Motherhood sticks to women. It impinges on their sense of self, it muscles in on their ambition, it manipulates how they are perceived. Not because women want it to - but because society forces it to.

Women are made to perform an impossible balancing act: they must start a family - and be the centre of that family - while also pursuing a career that the family cannot disrupt. They’re allowed both now, but consecutively, not running parallel.

This balancing act falls only on the shoulders of women, while their male counterparts seem to avoid it altogether, says Sara Ashencaen Crabtree, professor of social and cultural diversity at Bournemouth University. “Mothers are expected to conceal their need to care for their children - for example, feigning illness when it is their children who are sick,” she says, “while men are able to flaunt their credentials as fathers in the workplace - and are applauded for it. If a mother takes her baby into the office, it is [deemed to be] unprofessional…but a father bringing a baby in receives coos and admiration.”

We think we’ve come a long way with gender equality, but we have not come nearly far enough. The “mother” label still affects pay, progression, self-confidence, respect - almost every facet of a woman’s personal and working life. And nowhere can that be seen clearer than in teaching.

In teaching, women are doubly hit. The societal expectations of maternal obligation are combined with the perception that teaching is, at its core, a job of nurture, in loco parentis, childcare. In many people’s minds it is feminine, a job inseparable from motherhood itself.

“The problem is that school teaching is seen as a ‘woman’s job’,” says Ashencaen Crabtree. “And not only do we see this in primary and secondary schools, but it follows women into higher education teaching, too.

“In my paper, ‘Playing mother’: channelled careers and the construction of gender in academia, I quote Groves (2013), writing in Times Higher Education, who refers to teaching as the ‘new housework’ - the implication being clear: as a society we see school teaching as a ‘feminine’ job.”

The consequence of this is that success as a mother and success as a teacher have come to be seen as synonymous - one naturally follows the other. And the opposite has also come to be seen as true: not being a mother will leave you, somehow, lacking as a teacher.

You can try to duck and dive these expectations, but they will plague you regardless of whichever choice you make; whether you adhere to societal expectations of women or not, the shackles of motherhood are clasped to the legs of our female teachers.

“When women make a big point of behaving or looking as unlike the stereotype as possible, it brings with it a double-edged sword,” explains Ashencaen Crabtree. “Women who don’t conform to the ‘mothering’ stereotype are then not free from judgement. I think that such women can be castigated as ‘one of the boys’, ‘cold-hearted bitches’, a ‘female misogynist’.”

In light of all the above, the statistics on female progression in teaching are depressingly predictable. Despite women making up the majority of the workforce, we see almost double the number of men in leadership positions.

The problem becomes more pronounced at headship level when, despite doing the same job, the average salary for a male headteacher is £77,362, compared with £68,870 for a female head.

And, tragically, the treatment of women in teaching who do not have children is all too unsurprising, too. Women’s bodies have been seen as public property for so long that we’ve come to accept the open discussions about what we should and shouldn’t do with them.

It is deemed acceptable to ask a teacher without children whether they are “waiting until later”, as they are “career focused”. It is apparently fine to assume that not having a child must be down to personal tragedy rather than choice. It is normal to believe that every woman wants a child and that if they don’t, then, whisper it…why are they in teaching?

Of all the negative effects of the motherhood stereotype on female teachers, the treatment of those without children is the one least recognised, least supported and least campaigned against. It’s also the one that women themselves partake in most.

So, for this feature, we want to put you in the shoes of those female teachers without children, to expose what it is like for them every day in school. We want them to tell you what you can do to make things better.

Grainne Hallahan is Tes recruitment editor and senior content writer

‘I often wonder if I’m just too selfish to have children, or too used to having things my way’

There is an assumption in the schools in which I have worked that I’ll have children - that it’s just a matter of time. And I’ve come to realise, as someone who is unsure whether I actually want to have children, that there is no reply that will satisfy people.

I smile and say, “Well, maybe - haven’t made my mind up yet,” they’ll say: “You’re young! When your clock starts ticking, you will soon be wanting one.”

I can understand to an extent when children ask me about this. I’m newly engaged and teach Year 6. When the girls and boys in my class spotted my ring, some of the children asked if I was pregnant, or if I was going to have a baby soon. Although I understand that it’s just their excitement, I also try to use it to talk about different types of family: not all women have children; families come in different shapes and sizes; having a baby isn’t the “end goal”.

But when it’s adults - and teachers - who say it to me, am I meant to try to educate them in the same way?

As a teacher, I see children every day and although I love teaching them, I also love waving goodbye at the door. I often wonder if I’m just too selfish to have children or too used to having things my way. But I resent the assumptions made that, as a woman, and as a woman who teaches, having a baby is inevitable. I’ve already had ovulation-tracking apps forwarded to me by well-meaning colleagues.

And then there are the parents. I had a girl in my class who was falling asleep in the afternoon. After a call home it turned out she was keeping her phone on her at nighttime and staying up into the early hours to message her cousins, who had moved abroad. When I suggested taking the phone off her at night, the father laughed at me and said “I can tell you don’t have children”. It really stung. No, I might not have children, but I do manage a class of 30 of them every day.

In smaller ways, I’ve had my experience with children dismissed repeatedly, both by colleagues and parents - even though I’ve been teaching for 11 years now. I privately worry that not having my own children will make me conspicuous as I get older. I already see eyebrows raise when I say I have no children. Luckily, I still look quite young, but is it going to get worse next year once I’m 35 and married?

Whether I have children or not, I do know that I’ll never make presumptions about a teacher based on whether they’ve had a baby or not. Because I know what that feels like.

What would you like to see change?

The biggest issue for me is that teachers see the fertility of other teachers as a very black-and-white issue. If I say that I don’t want children, then suddenly I am “the one who doesn’t like babies”. That becomes part of who I am, which is grossly unfair.

Usually, just because I express an interest in your daughter dressed as Baby Yoda, that doesn’t mean you can say to me: “Does it make you broody?” I can love seeing children in fancy dress without getting an urge to procreate myself.

It’s not an inevitability that my mind will be turned by some cute photos, that I just have to wait until some “hormones kick in”. It’s incredibly patronising.

The writer is a primary teacher in the South West of England

‘Despite my efforts, it was inevitable that there would be times when my infertility and teaching clashed’

Parents often assume that you have children, and say things like, “Well, you know what it’s like…”

It used to be incredibly painful to hear those comments; even worse when I corrected them. Despite many years of IVF treatment, that journey has come to an end and I have had to accept that I can’t have children of my own.

I had to do my “grief work” to be able to accept this. For me, acknowledging that I was going to be childless was a loss. It was something that I wanted but could never have. I had to come to terms with that. It was a process - I had to face the things that I would otherwise have done. One of the exercises was to write down all the things I now wouldn’t do. I would never make a costume and see them in their Christmas play; I would never mop their brow and cuddle them when they were poorly; I would never wave goodbye to them at the school gate. All are things that, as a teacher, you see parents doing every day. It was painful but it really helped me to acknowledge, grieve, then move on.

At first, as a teacher, I really had an issue with parents who didn’t care for their kids - those who didn’t know how to parent and only had kids because that’s what everyone else did, not because they wanted them. And although I can still rant about that, it’s something that I’m working through.

In schools, people want to be supportive. They feel your “loss” acutely. But the “help” they offer is often misplaced. I did not want to be told of miracle solutions or that I could adopt. I didn’t want to talk about my fertility.

And pregnancy is such a part of teaching: as a female teacher, it is almost seen as a rite of passage. It’s anticipated keenly - people are willing you to get pregnant and, though lovely, that also heaps on the pressure and can make feelings of failure more pronounced. And when someone does get pregnant, it is an event. And when you don’t? Quietly, unspoken, it is an event, too. And it hurts all the more because of it.

We see ourselves as mothers and it has taken me a long time to come to terms with the fact that I won’t be one.

Compassion is important. Despite my efforts, it was inevitable that there would be times when my infertility and teaching clashed. There was a time, not long after one of my miscarriages, when a little girl brought in a scan picture for “show and tell”. She was so excited and could talk all about the different parts of the picture. I could feel a lump form in my throat and tears threaten to spill, but I was able to blink them away and focus on asking her how she felt about becoming a big sister.

Eventually I realised that being a teacher meant I could have an impact on children, a really positive impact. I think if I hadn’t worked with children, it might have been easier in the early days to accept I wouldn’t become a mother - but in the long run, I think I’m better off working with children.

I really appreciate that, as a teacher, more so as a headteacher, that I can have a lasting effect both directly and indirectly on children and their life choices. I love my job and being with children. The thought that some people do not believe this is possible because I don’t have children of my own is heartbreaking.

I would like to tell women to be honest and kind to each other. We need to be on each other’s side. Women who are mothers have it tough and women who can’t get pregnant have it tough, too - just in different ways.

What would you like to see change?

It would be good for pregnant women to appreciate that not everyone can get pregnant. And to keep in mind, just like all mothers don’t always want to talk about children, all women with infertility problems don’t just want to talk about their infertility. I think women (mothers and non-mothers) need to be compassionate towards each other.

The last thing a woman who has fertility problems needs are the miracle stories or the “You can always adopt” line. Sometimes they don’t want solutions, but just the space to be heard or acknowledged, and to be met where they are. It’s a crappy situation when you can’t have children and want them desperately, and it helps for someone to say: “This is crappy, I am here for you.”

The writer is a headteacher of a primary school in Yorkshire

‘I made a conscious decision not to have children, and it is not something we are sad about’

In every school that I’ve worked in, I’ve found headteachers have often been surprised that I don’t have children. This was even worse when I was a younger teacher and newly married - there was a voiced assumption that I was going to have children soon.

This was articulated openly by my headteacher and members of the senior leadership team at the time. I was given “helpful” advice, such as to make sure that I told the headteacher as soon as I got pregnant, to ensure he’d have enough time to plan for my maternity leave. Even though at the time I knew it was unacceptable on so many levels, as a young and inexperienced teacher, I didn’t challenge it.

But this attitude shifted. Now, as an older woman and clearly coming to the end of my childbearing years, when I tell people I don’t have children, the response (particularly from other women) is one of sympathy. Sometimes the response is even one of sorrow.

It leaves me frustrated. I cannot understand why colleagues think it’s OK to respond to me like this. My husband and I made a conscious decision not to have children and it is not something that we are sad about. It’s also not something I should be made to feel I have to explain.

Assumptions and lazy stereotypes about teachers having children are further reinforced by CPD and advice that channels parenting experience as if it is easily transferable to teaching. This is a habit that excludes child-free teachers from identifying with - and accessing debates about - schooling and school leadership. I don’t think this is acceptable.

However, these kinds of prejudices don’t stop there. On many occasions, I have been asked to stay later at school events because I don’t have children; I was told that colleagues with children had to get home. Often colleagues have said things like, “Well, I have children so I need to get back. You don’t so you could stay.”

So often our debates and discussions about workload centre on teachers who have children, and how they manage to juggle parenthood and teaching. While I think this is important, the silence about the wellbeing of colleagues who are child-free is infuriating. The wellbeing debate isn’t just about teachers who have children - it’s about everyone.

And then there is that phrase: “As a parent, you would understand…”

This is frequently rolled out, positioned as if the topic or issue in question could only be understood by parents. It’s usually not the case at all: often, it’s just common sense. However, if a child-free teacher like me responds to what is said, my response is not seen as valuable or relevant and is often talked down.

Being child-free doesn’t make me any less of a teacher, or my experience invalid. Yet that is exactly how I am treated.

What would you like to see change?

When you talk about teachers, talk about their knowledge and their skill in the classroom. Framing your response to them by whether they are or aren’t a parent is unhelpful and exclusive.

People make assumptions about why I don’t have children, and it’s patronising. I wish people would leave their own feelings about how they view having children to one side - expressing sorrow that I haven’t had a baby when I’ve never wanted one just makes me feel uncomfortable.

The writer is a secondary maths teacher in the North East of England

This article originally appeared in the 16 October 2020 issue under the headline “The mother of all misconceptions”