An open letter to my friends who are mothers

Just because I have chosen a different path, it doesn’t mean I’m not interested in your life with children. Please always tell me things.

A version of this piece was first published in the Irish Independent on May 14 2024 to promote my new book A Year of Nothing which is back on sale in November 2024 via The Pound Project. You’ll get an alert via The Hyphen when it’s back on sale. To receive all articles from The Hyphen and support my work, sign up as a paid subscriber.

An open letter to my friends with kids
by Emma Gannon

With every year I get older, I become more sure that the motherhood path is not for me. I don’t have any big reasons. People often assume it’s because of bigger logistical reasons: environmental reasons, financial reasons like child-care costs, or work or health. It’s a much gentler, smaller thing for me, a quiet knowing that I’d prefer to live my life in a slightly different way.

In terms of friendship, I am noticing how pivotal the mid-30s era is for women; your social network changes, friends start living completely different lives, and it’s harder to stay connected in the exact same way.

This letter is something I wanted to write to display hope and optimism that even though you might feel like you’re growing apart from people, the love can continue on, and the friendship candle is still alight even if you can’t quite see it, quietly burning away in the background.

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Dear friends with children,

Just because I have chosen to be child-free, it doesn’t mean I’m not interested in your child and your life with your children.

When I read the book Matrescence by Lucy Jones, I thought of you — how much you transformed, just how much you went through. I didn’t understand at the time just how big of a metamorphosis it was. Maybe I never will.

You are still you. But you also told me that your kids are an extension of you and have, of course, forever changed you.

Please don’t shut me out, even when it’s hard, even when you think I won’t understand. I haven’t seen what you have seen. But I can listen. I can still be here.

Communication is key, even if it is just to tell me you’re going underground for a bit, and vice versa.

Elizabeth Gilbert once said that when her friends are going through something difficult, she says: “I’m sitting outside your door.” That’s how I feel. I’m sitting outside your door, until you’re ready to come out again.

Please don’t ever apologise for talking about your kids. At lunch, when you said “sorry, this must be so boring for you” and abruptly stopped talking about them, I felt uncomfortable at this assumption. It’s not boring for me! I love hearing about your kids.

Share photos. In the middle of a stressful deadline, it’s a joy to see a photo of your kid in a nativity play or splashing about in a swimming pool.

Allow me to be a little bit petty and jealous about your new mum friends. I admit, I felt threatened at first. When I walked into a local café and I saw you at a big table with them, I felt awkward. But I’ll get over it. That’s on me, not you.

Your kids make things so fun. Last New Year’s Eve, when your little girl couldn’t sleep and so we were all dancing to Sugababes in the living room and she came out and joined in, it made the night memorable and special.

You can always share the highs and the lows. I am your neutral, child-free-by-choice friend. I don’t have opinions on your parenting.

I am sorry that I don’t always remember some of your kids’ milestones or check in with certain things. I know they’re growing a lot and doing lots of new things all the time. I can’t always know every little small thing unless you share it with me. Let’s always agree to let each other off the hook. It’s not a reflection on the strength of friendship if one of us forgets something.

Please don’t be offended if I don’t want to go on holiday with you and the kids. I love you, but I don’t want to go to Center Parcs, or sit by a pool with screaming children, or go to Peppa Pig World. In the words of the singer Meat Loaf, I’ll do anything for love, but I won’t do that. We can do other things together and make it special.

Please don’t forget that we have so much more in common than we don’t. We’ll always be the same 16-year-old weirdos. We are the same age, we are 30-something women, we grew up together, we enjoy so many of the same things, we lived together in London, we know each other’s secrets and ex-boyfriends, we love the same music, movies, books, jokes. Let’s try and remember how many shared memories we have, instead of the differences.

I miss you. I know it’s selfish, but it’s how I feel sometimes. I miss the old times even though I know they are long gone. I enjoy soaking you up when I get to see you on your own. Will you allow me to miss the old days, sometimes, and share that with you? Can we sometimes take time to reflect and look back, together, even though we have separate lives rattling forwards at full pelt? I am in awe of this new person you’ve become and the incredible ways you care for your children.

I knew you for twenty years before you were a mother. I knew you then, and I know you now, and I love you, all of you. I’m so proud of you.

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My novel Olive is out now in paperback — a story all about love, friendship and being child-free by choice.

For more on this topic, you can also listen to me chatting to Giovanna Fletcher on the Happy Mum Happy Baby podcast.

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