The New Zealand women asking: Do I really want to have children?

Shaped by climate anxiety, the cost-of-living crisis, evolving gender roles and a new wave of reproductive autonomy, the decision not to have children is no longer just a private matter. It’s a cultural conversation about freedom, care, and how we define a life well lived.

In 2023, Stats NZ reported the lowest annual natural increase in population since World War II. Our national fertility rate has dropped to 1.56 births per woman, far below the population replacement rate of 2.1.

How are we redefining womanhood, care, and family?

Maxwell was born and raised in Wairoa, Hawke's Bay. She’s the “baby of the family” to a Caucasian father and a Filipino mother and has four half older brothers from her dad’s first marriage and an adopted sister from the Philippines.

“I’ve always been surrounded by children and older folk,” she says.

Maxwell says her upbringing shaped her perspective in many ways.

“I have an Asian parent, so the term ‘Tiger Mum’ (a strict or demanding mother who pushes her child to high levels of achievement) was always around. I didn’t want to become that, and it became a factor in my choice to remain child-free.”

Coming from a small rural town, the path seemed binary: go to university and make something of yourself, or “get pregnant”. Maxwell stayed on what was seen as the “good path”, but always questioned societal expectations.

“I have a niece who had her first child at 15 when I was 10-years-old. Knowing that she was only five years older than me—and that it could have been me in five years—massively played on my mind. I didn’t want that for myself. All the goals and plans I had would be majorly affected if I had a child.”

People often told Maxwell she’d feel differently once she had her own, but that moment never came.

“If a man came into my life with kids, that’s fine. But physically, I do not want to have a child of my own.”

From her late 20s, she’d get people asking when she was “going to give your parents grandchildren?”

That conversation happens all the time, she says.

“Yes, right now I should be technically married, with a house, financially stable, with children. But it’s just never really been me. I’m the type of person who goes ‘urgh’ when I hear a baby crying in the supermarket.”

Working in the film industry, Maxwell says her busy solo lifestyle and financial position don’t accommodate children.

“Film is not an ideal industry for having children. Looking after cast, moving around the country, working the hours I do, that can be 24/7—it’s not fair to have a child. Even if I did feel the inkling, I couldn’t afford it. I wouldn’t want to put myself under more financial strain”

While she expected more resistance from her family, especially as her mum’s only child, the reaction has been surprisingly supportive. But the wider stigma still lingers.

“Of course, in my late 30s, I’d get people being like, ‘Oh well, you’re just selfish because you don’t want children’.

“And I was like, what? That doesn’t make sense. I’m not financially stable, and I don’t think it’s fair to bring something into the world when I can’t even look after myself. Life is harder. Industries are constantly changing—construction, admin, entertainment—you always have to keep evolving. Adding a child into that just doesn’t feel realistic.”

Megan was also raised in a Filipino household. However, her upbringing was steeped in traditional values and religious expectations.

“I grew up in a traditional Filipino Roman Catholic household. In our culture, women are often expected to take on the responsibilities of raising children and managing household chores. That is our final, end goal: to be a mother and a wife.

“Both my parents are foreign—one from the Philippines, one from the UK. I’m the oldest of three, and both my sisters have three children. With 35 cousins on one side of the family, only two of us don’t have kids. And the other one is a priest.”

Family pressure was just the beginning. “What would God think?” was another layer of guilt Megan wrestled with.

“It was a ‘takes a village’ kind of upbringing. We were involved in each other’s lives—cousins, aunties, everyone interchangeable. The bigger the family, the happier you are. That’s the kind of energy—especially in Filipino culture—that you get.”

But despite the family-first environment, Megan says her instincts always told a different story.

“I decided I didn’t want children very young—at 15,16 I started being quite vocal about it with my family and friends.

“I remember getting my period for the first time, and my mum was like ‘you're a woman! This means you can have babies, continue our legacy, and start a family. This is a joyous occasion!’

“And I remember thinking at the time, this was not a joyous occasion. My life is over, because I could potentially have a baby. And I really didn’t want to do that.”

Up until the age of 40, people have told Megan that she will change her mind. “For 20 years, I heard the same thing over and over: you will change your mind, you will change your mind…only recently has it died down a bit.”

Growing up and witnessing her mother’s subtle resentment, Megan never wanted to feel forced into having children.

“I don’t think my mother ever wanted children. I picked up that she didn’t really want them—I think she did it because she was expected to. As a responsibility to her community, her religion, her values.

“I’ve always felt that if I’m not 100 percent sure about it, I shouldn’t be doing it. Even during my peak baby-making years, I never felt like this was what I wanted to do.”

The decision to remain child-free was deeply considered.

“There is a very detailed, complex, meticulous, analytical thought process that goes into being child-free. You don’t just wake up and decide … But I firmly believe that if you’re not certain in your decision, you shouldn't do it. And I’ve never felt confident about having my own children.”

Megan has a long-term partner who is supportive of her decision. “He is like, do whatever makes you happy—which is so helpful.”

While she’s surrounded by supportive friends, strangers often pry: “Random people are so invested in my uterus - even though it has nothing to do with them”.

“.... People just assume you don’t like kids, right? Which is so wrong. I absolutely love kids. I adore my nieces and nephews—thank goodness, because there are like 30 of them. But I do not want my own children. I have no guttural feeling of wanting children, and that is very clear to me.”

Megan is a recruiter by trade, working with marginalised groups, helping them break the cycle. “I want to be a mentor for younger women. I want them to know they can go out and be an apprentice or electrician—their purpose doesn’t just have to be to procreate.”

“.... There are all these misconceptions or stale ideas like you are going to be lonely when you’re old, or who is going to look after you? How are you going to feel fulfilled?”

Megan also spends a lot of her time volunteering at animal shelters and supporting her extended family.

“I feel very fulfilled. I have a great partner. I have great friends. I can travel and do things I love,

Tessa was born in Whangārei and raised in what she describes as a “very Kiwi, very normal” household.

“My parents separated when I was eleven. No drama. Mum found a new partner, and Dad found a new partner. So, I ended up with two separate families. I got a half-sister and a step-sister. It was all very normal.”

Her childhood reflected traditional values: “You get married, you have babies, career may or may not be a thing.”

But at 21, Tessa recalls turning to her friends and saying, 'there is nothing about me that is maternal, I have no desire'. That was when it became clear to me. Meanwhile, my friends were already talking about having kids.”

When Tessa and her partner were married at 23, the conversation about children began soon after.

“It was a bit of a journey. We started to talk about it, but then we realised it wasn’t really for us. I am so glad he is on the same page as me. Thankfully, I have never had to compromise my view for his view — we have had the same thought process. By around 26, we were pretty sure.”

At one point, the pressure to procreate from both families was so intense the pair nearly caved.

“[They would say] ‘Oh, just wait, you’ll change your mind soon, but you’d be great parents’ or friends who were in the newborn years would say ‘oh, but you’re going to miss out on so much’.

“... I remember we had this big conversation like, ‘Should we just have one, and get it done?’ We were so stuck because of the pressure on all sides. That would make everyone shut-up.

“But we were never certain.

Doubts lingered but by their early 30s, the decision was final.

“Once we made the final contraception decision [a vasectomy for her partner], it was like we could close the book on that and move on with the rest of our lives and only look ahead. Which was quite a freeing feeling.”

Both now 39, Tessa and her partner are comfortable with their decision. They run two businesses and are active in their local community in Whangārei.

“We’re big contributors - but friends barely ever ask about that because it’s not the same for them. They’ve walked a different path,” she says.

“It can be isolating with friendships. But I always think friendships have seasons where not everything is always going to be reciprocated. You’ve just got to remind people that not everyone needs to live an identical life. That all paths are valid.”

*Megan and Tessa asked for their names to be changed for privacy.