If parenthood comes with built-in community, where does that leave the rest of us?

Navigating friendship, belonging, and identity in a world built for parents.

Sometimes being childfree feels like being chopped liver.

And I mean that in the kindest way possible.

At some point, I’m sure we were the life of the party, just a bunch of friends with minimal responsibilities and maximum spontaneity. We drank and stayed up till the early hours. We bought things we couldn’t afford. Booked trips without checking with our bosses. We passed out on friends’ couches until it was time to Uber home, and became best friends with other girls in the bathroom line at our favorite bar. Packed our bags to get ready at a girlfriend’s place, laying out the makeup, the outfit, the shoes, the hair—all of it. Getting ready was half the fun. Everything had to be perfect before we left for a night out.

Then one day, we stopped getting ready together and started just showing up. Already dressed, just there for a round of drinking games before heading out. And then eventually, it became: "Let’s just meet at the bar." Then it was that we had to double-check vacation days before booking flights. We Ubered home to a boyfriend’s place instead of sleeping over at a friend’s house.

And then the real responsibilities hit. As soon as the kids came, everything shifted.

Suddenly, 'let’s meet at the bar' became 'I need to check with my husband.'
Weekend trips required six months of planning, a Google calendar invite, and at least one backup babysitter.
Happy hour turned into baby’s bath time.
And wine nights? Well, they now start at 4 p.m. and end promptly at 7:30 after the toddler meltdown, and before bedtime routines kick in.

And if you’re childfree, you start to feel a shift that no one warned you about.

It’s not intentional. No one sets out to leave you behind.
But parenthood, in many ways, comes with a built-in community.
There are playdates, nursery pickup chats, eventual PTA meetings, and parenting forums with an army of advice (solicited or not).

When you have a child, you’re bursting with pride and joy to share their stories—and other parents light up too, eager to listen and swap moments of their own.

It’s a world of "we're in this together," and if you're not in it, you're on the outside looking in.

Meanwhile, those of us without kids are… where?
Floating between group chats that have gone dormant.
Showing up to birthday parties we weren’t totally sure we were invited to.
Scrolling Instagram stories of baby milestones we’ll never be part of.

And that’s when it hit me: I need to start seeking out more childfree friendships, not because I want to replace the ones I have, but because I need balance.

I’ll always cherish my friends who are parents. I love their kids. I love them. But I also need conversations that don’t orbit around nap schedules or preschool waitlists. I need space where I don’t feel like my silence is the only thing I have to contribute.

Because here’s the thing: when you’re childfree, there are no built-in networks. No nursery school icebreakers, no playground small talk, no instant mom-group connections. If you want a community, you must build it from scratch, intentionally, creatively, and often, on your own.

And why is that? Why alone? Well, even in 2025, choosing to be childfree still feels like uncharted territory. In my parents’ generation, it wasn’t even presented as an option. For some of my friends, it wasn’t something they seriously considered before having kids. So those of us who actively choose a childfree life? We’re still the minority.

And lately, it feels like we’re not just a minority—we’re a problem (I’ll talk about this in a future post). But thanks to comments from people like Vice President JD Vance, we’re being painted as selfish or broken or, at best, childless cat ladies (for the record, I’m proudly a childfree dog lady—thank you very much). It’s exhausting. And isolating.

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To feel a little less alone, I joined a few online spaces like the Childfree and Women Over 30 subreddits. They’ve been surprisingly comforting. These communities are full of thoughtful, honest conversations about topics I think about all the time. Sometimes I contribute, sometimes I just read, but either way, it helps. It reminds me I’m not the only one out here trying to figure out where I fit.

Plus making meaningful friendships in your 30s and 40s is a whole different challenge. Everyone’s busy. Everyone’s exhausted. And without those natural connection points, you start to wonder if deep, easy friendship is just something that belonged to your twenties.

But maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just… harder to find now. And maybe naming that is the first step.

So here I am—naming it. Saying out loud that I want more. More friends. More connection. More people to do life with. I want group chats that aren’t just for RSVPs or soccer schedules. I want last-minute dinner plans that don’t require weeks of coordination or a sitter on standby.

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I didn’t want to just sit in that loneliness. So, I’ve started small, but intentionally.

I joined a women’s philanthropy group in my city. We meet for happy hours to choose which charities to support with our quarterly fundraising, and we’ll also volunteer together. I’ve been craving ways to give back, but honestly, I didn’t know where to start. This felt like a meaningful, low-pressure way in.

I also joined a few Childfree Meetup groups in town. I’ve gone to networking events, not just for work, but in the hopes of meeting strong, confident, successful women who might become friends. I even signed up for golf lessons, because… why not?

Because if I want something different, I have to try something different.

It’s slow, and a little scary. And yes, it kind of feels like dating again, which is a bit unfortunate, because I was terrible at dating. But it’s also… hopeful. Each small step feels like a crack of light. A chance to be known, not for who I was in my twenties, or who I might be if I had a child, but for who I am, right now.

I want to find people who understand that a full life can look like a lot of different things: careers, dogs, travel, creative projects, lazy Sundays, deep conversations.

Of course, raising kids can be incredibly full and meaningful too. I see that in so many of my friends. But meaning in life can come from so many different things. There’s no one-size-fits-all version of a beautiful life.

And I know friendships like that take effort. They take courage. They require showing up, sometimes awkwardly, sometimes imperfectly, but still, showing up.

So, this is my first step: naming the want. Owning the longing. And holding onto the quiet, stubborn hope that those friendships are still out there, waiting to be built.

Because I don’t want to be on the outside looking in anymore.

I want to be seen. I want to be known. I want to belong.

Sometimes being childfree feels like being chopped liver at the dinner table of life.

But maybe, just maybe, we’re not leftovers. We’re just building our own table.

And if you’re reading this and feeling the same, maybe we’re not as alone as we think.

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