Hi hi,

These days, it seems like everyone has an opinion about people who choose not to have kids. "Miserable cat ladies," as we've been recently called by JD Vance, "undeserving of participating in the democratic process." I prefer "delighted Dog Lady" personally.

This hate isn't new, of course. The vitriol against childfree women has been simmering for years, occasionally boiling over into mainstream discourse. But lately, it feels like the lid has blown off completely.

There's so much to unpack here – the deep-seated misogyny, the resentment towards women's increasing autonomy, the backlash against our fight for equality. It's a complex mix of societal expectations and shifting power dynamics, one that I've been observing both personally and professionally for years.

In a previous dispatch (Happy Single Women, Lonely Single Men), I wrote about the widening ideological gap between Gen Z men and women. I noted how the internet seems to be pushing women towards more liberal values while simultaneously radicalizing many young men towards conservatism.

But there's something particularly insidious about the current wave of anti-childfree sentiment. It goes beyond mere disagreement with our life choices; there's a palpable rage at our audacity to want more than motherhood.

The attacks on childfree women reveal a disturbing set of beliefs: that a woman's worth is tied solely to her reproductive capacity, that we're incapable of finding fulfillment outside of motherhood, that our lives are somehow incomplete without children, that we couldn't possibly care for children that aren't our own. These people cannot fathom the idea that I, a childfree women, could care about the future of a stranger's child.

It's telling that even women like Kamala Harris, who has stepchildren, are maligned. This demonstrates that the issue isn't about the act of nurturing or raising children – adoption, fostering, step-parenting, and surrogacy are all valid forms of building a family. No, this fixation is specifically on the biological act of bearing children.

As a childfree woman myself, I find these narratives not just offensive, but puzzling. They betray a striking lack of imagination about the myriad ways women can lead fulfilling lives. The idea that we might be content – even happy! – without children seems to short-circuit some people's brains.

"But who will take care of you when you're old?" they ask, as if procreation is a retirement plan. I'm reminded of my time volunteering at a nursing home in high school. The number of residents with families nearby who never visited was heartbreaking. Having children is no guarantee of care or companionship in old age.

Let me be clear: I love my childfree life. It's a choice I've made thoughtfully and one that brings me deep satisfaction. But I also recognize that this lifestyle gets a bad rap, often painted as selfish or unfulfilling. I'd like to change that perception.

To my friends with children: I encourage you to have honest conversations with your childfree friends. Many of my friends have assumed I'm not interested in their kids or family life. Nothing could be further from the truth! I may not want my own children, but I adore being an aunt. I believe childfree adults have a special role to play in building strong, interconnected communities.

The narrative that reduces women to mothers robs us all of the village we need to thrive. Parenting is hard, and it was never meant to be done in isolation. We need grandparents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends to share the load. There's a reason we say "it takes a village" and not "it takes two sleep-deprived people barely holding it together."

I long for less combative discussions around this topic. I've been on the receiving end of judgment and pressure, with people insisting I'll regret my choice or that I'm somehow wrong for not wanting children. It's intrusive and disrespectful. I support your choice to have kids; why can't you support my choice not to?

Of course, accommodation should go both ways. I'm happy to join you at the playground and play with your little ones. In return, I appreciate when you carve out some adult time for our friendship. Recently, I had a perfect example of this balance: visiting friends with kids, we spent the afternoon playing together, and after the children's bedtime, the adults continued socializing. It was the best of both worlds.

As we navigate these complex cultural shifts, I hope we can move towards mutual understanding and respect. The choice to have children – or not – is deeply personal. Neither path is inherently better or more fulfilling than the other. What matters is that we have the freedom to choose, and that we support each other in those choices.

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Deep Fakes and Truth Decay:

Last week, as I scrolled through my news feed, I was confronted with a barrage of unsettling headlines. Racist riots had erupted in the UK, after an attack on young children was blamed on migrants, fueled by AI-generated images of a man in Muslim dress waving a knife outside of parliament, viewed over 900,000 times.

Over on X, Elon Musk had re-shared a deepfake containing misinformation about Kamala Harris. Welcome to our new reality, where seeing is no longer believing.

The proliferation of deepfakes isn't just a technological novelty – it's accelerating a phenomenon known as "truth decay." This erosion of agreed-upon facts is reshaping our social and political landscape, blurring the lines between reality and fiction at an alarming rate. As someone who's always prided myself on staying well-informed, I find this development deeply worrisome.

Let's unpack those earlier examples. In the UK, by the time the truth emerged – that the perpetrator was actually British-born – the damage was done. Streets had erupted in violence, fueled by a lie crafted in pixels. Meanwhile, Musk's sharing of the Harris deepfake demonstrated how even those at the highest echelons of power can fall prey to (or perhaps exploit) these fabrications.

The ripple effects of these incidents extend far beyond their immediate impact. They chip away at our collective ability to discern truth from fiction, to establish a shared understanding of events. It's a process that's been underway for years, but AI-generated content has supercharged it.

Even more concerning is how deepfakes are becoming a go-to tool in political warfare. Recently, Donald Trump accused Kamala Harris of using AI to lie about crowd sizes at her events. Whether this accusation is true or not almost doesn't matter – the mere suggestion plants seeds of doubt, further eroding public trust. (It's not true, by the way) These incidents highlight how prominently AI-generated content will feature in upcoming elections, potentially reshaping the very foundation of our democratic processes.

The EU AI Act is a start, but it's not enough. Not when there are so many people who would benefit from the erosion of our democratic processes. As a member of President Macron's commission, "Enlightenment in the Digital Age," our report highlighted the heavy risks that countries around the world face. (Read it here, in english)

Navigating this brave new world will require developing new literacies and a healthy skepticism towards the media we consume. We'll need to create new systems for verifying information and new ways of building consensus. The tools we've relied on for decades – photographic and video evidence – are becoming unreliable narrators in our collective story.

The challenge before us is monumental. How do we balance the incredible potential of AI with the need to preserve some semblance of shared reality? How do we harness these technologies for good while mitigating their potential for harm? And in a world where reality itself seems malleable, how do we anchor ourselves to truth?

These are questions we'll be grappling with for years to come. But one thing is clear: the future of our information ecosystem – and perhaps of democracy itself – depends on how we answer them. As we face this accelerating truth decay, our ability to discern fact from fiction and maintain a shared understanding of reality has never been more crucial.

The era of "pics or it didn't happen" is over. It's up to us to navigate this new landscape with wisdom, skepticism, and a renewed commitment to truth.

On Billionaire Delusions:

Were you horrified by the recent chat between Elon Musk and Donald Trump? This wasn't just another celebrity chat; it was a glimpse into the mindset of those who shape our digital landscapes and political realities.

It brought to mind a recent Atlantic article I'd read, which explored the shifting allegiances of tech billionaires like Marc Andreessen and David Sacks. Their apparent pivot from Democratic leanings to Trumpian ideologies isn't just a personal choice—it's a reflection of a broader trend among the ultra-wealthy who want the tax breaks and less regulatory oversight of a Trump administration.

Brooke Harrington, a sociologist who's spent nearly two decades studying the ultra-rich, offers a startling insight into this world. She recounts a wealth adviser telling her that some clients genuinely believe they're "descended from the pharaohs" and destined to rule. It would be almost comical if it weren't so terrifying.

This god-like self-perception isn't just idle talk. It's codified in books like "The Sovereign Individual," a favorite of Peter Thiel's, which unironically compares the ultra-wealthy to Greek gods and prophesies a future where they'll "redesign governments and reconfigure economies." (To further connect threads, place this insight into context within the "dark enlightenment" movement I wrote about in this dispatch.)

In reflecting on all this, I'm left wondering: How do we, as ordinary individuals, navigate a world increasingly molded by those who see themselves as modern-day pharaohs? It's a question that doesn't have easy answers, but one we must grapple with as we scroll, tap, and live our lives in the shadow of billionaire beliefs.

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On that viral Break Dancing Video:

I've been thinking about the response to Rachel Gun's viral breakdancing at the Olympics. I thought it was significantly subpar compared to the other competitors. Dance competitions are one of my favorite internet sub-genres. Check out this video of women competing and tell me Gunn's performance was even close. I was more surprised that people were praising "her bravery."

I'm sill forming a final opinion, but I wanted to share some thoughts as they develop. First, no one deserves bullying or harassment online, regardless of the issue.

Are We Celebrating Mediocrity?

Breakdancing is an art with defined moves—freezes, headspins, flips. Rachel’s performance at the Olympics, where she scored zero points in all three rounds, didn’t include any of these basics. Yet, Australian Prime Minister Anthony Albanese praised her for “having a go.” But is the Olympics, a stage for the world’s best, the right place to just “have a go”? Rachel herself admitted she couldn’t compete on power moves, focusing instead on creativity. But in breakdancing, skill is fundamental—creativity alone doesn’t cut it.

Cultural Appropriation?

The breakdancing community, especially its Black and brown members, have voiced frustration. To them, Rachel’s prominence isn’t a win for women in sport but an uncomfortable case of cultural appropriation. One comment that stuck with me was: “She has so many ways to express herself as a white woman, yet she chooses breaking? And makes it her entire identity? Embarrassing.” Breakdancing has deep roots in Black and Latino culture, and seeing someone outside that community take center stage, without the necessary skill, feels dismissive of its origins.

Reflecting on the Nuances

I’m still working through this. “Staying in our own lane” is a concept that makes me uneasy—art and culture thrive on diversity. But there’s a fine line between appreciation and appropriation. Rachel’s own words from her PhD thesis suggest she’s aware of these complexities: “The exclusivity of Australia’s sporting institutions may impact the accessibility of breaking.” Ironically, her participation might prove her point—she used her privilege to occupy space on a global stage, despite her lack of skill.

This story leaves me with more questions than answers. Is Rachel’s participation a celebration of creativity, or is it cultural appropriation and mediocrity? The story is still unfolding, and I’m continuing to think it through, trying to balance respect for the art form, the cultural context, and the broader implications.

What do you think?

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