I’m a single mother of what doctors and insurance companies cheerfully call an “advanced maternal age,” which makes me sound like an appliance with an expired warranty. In reality, I’m a 42-year-old woman with a toddler who is having—against all cultural expectations—a genuinely good time.

There’s a particular pleasure to being an older single mother* that goes largely undiscussed. Women are sold single-mother extremes: the exhausted martyr, the cautionary tale, or the immoral welfare queen—the latter, historically weaponized against Black single mothers in particular. As a group, single moms are supposed to feel shame and embarrassment. But what I feel is something else entirely: joy.

Before my daughter, I’d already lived several lives in several cities. I’d been (briefly) married. I’d been to therapy. I had a career, a passport, a mortgage. By the time I became an unmarried mother at 39, I was fully directing my own life.

While newly pregnant, I had a long talk with my then-boyfriend about how I did not want to be a single mom. The agreed expectation was that after our baby arrived and everyone was settled and healthy, he and I would get engaged. I was scared to mother without a husband. I didn’t think I could do it alone. I didn’t want the stigma.

A few months after our daughter was born, however, it was clear the engagment wasn’t happening. Even in my postpartum haze—which included being laid off from my job shortly after returning from maternity leave—I was sure that I didn’t want my daughter to grow up with the version of her mom romantically attached to her dad. Single motherhood was the better parenting choice. So, just before my 40th birthday, I officially became an unemployed, single mom with an infant.

Of course, there was stress and fear and sadness in those early days. But after a few weeks, my focus shifted from grief for the fantasy family I wouldn’t have to the scaffolded network of dependable relationships I’d already spent four decades building—a solid structure of grandparents, grown siblings with their own kids, life-long friends, former colleagues, neighbors, and other mothers. People I trusted.

From there, motherhood, on my own, started to feel less like misfortune and more like creative control. I could enjoy parenting without negotiating my identity, time, and wellbeing inside a romantic partnership. In my house, when I’m with my daughter, the vibe is… calm. Really calm. Decades of taking care of myself taught me to put systems in place that I know work. The house reflects me and my daughters’ thresholds—for mess, for noise, for emotion, for stimulation, for fun. There is no low-grade domestic tension humming beneath the day; I set the tone.

The parenting work is constant, of course. I worry about money and the future, but so do partnered parents. Daycare pick-up times and costs aren’t open to compromise. But when the labor and responsibility are fully mine, it feels different. I’m not keeping score. I’m not wondering if I’m doing enough. I’m simply doing it. And I like doing it.

I like knowing that if my daughter needs something, I’ll find a solution. I like meal-prepping on Sunday afternoons while she helps from her perch on a toddler tower. I like taking her to the beach and on bike rides and to story hour. I like hearing her observations and unfiltered thoughts. Before she turned two, we visited friends in Italy and the whole international trip was a breeze—even navigating Rome’s airport by myself with a toddler and no stroller. Every stage she’s gone through has been my favorite stage. I’m not sure I would have been a capable single mother in my 20s or early 30s. But at 42, I’m unflappable. I don’t spiral when my daughter has a meltdown. Her moods don’t trigger mine. The decades and past mistakes have taught me to regulate my own feelings so I can help her with hers.

In 2023, births to women over 40 surpassed births to teenagers in the United States for the first time. Celebrities like Gisele Bündchen, Mindy Kaling, Halle Berry, and Charlize Theron have expanded their families in their late 30s and into their 40s outside of marriage. I don’t see stigma when I look at them. I see women who understand that partnership and parenthood can be separate decisions. That you can want a child without wanting to negotiate your life around a husband. And that you can do it later than 35.

This isn’t a manifesto against marriage or fathers or young mothers. Many married mothers of all ages are extremely supported. Many single mothers of all ages are overwhelmed. Many women struggle with infertility and the option to mother at all. But there is a version of motherhood—the one I’m living—that feels genuinely enviable. Of course, I understand that my story and circumstances aren’t a blueprint; I have the privileges of health, employment, and citizenship. But what I hope they do show is that partnership is no longer the prerequisite for a satisfying domestic life. My family dynamic as a matriarch is as valid as anyone else’s.

Dr. Cashuna Huddleston, of Houston, became a single mom at 36 years old, when her son was eight months. She says of her experience, “I get to create an environment rooted in love, stability, and intentional parenting. My son sees strength, resilience, and joy modeled every day, not compromise or chaos.”

Tory DeBassio, a single mom in the Netherlands co-parenting her four-year-old at 40, agrees: “I feel less lonely now than I did when I was married. Everything feels like an accomplishment and a milestone because I figure it out on my own.”

Crystal Reinwald adopted her two children at age 39 and lives in Connecticut. She appreciates the freedom to make her own parenting decisions based on her values and morals (a sentiment echoed by all of the moms I spoke to for this piece). Reinwald says, “My kids and I are very close to each other, which is probably my favorite part about motherhood in general.”

Angela Berardino adopted her infant son at age 43. “There’s a freedom people don’t talk about enough,” she says, “the ability to make decisions without needing consensus.”

I am exactly the woman I want raising my daughter. When I’m with my daughter at bedtime, I feel loved and whole in the family I built—not because someone chose me, but because I chose this.

*A caveat here. I’m broadly defining single mothers as women who aren’t married and have children. This can include moms who co-parent in separate households, moms who adopted their kids, widows, and moms who chose to have biological children via a sperm donor. I fall under the co-parent definition of single motherhood.