By Wendy Watson
For as long as I can remember—maybe even from the time I first learned how to speak—I’ve known that I never wanted children. This wasn’t a secret I kept locked away; it was something I voiced openly. My family still recalls me saying, at a very young age, things like, “I’m never going to have kids,” or “I don’t want children.” It was as if I’d been born with an inner compass pointing to a child-free life. While other children my age might have pretended to be parents to dolls, cooing and cuddling, I was off doing something else entirely, already sure that motherhood wasn’t for me.
When I turned twenty-one, this certainty felt strong enough that I tried to get my tubes tied. In my mind, it made perfect sense: if I knew I didn’t want kids, why leave the door open? Why not make a permanent decision? Yet, the doctors refused. They told me I was too young, that I might change my mind, that plenty of women think they’ll never want children only to wake up a decade later longing for a baby. It was frustrating and felt dismissed. But what could I do? I continued forward, still believing in my core that motherhood would never be my path.
A few years later, I married my first husband. We found common ground on the subject right away—we both agreed we didn’t want children. But life has a habit of testing our convictions in unexpected ways. A couple of years into our marriage, I found myself entertaining the idea of having a child. Not because I suddenly changed my mind about raising kids, but because I considered doing it for him. He was the last of his bloodline, and I started to wonder if giving him a child might be a gift he deserved. When I brought it up, he immediately shut the idea down. I felt relieved. We both instinctively knew that parenthood would never have suited us. Our marriage eventually ended on unfavorable terms. In the aftermath, I felt so grateful we never had children.
My second marriage wasn’t much different regarding the subject of parenthood. We never discussed it, but after a few years together, I started feeling that familiar urge rise up again. We decided to try, and that’s when we learned that he couldn’t give me children. This second marriage also ended badly, and once again, I thanked the universe I never had kids. Each time I danced near the edge of the motherhood question, something pulled me back.
Shortly after that second divorce, I faced an unplanned, unwanted pregnancy that ended unsuccessfully. The circumstances were nowhere near ideal. This experience reinforced what I’d known all along: I never truly wanted children. There was no deep longing, no sense of loss for a future family I’d miss out on. Instead, I felt validated in my convictions and grateful. I wasn’t maternal. I wasn’t built for this. Or so I thought.
My entire definition of what “maternal” means rested on the simple assumption that not wanting children meant not being maternal. Society often correlates the two: if you’re maternal, you want kids. If you don’t want kids, clearly, you lack that nurturing spark. For much of my life, I carried that belief without question.
Then something happened that reshaped my understanding of maternal nature altogether. I embarked on a spiritual journey that included Shaman training, ancestral healing, and a variety of spiritual modalities designed to help me understand myself and my lineage better. It was intense work—often emotional, sometimes challenging, and always eye-opening. During one of these trainings, my Shaman started calling me the “Divine Mother.” I remember my immediate reaction: I scoffed and laughed. “Who are you talking to?” I asked. “You,” she said, smiling. “You are the Divine Mother.”
My classmates nodded in agreement, but I couldn’t fathom why. Divine Mother? Me? The woman who had spent her entire life certain she never wanted children, who’d been relieved multiple times that life hadn’t forced motherhood upon her? This label couldn’t possibly fit. I left that day with a simple conclusion: I needed to think about this and see what they saw.
In the weeks that followed, I began observing my own behavior. I started noticing patterns in how I interacted with others. I recalled my cousins calling me “their bodyguard” when we were younger, how protective I’d been of them. I saw how I treated my friends—listening deeply to their struggles, offering comfort, guiding them through tough choices. With my clients, I realized I wasn’t just providing a service; I was nurturing their growth, encouraging their personal and professional development, and celebrating their successes as if they were my own. Even with my pets, I noticed a maternal quality in how I cared for their well-being, ensuring they felt safe, loved, and understood.
I started to see maternal energy not as something strictly tied to having children, but as a quality that can manifest in many areas of life. Maybe maternal energy wasn’t about motherhood specifically; maybe it was about nurturing, protecting, guiding, and loving in whatever forms felt natural. Could I be maternal without ever being a mother in the traditional sense? The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. Maternal nature could be expressed through friendships, leadership roles, creative projects, spiritual guidance, community building, and especially how I treat myself.
As I explored this idea, another part of my life began to shift: my relationship with my own mother. After my second divorce and the loss of that pregnancy, I pulled away from my family for a while. I needed space to find myself, to grow my emotional maturity, to improve my mindset, and to change habits that no longer served me. This retreat also widened the gap between my mother and me. We were evolving separately, and as I changed, the dynamic between us changed too. I remember trusting that when I was ready to re-engage with my family, it would be from a stronger and more authentic place.
About a year ago, my mother opened up to me in a way she never had before. She confessed that she’d lost hope in our relationship twice, unsure if we’d ever reconnect. She also admitted to being fearful for my life because of certain spiritual and personal choices I’d made. I listened, acknowledged her feelings, and told her I was grateful that I’d held onto hope for both of us. I reassured her that I was safe, guided, and watched over by God, and that she didn’t need to fear for me. She said that was part of motherhood and that she would always fear for her children’s safety. It was disappointing as I do not want her to live in fear. I want her to live in faith.
Then, just four days ago—December 8, 2024—my mother sent me a text message that changed everything: “God granted you with too many talents that He can use. Your work is not done yet.” This message struck me with a profound sense of relief and understanding. She finally saw me and saw what I was doing for the world. She acknowledged my purpose, my gifts, and my contributions. In that single sentence, it felt as though she let go of her fear and replaced it with faith and acceptance. This shift in our relationship healed something spiritual between us, allowing me to feel closer to her in a way I hadn’t experienced in years.
Immediately, I noticed my maternal nature becoming even stronger. On December 10th, I claimed my maternal nature for the first time to a group of amazing women, “I am maternal.” No disclaimers, no qualifiers, just the truth as I now understood it. It felt powerful, as if I’d integrated a missing piece of my identity. I had never experienced such a strong sense of maternal energy in myself. It wasn’t about wanting children; it was about embracing the nurturing force within me that had been there all along, manifesting in ways I never labeled as “maternal” before.
Ever since that day, I’ve felt a oneness with my maternal nature. Instead of defining maternal energy by motherhood, I define it by love, care, support, safety, and growth. It’s about cultivating the best in others, offering solace, encouraging their dreams, and sometimes giving a gentle nudge when they doubt themselves. It’s how I protect the people I care about, how I guard their stories, how I invest in their futures. It’s also how I care for myself—ensuring I’m healthy, balanced, and aligned with my purpose.
Now, I look back on my life and realize that my understanding of maternal nature was limited by a narrow societal lens. I had tied the concept to having children so tightly that I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. If I’d never wanted kids, I must not be maternal, right? But maternal energy is far more expansive. It can be found in the teacher who inspires her students, the entrepreneur who mentors new business owners, the friend who always knows the right words to say, the volunteer who guides others through a challenging time, and even the leader who creates safe spaces for growth and innovation.
For me, stepping into my maternal nature felt like stepping into a larger space within myself—one with room for many forms of nurture and care. It helped that my relationship with my mother evolved, too. Seeing her let go of fear opened my eyes to how maternal energy can also heal old wounds and bridge gaps between generations. Our bond has grown stronger now that we both acknowledge each other’s paths and purposes without fear overshadowing every conversation.
As I share this story, I know that not every woman’s experience will mirror mine. Maternal energy will show up differently for each of us. Some women who have children may discover their maternal energy is also expressed in how they lead their businesses or guide their friends through life’s storms. Other women who, like me, never wanted children might find maternal energy in how they support their communities, care for animals, or nurture their own personal growth. Some might be surprised to find this nurturing spirit awakening later in life, while others may embrace it early on, even if they choose a child-free path.
Expanding the definition of maternal nature can empower us to appreciate the complexity and richness of who we are as women. We can acknowledge that motherly love isn’t a strict formula, but a versatile energy that can be directed toward many areas in our lives. It can shape how we interact with loved ones, how we engage in our work, and how we approach our creative endeavors. It can also influence how we treat ourselves—with kindness, patience, forgiveness, and support. If maternal energy is about guiding, protecting, and nourishing, then we can apply it to our own hearts, becoming our own caretakers and nurturing our inner selves with the same love we’d offer others.
If any part of my journey resonates with you, consider taking a moment to explore your own maternal nature. What does it look like for you? Where does it show up? Is it in the way you comfort a friend after a bad day, or in how you cheer on a colleague chasing a career goal? Maybe it’s the gentle way you tend to your garden, the way you help a neighbor with their groceries, or the hours you spend volunteering for a cause you care about. Or maybe it’s in how you speak to yourself on tough mornings, choosing compassion over criticism.
Maternal energy is not confined by cultural expectations or personal histories. It’s not determined by whether you have children or not. It’s something that can grow, evolve, and reveal itself in unexpected ways throughout your life. For me, it was a long journey—one that involved divorces, loss of a pregnancy, spiritual exploration, healing family relationships, and ultimately redefining what “maternal” means.
Now, with a sense of integration, I declare confidently: I am maternal. I say it not because I fit into a prescribed mold, but because I’ve learned maternal energy is a broad, beautiful force that transcends traditional notions of motherhood. Embracing this understanding has granted me a kind of inner peace and wholeness I never expected to find.
If reading this has sparked a sense of recognition in you, I encourage you to nurture that feeling. Explore it, savor it, and give yourself permission to define maternal nature on your own terms. Just as I discovered, it may lead you to a more expansive understanding of who you are and how you love. The maternal spirit, in all its forms, has the power to transform our lives and strengthen our connections. By embracing it, we open ourselves up to a greater capacity for care, empathy, and nurturing—even if we never once cradle a child in our arms.
In this evolving understanding of maternal energy lies the freedom to be exactly who we are, loving and caring in the ways that feel most authentic. For me, finally recognizing my own maternal nature has been a profound, life-changing realization. I hope that by sharing this story, others may find their own paths to embracing this energy, whatever shape it takes.
