I remember the conversation well.

I was 42, and I was sitting
at the dining room table

with my new husband,

and I had finally decided
not to have children.

"Well, of course," you might say.

The biological clock had
finally wound down,

stopped ticking, so to speak,
so of course, naturally.

But that would be an oversimplification
of a much more complicated process.

And it's a process I think
some of you might be familiar with.

We live in a time
when science and technology

allow us to expand far beyond
our biological limitations.

We have options like in vitro,
fertility drugs, egg and embryo donation,

egg freezing, not to mention
surrogacy or adoption.

It's a world of choices.

And in that world, this world,
I chose to remain childless.

But before I tell you more
about my own story,

let me give you a little context.

I'm in very good company.

Never before have more women remained
childless to the end of their fertility,

or waited longer before
having their first child.

Nearly half of us,

nearly 50% of North American women
are making this choice.

Yet we are still perceived
as the exception rather than the norm.

We're choosing to remain childless.

So let me start here
with this term, "childless."

I have to admit I have a problem with it
even though I'm using it in this talk.

It implies that there's something missing.

It implies that there's somehow a deficit

in those of us that choose
not to have children.

And this is interesting
because we're all born childless.

And it's not like being born without
a limb or with a missing vital organ.

But the term implies
that there's something missing.

A "lessness" that must somehow
be addressed or fulfilled.

And even more interesting,

this is a term that is applied
almost exclusively to women.

We don't hear a lot
about men being childless.

In fact, my husband tells me he is
rarely if ever asked if he has children.

I am asked all the time,
and usually it goes something like this:

"Do you have children?" "No." "Oh."

(Laughter)

As though there's something missing.

As though I'm to be
pitied for this choice.

As though we assume that it is
the biological destiny of women,

all women, to bear children.

And I'm going to propose
that our destinies are our own business.

A powerful choice we make
to be fulfilled on our own terms.

And those terms might
include children and they might not.

So don't get me wrong here.

I love children, in fact
I am a world-class cool auntie.

(Laughter)

But loving children
doesn't mean bearing them.

In 1976, when I had
my first serious boyfriend,

and you all know what I mean by serious,

(Laughter)

everyone was afraid I would get pregnant.

And that concern went on
through my late teens and my 20s

until my 30s when suddenly everyone
was afraid I wouldn't get pregnant.

(Laughter)

Right?

My womb was so interesting to people.

(Laughter)

So, I didn't get pregnant.

And over those years
I went back and forth,

exploring options, undecided.

Until that day at the dining
room table when I knew

that what I wanted, more than children,
was a fulfilled life, a life of meaning.

In coaching, we say that having
a fulfilled life is a radical act.

And choosing to have a fulfilled life
in an unconventional way,

well, that's just even more radical.

But it's a deeply personal choice.

So I'm going to take you back in time,
further back than the 1970s,

and introduce you to a famous woman
who might be familiar to you,

who made a personal choice
in a radical act for her time:

Queen Elizabeth the First, a virgin queen,

which we know, based
on historical fact, is not true.

(Laughter)

She was a queen.

(Laughter)

Which brings us to sex.

Particularly if you were a married woman,
choosing not to have children,

it implies that you might
just be having sex for pleasure.

Another radical notion.

(Laughter)

But, meanwhile, back in the 1500s,
Queen Elizabeth is the reigning monarch,

the Virgin Queen, excellent PR
for a childless woman of her time,

and despite the fact
that she's the monarch

and she herself is
an unmarried, childless woman,

women's choices are severely limited.

Women cannot go to school.

They can be educated at home
but they can't go to school.

Nor can they enter professions
such as politics, law, or medicine.

Women can go into marriage, motherhood,
domestic service, or the sex trade.

Or, if you wanted a life of the mind,
free of domesticity,

you could become a nun.

Basically, those were your choices.

So Elizabeth wasn't stupid,
she understood the culture she was in,

and she chose powerfully her own destiny.

Her reign is known as the Golden Age.

It brought us new frontiers
in art, music, and literature,

and a renaissance in thinking
that influences us to this day.

But no heirs.

Still, a legacy.

[#untrending]

Elizabeth chose to untrend.

She chose personal and professional
satisfaction over childbearing,

and it was a radical act.

And I'm here to say it still is.

We're still stigmatized
for making this choice

even though we live
in a very different time.

Oops. Sorry.

There we are.

We are doctors, we are teachers,
we are lawyers.

We are archbishops, we are judges.

We have the kind of choice

that an Elizabethan woman
couldn't even have dreamed of.

We are the rulers of our own destinies.

We have the right, the political,
economic, and social rights and freedoms

that our feminist grandmothers, aunties,
godmothers, and mothers fought for.

So given that, may we also
not consider another choice?

May we choose not to have children

and consider instead
the notion of "otherhood."

Now, wish I could lay claim
to this term, I can't.

It comes from Melanie Notkin's 2014
book of the same title, but I love it.

So, what is otherhood?

Well, I'm entering the third act
of my particular story.

I'm nearly 60 years old,
and the plot is getting tricky.

I'm asking myself questions like
"Has all this mattered?"

And in my recent book, Untrending,

I ask about things
like legacy and leave-behind.

These are big questions.

And there's a way that having children
begins to answer these questions for us.

Having children is
a fulfilling and creative act.

Motherhood gives our lives
purpose, for sure.

But what about otherhood?

Otherhood is another place

where we find purpose, wholeness,
meaning, and satisfaction,

simply by living our personal truth.

It's where we trust

that a life of creative purpose
is not exclusive to procreation

and that our legacies
are not just biological.

It includes loving,
mentoring and nurturing

the other humans that cross our path.

Fighting for the rights
of the world's children,

making poetry, art, or music, or forging
a path in entrepreneurship or science,

or simply getting up every day

and living a life that is true
to your own deep choosing.

Does this mean a life
that is free of longing?

No.

Does this mean that I don't wonder

what my life would've been like
if I'd had children?

Of course I do.

And I wonder about that
the same way I wonder

what would my life would have been like
if I'd become an archaeologist,

or moved to Paris in my 20s
when the notion struck me,

or not married my first husband.

But our longings make us who we are.

Our longings make our lives richer.

Our longings lead us
to new dreams and desires.

And living with longing,
making peace with longing,

that is spiritual warriorship.

That is fulfillment.

That is powerful choice-making.

And there's also this:

trust.

Trust that what life serves you
is a magnificent unfolding,

and that the spiritual warrior in you
chose this path and put you on it

because it leads to your fulfillment

and the world's.

And finally, let me ask you, together,

can we give ourselves permission
to live radical lives of fulfillment

and embrace a woman's right
to choose her own destiny?

Thank you.

(Applause) (Cheers)