s specific fear, and exactly what makes each of them laugh until their nose runs. She remembers that the eldest is in a phase, the youngest is the funny one, and the middle child needs five extra minutes of attention or the whole afternoon will go sideways in a deeply specific way. She is consistent in a way that has nothing to do with obligation and everything to do with love. Not maternal love exactly. Something adjacent and, I would argue, more durable. The love of a woman who chose to be there. Every single time. Without a single legal or biological reason to bother.
She also has excellent shoes, a passport with stamps in it, and opinions about Barolo that could make a sommelier emotionally compromised. She has loved, lost, shrugged, and loved again with increasing efficiency and decreasing patience for nonsense. So if that is you, babe, raise your glass. You bring the wine, you hold the babies so someone else can breathe, you go to Japan and come back with stories that make everyone at the table briefly forget they haven’t slept properly in two years.
So, why would you have one child of your own, when you can be an aunt to everyone else’s?
We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity
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