In October 2024, I wrote my first post on this blog called “My Dirty Little Secret—Exposed.” It was the first time I admitted, publicly, what I had been hiding for so long: my story of being childfree not by choice. Some would call me childless, but that word has never felt true. I prefer childfree not by choice because it reflects both grief and healing after infertility, and the strength it takes in letting go of parenthood.
The Weight of Silence
In 2024, writing about it felt terrifying enough. But speaking it out loud to people who knew nothing about me? That felt impossible.
Last Saturday, that changed.
Michel and I went to a dinner party with new friends. We were introduced by a mutual acquaintance who thought we’d click with his group. I was excited—ready to meet people with common interests. We brought a salad (store-bought, nothing fancy), and soon we were surrounded by a mix of guests: a nurse practitioner and her husband, a dermatologist and his wife, a writer and her companion, a professor colleague of the host, and our hosts themselves—a university professor/researcher and a doctor.
When Michel introduced me to the writer, she asked the question that stopped me cold: “What do you write?”
I froze. The truth is, I still stumble over calling myself a writer. Yes, I’ve written. Yes, I’ve been published in the last few months. But my identity defaults to “lawyer” or “20-year business owner with a company in Europe.” Meanwhile, she was a real writer—published books, a creative writing professor, an agent, from a writing family.
And here I was—someone with a blog and a story I had once sworn to keep quiet.
I hesitated. If I told her what I really write about, it would be the first time I shared something so personal with complete strangers. It would reveal the very secret I had exposed only months earlier online. Saying it out loud would mean I couldn’t retreat to the safety of invisibility anymore.
Finding the Words That Fit
I took a breath and started with the safer version:
“I write about changing the terminology of ‘childless women’ to ‘childfree not by choice.’”
She looked at me, curious. So I explained: “Women who go through infertility aren’t always successful in getting a baby, and they’re called ‘childless.’ I don’t agree with that term. It makes us feel less than. But we are not less than. My preferred terminology recognizes that we are whole. It’s more inclusive. It explains we don’t have children without reducing us to stereotypes. We’re not ‘childless cat ladies.’”
Others overheard and joined the conversation. Questions followed. And for the first time, I shared my story openly, in real time.
Inside, I was panicking. Oh my God. I said it. I didn’t hide. I didn’t shrink. I didn’t drown in shame.
I said it factually. I owned it.
And something surprising happened: I was met with curiosity, compassion, and support. No judgment. No pity. Just genuine interest.
What’s Changed Since October 2024
When I wrote “My Dirty Little Secret—Exposed” last fall, I was still learning how to tell my truth on the page. My audience was invisible to me. I didn’t know how people would respond—or if anyone would.
Now, less than a year later, I’ve not only written about it, I’ve spoken it aloud to a room full of strangers. And instead of silence or shame, I was met with understanding.
That’s a gain worth celebrating:
- From hidden to heard: I no longer feel like my story must stay tucked away in the shadows.
- From shame to ownership: The words come easier now, without the sting of embarrassment.
- From isolation to connection: Every time I share—even at a dinner table—I discover people are ready to listen.
This may not sound like much. But for me, it’s a milestone.
In one year, I’ve gone from hiding in the dark—ashamed that I didn’t succeed where others did—to standing in the light, telling my story as fact, not failure.
And in doing so, I’ve discovered something new: when we own our “dirty little secrets,” they lose their power over us.
