How to find fulfillment without children

I was 22 and a recent college graduate when I decided to leave the United States and move to Hanoi. A few days before my departure, my father, stepmother, and I were having lunch when we bumped into two of my stepmother’s Vietnamese friends. My stepmother proudly shared that I was heading to Vietnam for an internship at the United Nations.

“She’ll hate it,” I overheard one of them say. “Why is she going there? She’s too young. She’ll come back quickly.” The second friend asked if I was single, and when my stepmother replied, “yes,” I could hear the exasperation in the woman’s voice. She seemed baffled by my choices.

Their skepticism was clear—they didn’t believe I would make it in Vietnam as a young, naive (single) American woman. Underneath my polite smile was a quiet resolve, a determination to prove to them and my father that I could find happiness on this unconventional path. I knew deep inside that I would not only "make it," but thrive in Vietnam.

Confronting expectations

Upon arriving in Hanoi during the mid-Autumn festival, I immersed myself in a sensory feast— the sweet scent of mooncakes wafting from street vendors, the glow of paper lanterns bobbing in the evening breeze, children's laughter echoing through narrow alleyways. The chaos and vitality of life in Vietnam were intoxicating. The community I was building, including Vietnamese colleagues, locals, and expats, felt nourishing. But beneath all the excitement, a familiar tension arose.

Questions about marriage and family soon surfaced, often starting innocently with, “How old are you?” followed by, “Are you married?” and then, “Do you have a boyfriend? Not even one back in the U.S.?” Each time I answered “no,” I was met with furrowed brows and quizzical looks, making me feel like I was confessing to some dark secret rather than living my dreams.

During those interactions, my chest tightened as I felt I had to defend my decisions unnecessarily. These questions were supposed to define my existence as a woman. I wanted to make them understand how alive I felt exploring the bustling streets of Hanoi, how my pulse quickened with each new discovery, and how my heart swelled with pride with this new life I was building. The corporate job I'd left behind was a distant memory. Despite the puzzled looks and probing questions, I felt something I'd never experienced before—a deep, thrilling sense of freedom, of being wholly and utterly myself.

In those initial months in Hanoi, when my certainty sometimes wavered under the weight of cultural expectations, I met Nguyet. Our mutual friend described her as the perfect balance of a contemporary and traditional woman who forges her path and career while remaining loyal and committed to her family. By Vietnamese standards, Nguyet was considered late to start a family. To Vietnamese society, she was teetering on the edge of earning that dreaded label: “too old to have a family.” The whispers about her age—late 20s and still unmarried—seemed to follow her like shadows.

During our coffee meetings, steam rising from traditional cà phê sữa đá between us, I'd study her face for signs of regret or resignation but found only peaceful determination. She lived under the weight of society's judgment yet moved with the lightness of someone who had found her truth. Each of her choices stirred in me a quiet, persistent question about what kind of woman I wanted to become. In her, I saw a mirror reflecting different possibilities—each choice carrying its beauty and burden.

Defying cultural norms

Growing up, I somehow evaded the pressure to become something that someone else wanted me to be—this was a wonderful gift from my Vietnamese parents: the freedom of choice. My mother was a homemaker. Although she met my father in medical school in Saigon, she didn’t practice medicine. She dedicated herself entirely to family, with home-cooked meals, including fresh baguettes and traditional Vietnamese dishes. Watching her, I felt a complex mix of love and resistance. While I cherished the warmth she created in our home, I couldn't imagine myself finding fulfillment in a life revolving solely around family, children, and homemaking. Even then, I sensed I was meant for a different path—one that might perplex her, but would ultimately honor the strength she had passed down to me.

Her death when I was 14 left a void. Suddenly, there was no one to teach me the unspoken rules of becoming a woman, no one to share family recipes with, no one to either support or challenge my growing desire for independence. The silence in our kitchen became deafening. I often wondered what guidance she would have offered about love, career, and family. This loss shaped me in ways I'm still discovering—perhaps making me more fiercely protective of my right to choose my own path, knowing life could be shorter than we expect, but there was a part of me that also knew that I would never be a homemaker like my mother.

Living life on my terms

I returned to Vietnam twice in my 20s to work for international NGOs and development organizations. Many of my Vietnamese American friends, whom I met for the first time in Vietnam, also came back to live and work in Hanoi. As the years passed, they returned married and with children, much to the delight of our mutual Vietnamese friends. Co Loc, a housekeeper who helped me and several friends, liked to remind me that everyone else was starting families. "When is it going to be your turn?" she would ask. She often reminded me that life is better when shared with family and loved ones.

Yet, as I approached 30, I still never felt strongly about the desire to have children. Once, in my late 20s, while working in Geneva, I remember telling a colleague that maybe I should freeze my eggs in case I wanted to have children later and didn't meet someone to start a family with. That night, I realized I wasn't wrestling with logistics—I was finally ready to acknowledge a truth I'd long kept buried. The next day, I bumped into my colleague with a newfound clarity, I said, “Never mind. I don't want to have kids alone, so there's no point in freezing my eggs.”  The words felt terrifying and liberating, like stepping off a prescribed path into open terrain.

As I watched friends settle into family life, I remained on a different path—one that I was beginning to realize offered its own kind of purpose and fulfillment, even if it didn’t fit traditional expectations.

Redefining fulfillment

This year, more than two decades after my first trip to Vietnam, I turned 45. I'm still childfree by choice. I've never been married. I didn't become a doctor, as my father had hoped, but I'm content with the shape and trajectory of my life.

A few years ago, I went to a nail salon owned by Vietnamese women. One of the manicurists glared at me as I walked in, and I hoped I wouldn't be paired with her. But, of course, I was. She stared at me from across the table, looking at my hands as she spoke. "How old are you?" she asked. When I told her my age, I watched her face transform from skepticism to disbelief,  "No, you're my son's age. He's in his 30s. You're not in your 40s."

"Yes," I responded. "I am in my 40s."

The familiar questions followed: "Do you have a husband?"

"No."

"What about kids?"

"Nope."

"What about a boyfriend?"

"Yes, I do."

"Ok, that's good," she acknowledged.

Then she looked at me closely. "You're smart. You never had kids and never got married. Good for you."

In that fluorescent-lit salon, surrounded by the sharp scent of nail polish and acetone, a stranger had permitted me to fully embrace my choices in a way that my younger self, sitting at that lunch table two decades ago, couldn't have imagined possible.

Her words washed over me in a wave of validation I hadn't known I was seeking. I laughed out loud, not just from amusement but from the pure relief of being seen—truly seen—for who I was rather than who I wasn't. In that fluorescent-lit salon, surrounded by the sharp scent of nail polish and acetone, a stranger had permitted me to fully embrace my choices in a way that my younger self, sitting at that lunch table two decades ago, couldn't have imagined possible.

Looking back at my 22-year-old self, with her quiet defiance and uncertain dreams, I wish I could tell her that the path less traveled would lead to its kind of fulfillment. Maybe we're all coming around to the fact that there are many different paths to self-defined success—some winding through marriage and motherhood, others climbing toward different peaks entirely. The beauty lies not in which path we choose but in having the courage to walk it authentically.