Confronting the taboo of a child-free life

This is the final instalment of a six-part series, Be Fruitful: Fertility Journeys in Modern Jewish Lives, which explores the complex and sometimes taboo journey to parenthood in the Jewish community.

In a community which values continuity and all but idolises parenthood, not having children can be especially hard. 

For some, childlessness is a deep grief, aggravated by isolation and even shame. Others embrace a life without children, saying it has brought them closer to their Judaism and unlocked the ability to explore other passions.

Here, three people share their stories of life without children with The Jewish Independent.

‘As close to being a grandparent as others’ – Helen Bryant, 76

My mother died when I was born, and my father remarried when I was two years old. Growing up without your birth mother is tough.

I was in my late teens when I decided that I was never going to have children. I didn’t want to put that burden of growing up motherless onto anybody else. It was very much an emotional decision, totally devoid of any rational thinking, because the difference in medical technology today would have made sure it didn’t happen again.

I do have some regrets of not having children, but I don't allow them to come in. I was able to do other things that filled the gap.

I’m involved with all the children at my congregation. I’m the main B’nai Mitzvah teacher, and maintain strong relationships with those kids, and I often join the ‘mums and bubs’ group. That has really provided me with a family. I’m also Safta to a family that we’re very close to, who have three kids. They come and have sleepovers and play. We watch their sports matches. It’s as close to being a grandparent as other grandparents.

I lived in England and Israel before I moved to Australia. I met my now husband in Perth in 1985. When we announced that we were getting married, people automatically looked at my belly and not my face. He already had two children and was content with not having more. They were grown up and I had very little influence on either of them.

Because I was doing so much to contribute to continuity, the Jewish community never made me feel pressured to have biological children. In 2022, I was awarded an OAM for my contributions to the Jewish community in Western Australia.

There’s not just one type of family, there’s also childless families. I don't believe that having children only refers to biological children. I don’t think anybody would even see me as not having children. I’ve got so much to give, and I give it, so there’s no debate about having children of my own.

‘I felt like an outsider’ – Michael Barnett, 55

I came out as gay in 1995 when I was in my mid-twenties. I grew up knowing that I wasn’t destined to have a traditional heterosexual relationship. I never planned a wedding, and I never had expectations that I would be a parent.

People in my circles, especially in my smaller Jewish circles, were getting married and having children, and I wasn't doing that. I started feeling more of a desire to be a parent, which was something that had never happened before.

I was approached to be a sperm donor for a lesbian couple I was friends with. The idea of co-parenting was very appealing, but they wanted to move overseas with the child, and I wanted to be actively involved in parenting, so it fell through.

I thought about being an altruistic sperm donor but in the process, I discovered I had fertility issues. That was a huge blow. It was ironic because I wasn't desperately trying to be a parent, but the prospect of not being able to because of infertility was shattering.

I met my now husband in 2008, and he had two teenagers who didn’t need more raising. They had their mother and their father. My husband's daughter now has a son – our grandson. It's taking time but I'm warming to being his Poppy Mikey.

Not being a parent is isolating. I couldn’t participate in parenting conversations or compare the progress of my kid’s journey or achievements. None of that was due to being gay, it was just my circumstances. I felt like an outsider.

What’s worse than any of that is not having conversations about being childless. Nobody ever talks to me about how I feel or acknowledges the fact that I don't have children. It's this elephant in the room, which is hard to deal with.

The Jewish community didn’t support me. Jewish continuity is so specifically focused on the life cycle – getting married so that you can procreate. Same-sex couples make wonderful parents, and the law recognises our marriages, yet parts of the Jewish community actively exclude us.

I don’t know how you include people who aren’t parents in family celebrations and Jewish festivals. I don’t know how you make us feel connected. Often being around those events is painful in itself. It’s a reminder of what you don't and can’t have if you're infertile or if you’re beyond being able to become a parent.

Having conversations, being understanding and not leaving people in isolation is so important. Community forums on coping with not being a parent would be helpful for people who are childless not by choice.

Not being a parent has given me opportunity to do other things in my life, such as more activism, supporting LGBTQ+ people through Aleph Melbourne, travelling, and living without financial burden – but none of it takes away the pain and the anguish of not being a parent.

‘Your identity is not tied up with being a parent’ – Debbie Wiener, 68

I was raised in a traditional Jewish home in New Zealand, but when my family moved to Australia when I was nine, we became more Orthodox. I was personally more influenced by the Counterpoint Jewish education program in the 1970s.

It was never a conscious decision of mine not to have children, it just never happened. I never met ‘Mr. Right’, but I was also never overly clucky.

I know there are people who have a burning urge to be a parent, but I never had that. By the time I met my partner in Melbourne I was already in my forties, and my biological clock had gone into slow motion. We’ve been together for over 20 years.

There was certainly an assumption that I would get married and have kids. There was a feeling of being out in the cold when my friends had babies and I didn’t, but I actually felt more of a prejudice as an unpartnered woman at the time. It was a sort of black mark to be single in your thirties in the Jewish community. I would be ignored, as if I had nothing to say, and wasn’t included in the conversation.

It’s different now, but when I was younger, it wasn’t considered normal to have a child on your own. Today, it’s a whole different scenario. There are even people in the Orthodox community who have children on their own. Even if it were acceptable, would I have done it? I don’t know. It’s a very hard gig to be a solo parent, I’m not sure I would have chosen it.

I’m a barrister and most of the work I do is around children. It’s a challenging area. I was chair of the Jewish Taskforce Against Family Violence for seven years and now work with Unchain My Heart. Family violence is not spoken about, it’s a hidden epidemic. We set out to raise awareness and educate the community, and anyone who works under the umbrella of children and violence knows that it’s an emotionally draining area in which to work – whether you’re a parent or not.

I still get the questions: Do I have kids? Do I have grandkids? That doesn’t bother me. To me, it’s no different in a way from asking if I have pets, or what car I drive, or where I live. Your identity is not tied up with being a parent, your identity is tied up with who you are, what your values are, and how you see yourself contributing to society as a whole.

People talk about legacy and often look at it only in terms of biological legacy. There are lots of ways of making a difference in the world, and we have to find our own path as to how we do that. Biology isn’t the only way.

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