“Are you married? Do you have children?”
The questions come so casually, almost as if someone were asking for the time. Yet for women like me, in my late thirties, these questions are rarely neutral. They are loaded with expectations, pity, and sometimes even judgment. My answers – no and no – are often met with raised eyebrows, awkward silences, or the classic: “Don’t worry, it will happen.”
But here’s the truth: I am not worried. I am living a life of my choosing.
Society has a way of scripting women’s lives: go to school, find a partner, marry, have children, and follow the path that has been laid down for generations. And, for those of us who dare to stray from that script, suddenly we are ostracized and judged, and are treated like the anomalies of society. Our independence looks like rebellion, our choices appear like failures, and our happiness is seen as incomplete.
For a long time, I have lived close enough to see this script unfold around me, yet far enough to feel the weight of choosing my own way. Now, in my late thirties, I navigate life as a woman who has chosen not to marry or have children, and yet is constantly reminded that independence comes with judgment.
I have heard it all – that I will be lonely, that I will regret it later, that I am “too ambitious,” “too picky,” or simply “too much.” What few people ask is whether I am content, fulfilled, or at peace with the life I have chosen.
The stigma is heavy, not because it defines me, but because of the relentless way society tries to remind me that I don’t fit into its neat little boxes. Living life on my own terms sometimes feels like walking into a storm unarmed, the wind of whispers, the downpour of unsolicited advice, the thunder of judgment. But I’d rather be drenched in that storm than live under a roof that cages me.
And yet, choosing not to marry or have children does not mean rejecting those who do. My sister recently became a mother, and my heart swelled with joy. I celebrate her milestone, her courage, and her new journey as she embraces motherhood. Her choice is beautiful, just as mine is. I don’t question her choice; why should society question mine? Why is it that one set of choices is celebrated while the other is met with whispers, sideways glances, and unsolicited advice? Just as my sister’s journey into motherhood deserves celebration, so does my decision to live intentionally on my own terms. It is not about rejecting society’s values but about affirming that a woman can define her own meaning, her own purpose, and her own fulfillment.
Unfortunately, society doesn’t see it that way. In Nepal, census data shows that over 90% of women are married by their early thirties, and motherhood often follows immediately. Women who step outside this norm by marrying later, marrying differently, or not marrying at all are often cast as incomplete, selfish, or even broken. The irony is that we live in a time when education levels for women are at their highest, when women are contributing to households and economies in unprecedented ways. And yet, our worth is still tethered to the roles of wife and mother.
At the international level, too, frameworks often speak about “choice” and “agency,” but the lived reality for many of us is that exercising these rights comes at the cost of constant scrutiny. There’s a mismatch between the language of empowerment and the daily experiences of judgment that women face when they dare to write their own script.
For me, not marrying or not having children is not a sign of absence, but of presence: presence of choice, of agency, of self-awareness. It is not about rejecting love or family, but about embracing life as it comes, without forcing it into shapes it doesn’t want to take.
The truth is simple: autonomy should not be controversial. I am not waiting for someone to arrive to validate my existence. I am already here, fully, with my dreams, my work, my joys, my struggles. I hope that one day, society will see beyond the script and recognize that dignity, happiness, and fulfillment are not dictated by conformity. Until then, I will continue to live boldly, fully, and unapologetically: outside the script.
To women reading this who feel the same weight: you are not alone. Living outside the script is not easy, but it is powerful. And perhaps the real rebellion, and the real freedom, lies in rewriting what fulfillment looks like, on our own terms.
