Stop Asking Women If They’re Going To Have Children, It Hurts

When I was sixteen, I had an ovarian cyst that burst. I didn’t know about it until the pain hit. Doubled over, I practically dragged myself to my parents and said, “I think I’m dying.” When I’ve retold the story, people laugh, thinking me dramatic, but in that moment, with that pain, death felt like the only explanation.

At the hospital, I was given morphine and had an ultrasound. The ruptured cyst was found. “We’ll prescribe the contraceptive pill,” I was told. “That should stop this happening again.” Truthfully, I didn’t think more of it. Many of my friends were on the pill. I’d never had regular periods, so taking something that made them trackable was appealing. 

“You can take the pill back-to-back and stop your period for a month for an event,” a friend said. Knowing I would never again be caught out by unexpected blood and could go on holiday period-free felt like a blessing. I never questioned what caused the cyst or why my periods didn’t follow a 28-day cycle like everyone else’s until my mid-twenties, when headaches made me come off the pill. 

Without the fog of artificial hormones, I realised that for almost ten years, I’d felt a diluted sense of emotions. I chose to come off the pill fully. Let my body be for a bit. I didn’t expect the repercussions of that choice. Since being sixteen, I weighed around 54 kg. It didn’t matter what I ate, how little or often I moved, my weight was stable. Within a month of coming off the pill, I’d gained 6 kg. My energy levels fluctuated wildly, too. I would be wired at night but exhausted by midday. And for six months, I had no period.

After going to the doctor, I was diagnosed with PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome). The diagnostic process was simple — blood tests, period tracking and an ultrasound that confirmed the presence of cysts. “What does that mean?” I asked, naive. Symptoms like excess body hair, insulin resistance and irregular periods were explained to me. Then the kicker came — PCOS is a leading cause of infertility.

I can’t really explain how I felt at that moment. I imagined having children, but in my thirties. I had flights to Australia booked for a few months’ time. I wanted to become an author. Travel. Live as Jess, not as ‘mum’. Briefly, the idea of changing my plans cropped up, but I knew that wasn’t what I wanted. So, while I cried at the news, I was pragmatic. The diagnosis was a problem for future Jess. Right now, I had a trip to pack for.

For the next few years, I managed my PCOS as best as I could. I stayed off the pill, choosing to feel each hormonal and cyclical change. I ate well, tried to get enough sleep, and moved my body. I expected life to go on in this way until I was ready to consider parenthood. The “children” conversation was one I was aware of. As a woman, it was always in the background. I attended baby showers and debated with friends the “right time” to start a family. I talked about names I liked and what kind of parent I imagined I’d be, but the discussions were fantasy-talk, like a child saying, “When I grow up, I’ll live in a mansion.”

But around my thirtieth birthday, everything changed. Suddenly, the question of “are you having children?” was everywhere. The underlying societal pressure rose until it was all my algorithm showed. The question felt boomingly present in all discussions I had and all media I consumed. Children became an expectation. Rarely were the financial, biological and emotional reasons why someone may or may not want children discussed. It was always ‘when’ will you have them? Not ‘if’, not ‘will you’ — when.

I remember going to a doctor in Sydney about a skin rash. She saw my date of birth, assumed I’d want children soon and offered me genetic testing. I remember meeting someone for the first time and they asked if I had children. When I said no, she blinked and said, “But you will, right?”

“I don’t know,” I ended up saying. “I have PCOS.”

Admitting to the condition felt like oversharing. It made people uncomfortable. They would go from intrusive to pitying, but I didn’t want pity. I’d long accepted that my personal and professional goals mattered to me and that my life would be fine with or without children. If I was ready for them and it happened, I would be happy. If that day never came, I would still be happy. 

At first, I thought people’s discomfort came from my diagnosis and them not knowing what to say. Over time, I’ve come to wonder if it stems from them realising that the conversation is a deeply personal one. How, if and when a person has a child is an individual’s choice and their choice alone. It doesn’t need to be explained or justified. I’ll never forget a friend trying not to cry when asked why she didn’t have children yet. She’d suffered a miscarriage not long before. The person asking didn’t know, but that didn’t matter. It still hurt.

I’ll never forget knowing a friend was going through IVF and someone jokingly saying, “You’d better hurry and give him a baby soon!”

I’ll never forget... but I think that’s a good thing. Not only does it mean I won’t be blindly asking the question, but that discomfort gave me a deeper understanding when writing The Secrets of Strangers. Featuring two characters experiencing fertility difficulties, I didn’t have to imagine the struggle of living in a world that expected something that you may not be able to do. 

The "children" conversation isn’t going anywhere, but for every person out there asking the question, there are ten people finding it hard to answer. People struggling with infertility, IVF, loss. People who need compassion rather than questions.