I think some women try to make you feel you're not all female

The words of Alison Goldfrapp strike like an arrow into the heart of society’s unspoken judgments: “Some women try to make you feel you’re not all female because you haven’t given birth. There are a lot of prejudices. Some women think women who have animals are deeply sad, because what they really want is a child.” Within this statement lies both lament and wisdom, for she calls out the ancient chains of expectation placed upon women, while also acknowledging the complexity of truth that lingers behind such prejudices.

The origin of these thoughts rests in the long history of how womanhood has been defined. For centuries, many cultures declared that a woman’s worth was bound to her ability to bear children. To be a mother was seen as the pinnacle of female identity, while those who did not tread this path were often cast as incomplete, selfish, or sorrowful. Goldfrapp’s words echo this inherited judgment, revealing how deeply it still lingers in the minds of many, even in our modern age. Her tone is not of rage alone, but of weary recognition: she has seen the unspoken comparisons, felt the subtle exclusions, and now speaks them into light.

Yet her observation of prejudices is not only about motherhood—it is about the human tendency to measure one another by narrow standards. Some women, she says, look upon those who care for animals with pity, believing it is only a substitution for children. But is the heart that loves any less noble? The ancients themselves revered the bond between humans and animals. The goddess Artemis, who never bore a child, was no less divine in her fierce guardianship of the wild and her unbroken independence. To love, whether it is directed toward a child, an animal, or a cause, is still to be fully human.

History offers us the story of Queen Elizabeth I of England, who bore no children and thus was often whispered about as less womanly, even accused of being incomplete. Yet she reigned with wisdom and strength, guiding her nation through an age of discovery, poetry, and victory. Her legacy was not in children of the flesh, but in the flourishing of her people. She proves that identity is not confined to one role alone, but is manifold, shaped by purpose, devotion, and love in many forms.

Goldfrapp’s words also hold humility, for she admits: “there’s probably an element of truth in that.” This acknowledgment does not weaken her defiance, but deepens it. For it is true that many who long for children may turn their love toward animals or other forms of care. Yet this does not mean their lives are tragic—it means their love has found a vessel, a place to flow. The truth, therefore, is not sadness, but resilience: when denied one path, the heart finds another.

The lesson here is one of freedom from judgment. We must not imprison others within our own narrow definitions of fulfillment. Every soul has its own road, every heart its own way of giving love. To belittle a woman for not bearing children, or to mock her care for animals, is to misunderstand the richness of human purpose. True womanhood, true humanity, is not measured in womb or cradle, but in the depth of compassion, in the courage of authenticity, in the way one chooses to live and love.

Therefore, let each of us act with understanding and respect. Do not impose your standards upon another’s life. If you are one who has found joy in children, rejoice and give thanks. If your love flows through other vessels—through animals, through art, through teaching, through service—honor it as sacred, for it is no less noble. And when you see others judged, defend them, for by doing so you defend the dignity of all humanity.

Thus Alison Goldfrapp’s words become not only a lament of prejudice but a teaching: do not reduce the vastness of a soul to one role alone. For in the great tapestry of life, each thread—whether of motherhood, of art, of guardianship, or of service—adds to the beauty of the whole. And to honor that diversity is to walk in wisdom.