I was not yet 21 when my son was born. Two years later, my daughter arrived. Now, at 16 and 14, they have grown up, and as I reflect on my life, this is what I’ve come to understand.
This year, our dog Butch passed away. He was a small breed, about the size of a Chihuahua. Despite his size, he was fiercely protective of my wife. For instance, whenever I tried to kiss her, he would start barking and try to push me away. It was funny, in a way, how he thought he could protect her from me.
Butch’s death hit us harder than I expected. My wife and I grieved deeply, as you might imagine. The pain was particularly intense for her, but I struggled too — during those days, I cried more than I had in my whole life up to that point. We knew dogs live shorter lives, but when I buried him in the cold earth, the world around me seemed to lose its color. It was as if something inside me had torn, and it would never return to its place. Even now, as I write these words, a lump forms in my throat.
It wasn’t just about losing a pet. When my children fall ill, I lose my mind with fear. I think, if something serious were to happen to one of them, it would destroy me. Losing a dog is painful, yes. But imagining the loss of a child? That’s not just a blow — that’s the end. A final, irreversible one.
For much of my life, I didn’t understand why some people choose not to have children. I never considered that the fear of loss, the weight of responsibility, might make parenthood seem unbearable. If I had experienced such a loss when I was 20, I might have seriously considered becoming childfree myself.
In my youth, I thought I could endure anything. I believed I could face any pain. But no one prepares you for the constant undercurrent of fear that comes with parenthood — fear rooted in the uncertainty of the world around us, from wars to diseases, and all the chaos in between.
Sometimes, I think about a life without children. It feels like existing in a cage: safe, protected from harm, but at the cost of missing the depth of human experience that makes us feel truly alive. I don’t judge those who choose this path — it’s their decision.
But for me, this is my path — a path full of fears, disappointments, and struggles. Yet, it is also a path filled with more joy, purpose, and meaning than I could have ever imagined. And I regret nothing. I can understand why others might choose not to walk this path, and perhaps, in some ways, they are right. But in the end, each of us must choose our own way. This is where our human freedom lies, and there will always be those who will judge.
Image created by the author in the Canva app