No kids, no less

“When are you having kids?”

It’s a question that used to roll off the tongues of “titas” and “titos” like clockwork during family gatherings. Now it also comes up during catch-ups with old friends. Sometimes it’s asked with a wink, other times with a sermon about time running out. I usually give the standard answer: “We’re still enjoying life as a DINK couple—dual income, no kids.”

But the truth is more layered than that. It sits quietly in the corner of our apartment, in the spaces between our busy schedules and late-night conversations over takeout.

I do want kids. My wife doesn’t.

We’re both in our late 20s, both working professionals. We’re living a good life. And that’s exactly why people expect us to “take the next step.” Because isn’t that what couples like us do?

Except it’s not that simple. My wife has been open about her reasons from the start. She had a complicated relationship with her mother. That experience left scars she’s still learning to live with. “I’m scared I’ll pass on the same kind of pain,” she once said, during one of those late-night, too-honest conversations. And I believed her. I still do.

Beyond that, we also discuss the practical aspects. Even with a combined income that puts us somewhere in the upper middle class, we still don’t feel like we can provide the kind of life we’d want for a child. Not just survival, but a childhood with room to breathe, explore, be safe. When everything from housing to health care feels like a moving target, it’s hard to feel confident bringing someone new into this world. A lot of times, we go in agreement that choosing not to have a child might be the more responsible choice. That it is better to spare a future person from inheriting this chaos, and from adding to the carbon footprint that’s already burning us all.

Still, I’d be lying if I said I haven’t imagined it—holding a small hand, hearing someone call me “Tatay” the way I used to call my dad, raising a curious, kind human with the woman I love. Those visions come and go, quietly, like a dream I try not to disturb. Because how could I ask her to override all her trauma, her fear, her convictions—just to fulfill my dream?

I know I would be a good father. My wife says so, too. And that makes it harder, sometimes. Because now and then, she starts to feel that tug. too. We talk about it, let ourselves wonder what it might be like. For a fleeting moment, the door creaks open.

And then it closes again.

The feeling passes, and she returns to what she’s always known about herself: that motherhood may not be the path for her. And I don’t hold that against her. I know how deeply she’s wrestled with it, how much thought and pain and love are wrapped up in that decision.

So we talked. A lot. About what it means to truly respect someone’s autonomy, not just in theory, but in the small, hard choices. We’ve tried our best to be child-free at the moment. For years, she tried different kinds of contraceptives—pills, implants, injections. All of them came with side effects that messed with her hormones, energy, mood. I saw it. I lived through it with her. And I realized how much of the burden of birth control often falls on women, silently and constantly.

In the end, we agreed that the best path forward might be for me to get a vasectomy.

But it took me a while to arrive to that decision. Not because I doubted our relationship, or because I had second thoughts about not having kids now. But because, deep down, I was still processing what it meant to close that door. To say, maybe for good, that I won’t be a father. And even if it was my choice, it still stung a little.

To this day, I’ve never talked about the vasectomy with my family. I don’t have the heart to tell our parents, especially when they bring up the idea of a grandchild so casually, like it’s a foregone conclusion. I just smile, change the subject, or joke my way out of it. Only a few close friends know. Not because I’m ashamed, but because it’s complicated. It’s one of those decisions that feels deeply personal and yet so intertwined with expectations that aren’t always easy to explain.

But this—our life, her peace, our partnership—matters more to me than a future I couldn’t guarantee.

There are no easy answers. Only quiet ones.

We’ve talked about this so many times that there are no dramatic tears or angry fights. Just deep, looping conversations. And for now, we’ve chosen to honor where we both are: I won’t force her to have a child. She won’t pretend it doesn’t matter to me.

Maybe we won’t have kids. Maybe someday we will. But either way, we’ll face it together.

And that, for me, is enough.

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JP Omac, 29, is a social impact writer based in Calamba, Laguna. He hopes to contribute, in small ways, to making the world a little better by supporting community organizations that work for change. When not working, he enjoys binge-watching TV series with his wife and being a cat dad to their two furbabies.