It’s been not possible to escape the headlines about J.D. Vance since he was announced because the Republican vice presidential candidate earlier this month, most recently with a 2021 statement during which he described Vice President Kamala Harris and U.S. Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez as “a bunch of childless cat women who are miserable with their lives and the choices they’ve made, and they want the rest of the country to be miserable, too.”

Of course, despite recent emphasis, there’s nothing latest concerning the centuries-old stigma that childless women face. (Namely, because there’s nothing original about his loud, daring ignorance.) Mediocrity aside, he’s adding a brand new twist to an old conversation: Childless women are continually subjected to unsolicited opinions about their life selections and overall value. But until they’re viewed with respect and dignity, moms won’t ever experience a society that recognizes healthy motherhood and maternal agency.

When Vance was called to comment on his 2021 comments, he doubled down, claiming that Americans were not concerned about his statement but were as a substitute concerned concerning the Democratic Party’s “clearly anti-family” policies. As much as I hate to say it, I agree with the mustard seed of his perspective — Democrats, however the Republican Party and broader national practices are anti-family. But for black communities and various other communities, that may be a legacy, not a recent change, evident within the medical, educational and financial divide between the haves and the have-nots.

Historically, black moms have given birth, sometimes by force, and have assumed the responsibility of protecting their children from this disordered world. Yet, an increasing variety of black women are opting out.

One of them is Angela L. Harris, PhD, psychologist and founder No bibs, bottles or burpingwhose goal is to empower, highlight, and have fun childless Black women in order that they can accept and live their best childfree lives, free from societal expectations and stereotypes. She notes that childless women challenge societal norms because their lifestyles contradict the gorgeous, ideal image of the perfect family.

“Having a husband, children and a white picket fence is the way to go — or so we thought. Many people think that a girl becomes a woman only for one reason — to have children,” she says. “It’s hard to accept that a woman can be completely happy and secure without the title of ‘mother.’”

I could be lying if I said I wasn’t moved by the picture-perfect image Harris describes. But I quickly learned that the calls to “be fruitful and multiply” were a whistle to whiteness, not something we were excited about. My own work is advocacy confirming motherhood that prioritizes our humanity as we raise children amidst the narrative that Black women exist to serve others, no matter maternal status. We have been robbed, abused, and coerced into funding the American capitalist structure through our reproduction. The significance of reproductive agency strikes multiple chords. The collective struggles of Black moms and childless Black women create an accurate understanding of who we are, despite what Professor Melissa Harris-Perry calls the “Crooked Peace.”

In her book, she uses this image to describe the difficulties black women face in trying to develop a healthy self-image in a world where stereotypes control destiny. The first is Jezebelsexually seductive, hypersexual maneater. The second is Sapphirethe offended, rude, emasculating and never satisfied black woman. And finally, Mommy, “a happy slave and caregiver” who happily puts the needs of others, especially her white slaves, above her own life.

These stereotypes have evolved, becoming more insidious, now emerging because the perpetually pregnant welfare queen with multiple fathers, the bitter single profession woman, and the black woman who lives in service to everyone but herself. As before, they reduce the dynamic, complex identities of black women and force us to awkwardly try to find footing in a structure during which we will barely breathe, let alone stand. These false narratives contribute to higher rates of mental and physical health disparities, generational trauma of “strong black womanhood,” and normalize unfulfilled lives for all of us, not just those that don’t have children. But childless women are categorized as “useless” and “disconnected” from the larger group in nuanced ways.

Harris notes that the belief that all childfree people are self-absorbed, hate children, and don’t contribute to society ignores the reality. These traits describe many individuals, no matter parenting status. “These false narratives, biases, and assumptions harm us all because we never truly engage in mutual understanding, reflection, and peace. The division and hierarchy persist—often the result of years of rhetoric and pressure about what womanhood and motherhood really are.”

I agree. Black women have long been trapped in a no-win situation. As moms, we are judged by the variety of children we have now and are subjected to assumptions concerning the contexts during which we have now them. If you will have one or two, you must have more, but never greater than 4; that is simply too many. I even have personal experience with comments rooted in promiscuity, hypersexuality, and hyperfertility.

Childless black women challenge these images directly, but experience a relentless invalidation of their value beyond their ability to care for others. However, false narratives that black women’s only value is their ability to sacrifice harm all of us, not just those that don’t have children. Harris notes that it’s vital to emphasize that women are also childless for a wide range of reasons, including intentional selection, circumstance, and infertility.

“Our stories of being childless by choice or childless by circumstance are just as important as someone’s birth story—and guess what—it’s all OK!” she says. “Women have a CHOICE, but the ‘choice’ is really directed at your girls when a pink dress, a baby apron, and a baby doll are put in their hands!”

As a mother, my advocacy for childless Black women is rooted in my advocacy for reproductive justice: the human right to maintain personal bodily autonomy, to have children, not to have children, and to raise the children we have now in protected and sustainable communities. This also means ensuring access to resources—like in vitro fertilization and maternal health care options—for Black women who want children but are unknowingly childless.

My support can be rooted in a full awareness of what it takes to purposefully raise children and maintain a way of self-worth and identity beyond them. Mothers are celebrated publicly. But left to cope with the isolation and struggles of raising children in a pro-birth, anti-family society in private.

I do not know why Kamala, the proud stepmother, and others did not have children. But I do know childless women who keep showing up as aunts, godmothers, and friends to bridge the gap. Childless women show up for the community; we have now to show up for them, too.

“Whether you choose to be childless or motherless, it’s not a perfect life, but it can be a good life,” Harris says. “As women, our freedoms and rights are at risk, and exercising our right to vote is what really matters now.”