Lately, I’ve developed a charming little eye twitch every time someone offers a helpful comment about my body, my life choices, or the number of children I should be squeezing out of my uterus. It’s adorable, really—like a built-in Morse code system that spells out “please shut up” with each flutter.
I’m not sure what it is about having a female body that makes people think it’s a public suggestion box. I’m not a Reddit thread, Katica. I’m a whole person. And yet, strangers—and yes, even family (looking at you, Mum and Auntie BibleVerse)—seem to think they’ve been personally anointed to comment on everything from my reproductive plans to my waistline. These are the same women who post Corinthians in the morning, passive-aggressive memes by noon, and blurry children photos by dinner. Somehow, it all comes wrapped in a bow of “just concerned” and “coming from a place of love.”
So, in the spirit of radical honesty and lighthearted vengeance, here’s a walk down memory lane: a curated collection of unsolicited life advice from people who still think “boundaries” is a type of anti-aging eye cream.
“It’s selfish to have only one child.”
Ah yes, the classic. Right up there with “are you sure you’re happy?” and “that’s an interesting tattoo.” According to the general public (a.k.a. Milica and her Facebook mom group), my decision to have just one child is basically the emotional equivalent of pushing my daughter into lifelong loneliness with a side of therapy bills.
Apparently, unless I produce a sibling, my child will be forced to play Yamb with cats and develop an imaginary friend named Hrvoje.
Here’s a fun fact: we never even planned to have kids in the first place. But then we did. And we like her. A lot. So much, in fact, that we decided to keep the ratio of parents to toddlers in our house firmly in favour of the adults. Wild, I know.
But no matter how many times I explain that this choice is informed, intentional, and deeply personal, the questions keep coming like a bad sequel. “When’s the next one?” they ask, as if I’m a Marvel movie. “Don’t you want her to have a sibling?” they whisper, like I’m denying her oxygen.
No, I don’t. But thank you for your TED Talk.
“You could lose some weight.”
The unsolicited feedback jackpot. Because nothing screams helpful like being reminded, casually and with a smile, that your body isn’t performing to someone else’s aesthetic standards.
Look, I’ve been on the receiving end of body commentary since I was old enough to wear jeans with an actual waistband. I’ve been told I’m too fat, too thin, too soft, too muscly, too much, and too little—all in the same decade. Once, during college, I lost weight and someone told me I “looked sick.” Cool. Can’t wait for the reboot where I gain it back and someone tells me I look “strong but in a sad way.”
Here’s what people don’t see: the hormonal chaos from pregnancy complications, the pandemic-induced survival eating, the quiet hours spent trying to rebuild a healthy routine instead of crying into a family-size bag of chips. I work out. I eat vegetables. And I almost never fall asleep in my sports bra anymore. I’m doing my best, which, shockingly, should be enough.
But for some reason, my body remains a public project. A group assignment I never signed up for, with everyone else wielding red pens and sticky notes. If you wouldn’t walk up to someone and critique their living room feng shui, maybe don’t comment on their body either. It’s not up for renovation.
“That’s not normal.”
Oh honey. The amount of energy people spend defining “normal” could power a small nation—or at least three seasons of a Netflix show no one finishes.
Whether it’s the way I parent, decorate my home, or talk about important stuff without whispering, someone always has something to say. There’s a specific brand of person who treats “different” as a personal insult, as if me doing things my own way is a direct attack on their beige sofa of a personality.
People will tell you what’s normal like there’s a gold star waiting for you if you follow the script: 2.5 kids, a job you tolerate, a marriage you emotionally survive, and an Instagram grid that screams “everything’s fine” in perfectly filtered despair. If that’s normal, I’ll pass. Hard.
Why It Matters (And Why I’ve Considered Moving to a Cave)
You’d think that in the year 2025, people would’ve developed some kind of etiquette chip—maybe a post-COVID update that taught them how to mind their own business. But alas, it seems judgment is still a crowd sport.
I keep quiet at family dinners not because I lack opinions (trust me, I have spreadsheets and backup slides), but because debating politics, LGBTQ+ rights, or anything remotely resembling progress with people who still forward chain emails just isn’t worth the emotional hangover. I choose peace. Or at least the performative kind, until someone inevitably asks when I’m having my second child and I mentally set their pillow on fire.
But it’s not just about me. It’s about all of us who are quietly dodging unsolicited advice, sanctimonious concern, and half-disguised judgment—gift-wrapped in passive-aggression and a tone that says “I mean well,” but absolutely doesn’t.
We don’t need more opinions. We need more empathy. We need people who ask, “How are you?” and actually listen to the answer. We need compliments that aren’t followed by “but have you considered…?” And maybe, just maybe, we need less commentary and more wine.
So, next time you feel the urge to weigh in on someone’s life choices—pause. Then go drink a glass of water, read a book, or scream into a pillow. Trust me, it’s liberating.
And if you really, really must offer advice, may I suggest a simple mantra:
If you don’t pay their bills, raise their kid, or share their Google calendar, maybe keep your thoughts to yourself.
Namaste and no, I’m not having another baby.
Thanks for asking. Again.
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