It was only six years ago, at age 34, that I finally and fully understood. Part of me had known for so long, maybe even all along, but I was also afraid to admit it.

I don’t want kids.

Before I could acknowledge this to myself, I worked through a lot of shame. I had wholeheartedly internalized the expectation that women become mothers, and if we don’t, it’s because we can’t but desperately wish we could. For years, I assumed I’d want kids as soon as I was “ready.” But no matter how many times could have been the so-called “right one,” I never wanted any. Eventually, I realized, it’s not that I don’t want to have kids right now. I never want to.

Now that I’ve accepted that I want to — and will — remain child-free, I say this fact unapologetically: I don’t have kids, and I’m glad I don’t have any. Some people hear this and relate. Some have chosen differently for themselves, yet still support it.

And some are unnerved.

Like Republican vice presidential candidate JD Vance. Disparaging remarks he made about child-free people in 2021 have cropped up again since he became Donald Trump’s running mate and Vice President Kamala Harris, a woman with no biological children, announced she was running for president. Criticism Vance likely stands by today because he hasn’t disputed it.

Like most of America, I was unaware of his comments until this week. And while I’m disgusted that he declared people like me “miserable at their own lives and the choices they’ve made,” and annoyed that he called us “childless” rather than “child-free” (the latter is for folks who have made the decision not to have kids), I am not at all surprised.

I hear comments like this all the time. My decision — which completely affects my life and doesn’t affect theirs at all — makes some people flinch at best, and fling accusations at worst. They ask what my plan is for when I’m older, explaining that if I don’t have kids, no one will take care of me.

They assume that I don’t have kids because I’m unmarried, but would happily have them if I were. They are dismayed when they learn that my relationship status has nothing to do with it. Some take the stance that we need to continue the human race, noting their nobility in making this lifelong level of sacrifice.

Some really speak out of turn and say that I’ll change my mind, that I’ll regret not having kids. They call me selfish. Irresponsible. Unloving.

Why do they act with such passion about a decision that is not theirs? Because child-free women scare some people — especially if we’re not mothers by choice, especially if we’re happy about it. Our fulfilling lives threaten them. It’s not just that we’re content despite being child-free — but because we’re child-free, we thrive.

The criticism and cruelty I receive aren’t rare for women like me, average and anonymous. Even as ordinary women, we threaten this centuries-old system that ensures men maintain power. Child-free women rattle the patriarchy with one single choice.

Which makes Harris an earthquake.

The vice president, former senator and, I hope, future president, terrifies anyone who doesn’t want change. Beyond the overdue racial and gender barriers she continues to break through, she was, until becoming a stepmother at age 50, child-free. Now that she is unexpectedly the Democratic candidate, and soon-to-be official presidential nominee, she is capturing attention nationwide. The more Harris’ life story saturates America’s consciousness, the more destabilized patriarchy becomes.

Thankfully, some people learning about Harris will include her story among the several that, over time, will change their perspective. They’ll stop forcing their expectations of parenthood on others, and ideally will learn to celebrate women for reasons unrelated to marriage and motherhood.

Others hear her story and perpetuate patriarchy even more loudly. In the media and everyday conversations, they demean and doubt women without kids. Because child-free women are an unwelcome reminder of the autonomy that reproductive rights allow. Because if we’re perceived as immoral or incompetent, no one will want us to have power. Because enough assassination of character should prevent anyone from choosing to be child-free. And people are desperate to preserve patriarchy.

But it doesn’t need to continue this way. Just like I had to process my shame about not wanting kids, parents can, and should, process their own. They should forgive themselves for missing the life they used to have. For wishing they’d never had kids with that person. For wondering if this was the right choice after all.

We can also question our commitment to patriarchy. We can reevaluate the narratives we tell ourselves about what women should and shouldn’t do. We can investigate the thought processes that make us conclude that child-free people are selfish. Irresponsible. Unloving. We can personally examine why we underestimate the capacity of a woman — with or without kids — to lead.

For the sake of our future, individually and as a nation, we can ask ourselves, and each other, these things. We can. We should. We must.