• Jay Zigmont has been married for 17 years and has no kids.
• He rents his home because he and his wife move frequently.
• He's unlikely to retire fully, but likes a more fluid approach to work.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Jay Zigmont, founder of Childfree Wealth and Childfree Trust. It has been edited for length and clarity.

I wear a shirt when I want to start conversations. It says, "Proudly childfree and wealthy."

At financial conferences, it stops people in their tracks and gives me an opportunity to talk about my work helping childfree people make estate plans that match their lives.

My wife, Vicki, and I have been married for nearly 17 years. Because of a health condition she has, we always knew we wouldn't have kids. It's shaped everything about how we approach life, including our ideas about our careers, finances, retirement, and even home ownership.

Vicki is Catholic, and wanted to get married in the Catholic Church, but they wouldn't marry us if we didn't plan to have children. We asked three different churches, and all had the same answer. We got married at my Methodist church, and that was the first time we realized how much being childfree would impact all areas of our lives.

I'd like to die with very little money, not acquire more wealth

I'm 48, but in my late 30s, I had achieved my career and financial goals. I had $1 million in the bank and no debt, but I didn't know where to go from there.

As a childfree person, there's a point when you can have too much wealth. I'm not trying to build generational wealth — in fact, I'd like to die with very little money. That means my career isn't driven by financial gain. I focus on purpose, not profit.

Whatever Vicki and I have when we die will be left to our nephews, but I hope it's not much. Instead of leaving them a large sum later in life, we're supporting them when they need it most. We contribute to their college funds, and I would be happy to consider investing in their businesses or helping them buy a house. We also give generously to charities — my personal favorite is a charity that buys and forgives medical debt.

I likely won't ever retire fully

I plan to always work in some way. Instead of focusing on early retirement, I follow a FILE approach: "financial independence, live early." I want to work on projects I enjoy, but do so on my own time, from anywhere.

When you don't have kids, you have to reimagine the typical idea of success and what life can look like. That can take months, because you're untangling a lifetime of messaging, to figure out what you truly want.

I encourage people to think about this by writing their obituary. Mine would say something like "loving husband, world traveler, author, and innovator." Those are the things I want to focus on — not building wealth for wealth's sake. A few years ago, I tried my hand at maple syrup farming just because it sounded enjoyable.

My legacy will be helping other childfree people

Vicki and I rent our home, and although we've owned in the past, I don't think we ever will again. We move often, every two to three years, since we're not tied to a specific school system or living near family to help watch the kids. Renting saves us money, and I think it's usually the right move for most childfree people.

Recently, Tennessee, where I live, passed a bill requiring students to learn about the "success sequence": graduating, getting a job, getting married, and having kids. We're taught so much about that one path to success, but there are more options.

My legacy won't be children, but rather helping other childfree people find the success sequence that's right for them.

• I smiled through holidays as the "cool aunt" while quietly grieving the life I thought I'd have.
• A friend's offhand comment made me see that my child-free life had real benefits, not just loss.
• Presence doesn't require parenthood — my niece called it "the aunt influence" before leaving for college.

In my 30s, I was the only one of my three siblings who wasn't married or starting a family. At holidays and birthdays, I smiled through it and lead into becoming the cool aunt to my nieces and nephew. On Mother's Day, however, I began bracing myself.

Each year, my mom would give me a card that said something like "Happy Mother's Day from the dog." It was meant with nothing but love. She wasn't trying to minimize what I didn't have — she was trying to include me. Still, each card landed like a small, unexpected dagger.

A reminder of the life I thought I was supposed to be living, but wasn't.

I always imagined I'd be a mom

My mom would gently explain that I was a huge influence on my nieces and nephews. That they looked up to me. That mothering my dogs counted, too. And in a real sense, she was right — I wasn't ready to accept it. I loved my dogs deeply — they kept me grounded and accountable. I was present in my nieces' and nephews' lives in meaningful ways, with time and energy to play with them.

But privately, something still felt unfinished. I had always imagined I'd be a mom — driving a carload of kids to and from sports practices. Instead, I was the kids' biggest fan, attending every hockey game or soccer match I could. At that stage of life, it felt like I was standing on the outside of a world I wanted for myself. For years, I held two truths at once: gratitude for what I had, and grief for what I didn't.

That tension softened slowly over time — through perspective and by watching the realities of parenthood up close rather than the polished version in my head. I now understand those Mother's Day cards differently. I see my mom's big heart for what it is and always has been — her way of saying: "You matter. You belong. Your life counts, too."

I saw the benefits that came without having kids

When I once confided to a friend that my only regret in life was not having children, he said, "Yeah, but look at all you've done. You might not have been able to do those things if you'd had kids." His comment shifted something. For the first time, I allowed myself to see that not having children came with benefits as well as loss.

My siblings are wonderful parents, and their kids are thriving. But even when everything is going well, parenting adult children carries a constant low-grade stress: worries about their happiness, careers, relationships, health, and the world they're inheriting. There's an ever-present sense of responsibility that never fully goes away.

I care deeply about my nieces' and nephew's happiness, but I don't carry that same weight. Instead, I live with a different set of trade-offs. The consequences of my decisions fall on me alone. That freedom has allowed me to further my education and take risks I might not have taken putting kids first, like: leaving full-time jobs to finish a TV pilot, jumping into dock diving my lab, and chasing a new dream of owning a quarter horse rescue and competing in reining.

I can say yes to opportunities that would be impractical for someone juggling school calendars and tuition bills.

I'm the cool aunt

And I still get to show up for the kids I love. Being the cool aunt turns out to be its own form of parenting — from a distance, without daily responsibility but with real influence. My role is lighter, but it's not insignificant. Recently, my niece decided to attend the same college where I earned a graduate degree. Before she left, she told me: "Yes, the aunt influence is real." It was said casually, but it landed deeply. Proof that presence doesn't require parenthood. That modeling a curious, creative, and independent life can be just as formative as enforcing rules or paying for that college degree.

There's a peaceful relief in releasing the version of adulthood I once carried guilt for not achieving — that lingering expectation of a conventional family life.

I still think about the life I once wanted. But I no longer see it as the life I failed to have. It's simply one path among many. And the one I'm on now — dogs, dreams, creative risks — feels intentional. I've kept those Mother's Day cards because they remind me that I have the very best mom. Her words and belief in me have taken decades to fully embrace but now that I have, I know: there is more than one ways to nurture, more than one way to matter, and more than one way to build a full life.