Why is a woman's choice to remain child-free a hard-to-digest reality for Indian society?

Given the cultural stigma around childlessness in India, saying ‘no’ to motherhood still feels like being on the receiving end of judgement and retribution

Why does it feel radical for a woman in India to say, “I don’t want children.” No tragic backstory. No heartbreak. No financial reasoning. Just a clear, conscious no. 

In a country that sanctifies motherhood, the idea of being voluntarily child-free still feels unfamiliar and, sometimes, unwelcome. It’s the default—woven into rituals, reinforced by pop culture, and rarely questioned out loud. For decades, women became mothers because that’s what was expected, largely owing to the cultural stigma of childlessness in India. For Indian women, choosing not to have children wasn’t something you admitted, even to yourself. 

But that is beginning to shift. According to a 2023 report titled ‘Has childlessness rate increased in India? Evidence from national family health surveys’ by Adrita Banerjee and Ajeet K. Singh, the number of childless women in India rose from 7 per cent in 2015-16 to 12 per cent in 2019-21—a statistically significant jump. The increase was more prominent among women with higher levels of education, those who married later, and those living in urban areas.

However, being child-free by choice in India is still far from being widely accepted. A woman who opts out is often met with confusion, concern, or quiet disbelief.

Why Indian culture still equates womanhood with motherhood

As a society, India remains deeply pronatalist. Motherhood here isn’t just celebrated—it’s often positioned as duty-bound. A woman without children often has to face a string of questions masked as concern or unsolicited reassurance: “Are you sure?” “Maybe you should freeze your eggs—just in case.”

"I still get asked by friends, acquaintances, even strangers, about when I’ll change my mind,” says Malvika Gupta, a Mumbai-based homemaker. “I’ve had men try to explain maternal instinct to me, as if I haven’t spent years thinking deeply about this. It’s exhausting." 

Food and travel writer Insia Lacewalla echoes this thought: “It shows up subtly in questions wrapped in concern, like ‘Won’t you regret it later?’ or ‘But you’d make such a great mother.’ I understand these projections come from conditioning, not malice. Still, they can feel intrusive.” 

Model and founder of Kalote Animal Trust, Pia Trivedi, now 41, has carried the weight of expectation for over a decade. “I always imagined myself as a mother—until my sister gave birth,” she says. “Something shifted [within me]. Watching her step into motherhood brought an instinctive clarity and I realised this path wasn’t mine.”

The choice, says Trivedi, didn’t come easily. “It’s layered. It’s personal. And it’s ongoing. I’ve faced silent judgment, unsolicited advice, and the quiet weight of family and societal expectations. But the hardest part has been confronting my own conditioning—asking if my ‘no’ was valid in a world that rarely wants women to say it.”

This discomfort isn’t just interpersonal—it’s systematic. As scholar Meera Suresh Babu notes in her research on the stigma, even in urban, educated circles, the idea of a woman actively choosing to not have children can feel quietly unsettling to others.  Mothers are seen as insiders: belonging to a shared life stage, to a certain kind of social legitimacy. Child-free women, by contrast, can find themselves subtly edged out of conversations, decisions or expectations built around family life. 

Thirty-six-year-old Bengaluru-based dentist Richa Karkal recalls a telling moment. “At a cousin’s baby shower, someone turned to me and said, ‘You wouldn’t get it, you don’t have kids.’ It wasn’t cruel, just casual. But in that instant, I knew I wasn’t part of that circle anymore. I had stepped outside the norm, and that comes with its own kind of invisibility,” she shares. 

The new face of childlessness in India: Young, urban, and unapologetic 

Choosing to stay child-free isn’t a novel concept. What is new is who is choosing it—and why. 

Childlessness has long been associated with circumstances: war, illness, or infertility. Today, it’s educated, financially independent, urban Indian women—more vocal than ever—who are saying no to parenthood. They aren’t doing so from a place of lack, but from a growing spectrum of choices: access to contraception, choosing to delay marriage, better career opportunities, and a desire for autonomy and self-definition.  

Amrita Nandy, author of Motherhood and Choice, writes that many women are making this decision from a place of abundance—of clarity, self-awareness, and other forms of purpose. “Many simply believe they can lead meaningful lives without being mothers,” she writes. 

Still, many women confide only in trusted circles, wary of backlash. Conceptual artist Mithu Sen reflects, “Society projects motherhood as the emotional climax of a woman’s life, yet, that too is a script—one must choose whether to perform or not. I’ve been told many times I didn’t become a mother because I’m ‘ambitious.’ But what is ambition? And who defines it? Capitalist ideas of ambition, whether as a ‘successful’ professional or a ‘selfless’ mother, erase the emotional, complex terrain of simply being.”

“It’s given me the space to shape a life that’s fluid,” says Lacewalla. She describes herself as a “free soul” who wants to travel the world. “Professionally, it’s allowed me to take risks, say yes to unexpected opportunities. Emotionally and spiritually, there’s a deep sense of self-containment I’ve come to value. I get to pour my energy into relationships, projects, communities, and causes that light me up. It’s not about having more or less responsibility; it’s about prioritising and choosing a rhythm that feels authentic to me,” she adds. 

Why exercising autonomy doesn’t always mean acceptance

The decision for women to remain childfree continues to sit uneasily within India’s social fabric as the cultural resistance is hard to shake off. Womanhood and motherhood remain closely entwined, upheld not only by tradition but the structures of entertainment, religion, education, and even healthcare. In many rural and marginalised communities across the country, motherhood functions as a form of social legitimacy—a prerequisite for acceptance in one’s marital home and, occasionally, a measure of survival. 

“In many rural communities, a woman’s acceptance in her marital home hinges on her ability to bear children,” says Dr. Shahina Begum, a public health researcher who has studied maternal health among tribal populations in Maharashtra. “I’ve seen how motherhood functions as a form of social legitimacy. Without it, women are often  silenced or even sent back to their natal homes.”

But these pressures aren't confined to rural India. In affluent urban families too, a subtle hierarchy exists. Many women recall watching their own mothers or grandmothers earn reverence only after they became mothers. “My dadi would always say she became ‘complete’ only after giving birth to three sons, including my father,” says New Delhi-based designer Mehek Puri. "Even now, when I say I don’t want children, it’s met with disbelief—as if I’m rejecting a whole identity."

Even in urban contexts, where autonomy and access are more available to women,  the choice to be childfree is often met with ambivalence. In some families, it’s perceived as a personal loss, in others, it disrupts the generational expectations.  Public discourse—across the media, policy, and religious language—continues to uphold motherhood as an assumed life trajectory. 

Fashion stylist Ekta Rajani first knew in her twenties that she didn’t want children. “I was an all-or-nothing person—when I used to commit, I would go all in. I also saw how many women around me didn’t really have a choice—some had to work, others had to stay home. I knew early on that that wasn’t my path.”

But while her decision felt instinctive, the road hasn’t been linear. “Back then, my choice was questioned, judged, even pushed against—this was 30 years ago, even in a city like Bombay.” Now, at 50, Rajani says her understanding of choice and feminism has deepened. “At the time, feminism around me was loud about one’s career being more important than home. That was the message I absorbed,” she reflects. “Looking back, I think it was a narrow framing. It almost pitted careers against caregiving, rather than giving women the space to choose either—or neither—without judgment.” India, Rajani notes, isn’t a homogeneous space. “Now in some urban spaces, I see younger women making that choice with more confidence. But in many other places, traditional gender roles still dominate.” She observes, “The point isn’t to glorify one version of womanhood. It’s to support people in making the version that’s right for them—whatever that looks like.”

Such narratives, however, continue to coexist with older frameworks. Religion privileges the maternal archetype—the figure of Mary in Christianity, Parvati in Hinduism, and Fatimah in Islam—exemplifying self-sacrificing motherhood and setting a standard via symbolism. Economic models are structured around the nuclear family, but its motherhood that fuels the economy—from childcare and education to healthcare, entire industries rely on the assumption that women will have children. 

In India alone, the childcare products market was valued at over US$ 4.2 billion in 2023 and is projected to reach US$ 10.2 billion by 2032 (IMARC Group). Government policies echo this logic as more births mean more consumers, workers, and taxpayers. In such a system, choosing to remain child-free doesn’t just defy social expectations, it quietly challenges the economic engine that runs on the concept of reproduction. 

Domestic life remains coded around caregiving as a gendered responsibility. In such a context, the refusal to reproduce is rarely read as a neutral decision—it is interpreted as a break away from the norm. 

Privilege, pressures, and the uneven access to choice 

Let’s not romanticise this too quickly. The freedom to be childfree remains deeply uneven. “The narrative is still strong, considering that the majority of the population [in India] is rural and we are largely still a patriarchal society,” points out Babu “Most child-free women in India belong to upper or upper-middle classes. They’re highly qualified professionals with economic security. They still face stigma—but they also have the means and platforms to navigate it.”

Research shows that voluntarily child-free women tend to share markers of privilege—higher education, economic independence, liberal worldviews, and a willingness to question gender norms. But for many women (individuals assigned female at birth)—particularly those from lower castes, rural regions, or queer and trans communities—motherhood isn’t always a choice. The idea of choice isn’t just about opting out, it also shows up in who is allowed to become a mother. 

Filmmaker and interdisciplinary artist Varsha Panikar evaluates, “For many queer and trans people in India who want children, there’s still a struggle to be recognised as legitimate parents. Adoption laws are unclear, marriage rights are denied, and most legal frameworks don’t acknowledge non-traditional families. The state and society still decide who gets to raise a child.”

Even among the privileged, scrutiny persists. The pushback is real. Families mourn. Friends express doubt. Strangers offer unsolicited advice. Pop culture continues  to script women’s lives as linear—marriage, motherhood, fulfillment. “If I didn’t have emotional and intellectual support, or access to education and autonomy, I might have chosen differently,” says Trivedi. “Under pressure, I may have had a child—not out of desire but out of duty. That’s the reality for many women.”

Not Anti-Child, Just Pro-Choice

Choosing to be child-free is not to reject children. Nor is it to reject care. For many, it’s about reshaping how care is given and who gets to give it.  These women often direct their time, energy, and attention towards nieces and nephews, siblings, ageing parents, or communities. Their refusal lies not in nurturing—but in limiting its legitimacy to biology.

Cultural psychologist Manya Rathore shares, “They don’t believe the uterus should define the unit.” She frames it as a quiet restructuring of care: “What if caregiving wasn’t compulsory? What if we stopped feminising care? What if it was chosen, shared, and supported—by all genders?”

Therapist Sabah Tahilramani offers both a personal and professional perspective. “The scrutiny is still incredibly gendered. I was asked repeatedly—would I regret it, was I just afraid, was I broken? People assumed I was disconnected from my femininity. My husband? He was rarely questioned. His choice was seen as neutral. Mine is unnatural.” She continues, “As a therapist I see this bias played out as women’s decisions being viewed with suspicion or pity. Men are seen as reasoned. That says a lot about how we still view autonomy, emotional legitimacy, and gender.”

Sen echoes this critique through her work. “Would a man be asked these questions with the same urgency?” she asks. “Society doesn’t even allow the image of a pregnant man to exist without censorship. My 2009 artwork You Owe Me—a pregnant gay man with an X-ray belly—was censored in both Brussels and India. Twice. The same system that won’t let us imagine alternative parenthood feels entitled to interrogate a woman’s child-free life.”

The biological clock was never ticking—it was programmed

For generations, women have been told that having a maternal instinct is inevitable. That even if you don’t want children in the present, you will at some point later. Not just by family or friends—but often by doctors, therapists, even gynaecologists. “Don’t worry,” they say. “You’ll want kids eventually. You’ll see.”

But what if we stopped assuming all women are destined for motherhood?The belief that every woman is hardwired for motherhood is so embedded that even those who feel no such urge are made to second-guess themselves. “Society has a way of treating that kind of clarity as temporary,” says Lacewalla, “like a phase I’d outgrow once the ‘biological clock’ kicked in.”

What we term ‘instinct’ is often expectation. Not all mothers feel it, not all child-free women lack it. It stems from the stories we grow up with, or the lack of alternatives we’re shown. “Society glorifies the joy of motherhood but rarely prepares women for the deep emotional, physical, and psychological transformation it demands,” says Tahilramani, for whom the thought of pregnancy and childbirth felt traumatic—not sacred. “No one talks about that. Therapy helped me honour that discomfort without pathologising it.”

A meaningful life can be built through friendship, art, activism, partnership, solitude or work. Stepping outside tradition can open space for new, inclusive forms of family. “We need to start recognising the many ways queer and trans people already build families—through chosen kin, caregiving, and mutual support that often falls outside what the law recognises. These are real families. They deserve protection, dignity, and legal rights," says Panikar.  

When motherhood isn’t a choice, it’s a default 

When motherhood is treated as the inevitable next step for women, it stops being a choice—it becomes a mandate. The idea runs so deep within society, it’s often hard to tell where tradition ends and personal desire begins.

“Many pursue motherhood due to family pressure, cultural norms, or the 'ticking clock'," says Tahilramani. "Some want to see what their baby looks like or create something with their partner. While I respect that, such desires sometimes stem more from an idealised notion of legacy rather than from a grounded understanding of parenthood.”

Studies—both local and global—have found that voluntarily child-free women often report higher life satisfaction, particularly in cultures where parenting remains unequal and caregiving falls disproportionately placed on women. In fact, a 2019 Morgan Stanley report estimates that by 2030, nearly 45 per cent of women may be single and child-free. That’s not just a statistic—it is reflective of a generational shift. Behind it is access, agency, and a quiet refusal to conform to rigid gender roles. 

To make space for different paths, visibility matters—through public dialogue, inclusive policy, and media that reflect the full spectrum of lives women lead. “To truly normalise the choice of being child-free, we need public health campaigns, educational outreach, and positive media representation,” says Babu. “The fight isn’t just about freedom—it’s about visibility, safety, and systemic inclusion.”

Sociologist Amy Blackstone, in her book Childfree by Choice (2019), finds that the link between womanhood and motherhood is institutional. “Gen Z is attempting to disentangle it—openly and without apology—but it persists because it’s deeply embedded in our systems.” This raises a harder question—one that author Orna Donath puts plainly in Regretting Motherhood (2015): “How many women ever truly had a choice, if the only acceptable answer was yes?”

This is ultimately not just about motherhood or its absence. It’s about the legitimacy of choice. “Refusing motherhood isn’t always a bold act; it can be circumstantial, personal, and / or political. And no one owes an explanation,” says Sen.  

So perhaps the question isn’t “Why don’t you want children?” but “Why does that still unsettle you?” This isn’t to dismiss the power of motherhood. While it can be transformative, it isn’t inevitable. Insisting otherwise erases the complexity of choice and imposes emotional, social and even physical costs on those who choose differently.

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