How to Choose Godparents When You’ve Never Had One
How to choose godparents isn’t something anyone teaches you. Especially if, like me, you grew up without one.
Nope, I never had a godparent. No mystical adult figures swooping in with birthday cash and unsolicited life advice. No one to call when my parents were being completely unreasonable (which, let’s be honest, was most of the time). Just me, my parents, and a handful of relatives who remembered my existence approximately twice a year.
Did I feel robbed? Hell no. I was busy being a kid, blissfully unaware that some families came with bonus adults who were morally obligated to give a shit about you.
Fast forward to adulthood, and I’m living in Versailles, a place where Catholic tradition and high birthrates combine into a national sport. Godparents in France aren’t just spiritual mentors; they’re a deeply ingrained part of social life. And here in Versailles, those traditions run deeper than the foundations of the château itself. Catholic heritage is woven into the very fabric of daily life. Not having proper godparents for your children in France is like showing up to a dinner party without wine.
Navigating French Traditions: How to Choose Godparents in France
Here, understanding what it means to be a godparent in France goes beyond simple friendship—it’s about creating lifelong bonds that interweave families across generations. People don’t just ask about your kids’ ages and favorite colors; they want to know who their godparents are, what families they come from, how long you’ve known them. It’s like a gentle interrogation disguised as polite conversation, except everyone’s keeping score and I apparently missed the rulebook on French parenting customs.
And here’s the kicker: I’m STILL not anyone’s godparent. Not once have I been chosen for this hallowed role. While I’m out here carefully selecting spiritual guardians for my four kids, apparently no one looked at me and thought, “That woman right there—she’s godparent material.”
Do I have feelings about this? You bet your ass I do.
But then I became a parent (four times, remember?) and suddenly choosing godparents in France became unavoidable. This isn’t just about raising children in Versailles; it’s about navigating centuries-old Versailles family traditions that everyone else seems to understand intuitively.
Real-Life Criteria for How to Choose Godparents
The cultural pressure was intense. Family life in Versailles includes these unspoken expectations about how certain milestones should be marked. At school pickup, other parents would casually mention their children’s godparents like they were dropping names at the Opéra. “Oh, little Margot’s godmother is from the 7th arrondissement.” “Jean-Claude’s godfather has that château in Normandy.” Meanwhile, I’m standing there like, “Cool, cool, my kids have… enthusiastic parents?”
Living here made me realize that French godparent traditions aren’t just about individual families—it’s about community, legacy, and maintaining these intricate webs of connection that have existed for generations. Everyone knows everyone’s godparents, and those relationships create this secondary layer of social bonds that I was completely outside of.
Here I was, staring down the barrel of how to choose a godparent in France for not one, but FOUR tiny humans who would undoubtedly judge my decisions for the rest of their therapy-filled lives. And I had absolutely zero experience with this particular brand of adulting.
The questions came fast and relentless: Is this just fancy church stuff? Do I need to find people who can recite Bible verses, or will my atheist friends who curse like sailors but would literally die for my kids work just fine? There has to be paperwork in there somewhere, right? A civil baptism, perhaps? What’s the legality? And then should each kid get their own set of godparents, or can we go bulk discount? And worst of all, what if I pick wrong and doom my children to a lifetime of disappointing godparent relationships?
I was spiraling harder than a toddler mom who forgot it was costume day at school.
But then it hit me: I wanted my kids to have what I didn’t even know I was missing—a crew of adults who chose them, not because they had to, but because they wanted to. People who would show up when shit got real, who would remember their birthdays when I will inevitably forget, and who would love them fiercely even when they turned into teenage monsters.
The decision-making process was basically an extended episode of “The Bachelor,” except instead of roses, I was handing out lifetime commitments to love my offspring.
My husband and I spent weeks having those deep, wine-fueled conversations where you dissect your entire social circle like you’re planning a heist. We made lists. We analyzed personalities. We definitely put more thought into it than our actual wedding dinner seating chart.
And then I asked myself the question that cut through all the bullshit: If I got hit by a bus tomorrow, who would I want in my kids’ corner? Not to replace me (because let’s face it, I’m irreplaceable), but to remind them:
1. Who was I before they came along and
2. why I loved them so damn much.
That’s when everything clicked.
For our first child, I chose my college roommate—someone whose marriage I’d always admired, who shared the same Christian values I was raised with, and whose life had consistently inspired me. She was even part of the reason I found the courage to move to Europe in the first place.
For our second, I chose a long-time friend who’d lived in both LA and Paris with me. She had cheered me on through every major life shift and even convinced me to go on a first date with my now-husband when I wasn’t totally sold. For our third, I picked a friend who just happened to share the same birthday as our daughter—something about that small connection felt like a sign.
And for our fourth? I chose a fellow French/Irish mom here in Versailles—someone I’d grown close to over the years. A total boy-mom, effortlessly cool, the kind of friend who never showed up empty-handed. She always remembered little details about our kids and asked questions that showed she was really paying attention.
No Baptism, No Problem: How to Choose Godparents Without Religion
Here’s the thing: we didn’t do any of that formal baptism business. No white gowns, no holy water, no pressure to suddenly become Catholic. Instead, we marked these moments our own way—big family dinners, backyard conversations, and handwritten love notes that make me cry.
Because here’s what I figured out: being a godparent isn’t about religion. It’s about showing up. It’s about being the adult who remembers what it was like to be a kid and need someone in your corner who wasn’t legally obligated to feed you.
My kids get it, too. When my daughter talks about her godmother, it’s clear that we both know she’s cooler than me. And damn right, kid. That’s exactly the point.
Now, has everything been perfect? Of course not. One godparent moved to Vietnam and we went radio silent for a while. Another went through a messy divorce and basically disappeared into their own drama. But you know what? That’s life. That’s why we chose multiple people—because adults are just as unpredictable as toddlers, they’re just better at hiding it.
The best part? All the little things I never saw coming. The birthday cards that arrive early because godparents are apparently more organized than actual parents. The random video calls just to check in. The way one godfather gets down on kid-level just to have a conversation. Each kid has a chance to feel important and they light up.
These people are weaving themselves into my kids’ stories in ways that make my heart do weird things.
And selfishly? Watching these relationships bloom has made me realize something I didn’t expect: I may not have had godparents, but I get to be the architect of that experience for my kids. I get to fill in the gaps of my own childhood by making sure theirs is fuller, richer, more connected.
I’m basically the godparent fairy I never had, and it’s pretty badass. (Even if I’m apparently not badass enough to be chosen as one myself.)
But you know what? I’m weirdly grateful for that cosmic joke. Because being the one doing the choosing—instead of being chosen—taught me exactly what this role should mean. I got to be intentional about it. I got to handpick the people who would love my kids unconditionally, who would show up when it mattered, who would be part of their story in ways that go beyond blood or obligation.
Closing Thoughts
Watching my kids’ godparents love them has been better than any validation I could have gotten from being chosen myself. These people didn’t have to sign up for this gig, but they did it anyway. They send the texts. They remember the milestones. They show up with the good snacks and the patient ears.
My kids are lucky as hell, and so am I—even if the irony isn’t lost on me that I’m living in the godparent capital of France while remaining eternally unchosen for the role myself. But maybe that’s exactly why I was so damn good at choosing theirs.
So here’s my unsolicited advice: If you’re on the fence about choosing godparents, stop overthinking it and just do it. You don’t need permission from the church, your mother-in-law, or anyone else. Define it however makes sense for your family.
Pick people who make you feel safe. People who already love your kids without being asked. People who would show up in a crisis and stay for the cleanup. And if you need some local support, the Facebook Group is a good place to start.
And if someone asks you to be a godparent? Don’t you dare treat it like some honorary bullshit title. Lean into it. Send the birthday cards. Make the phone calls. Be the adult who shows up when their parents are being completely unreasonable.
Because at the end of the day, we all want the same thing: to matter to someone, to be chosen, to be part of something bigger than ourselves.
I may have started this journey with no roadmap, but I’m ending it with something better: four kids who know they’re loved not just by the people who made them, but by the people who chose them.
And that’s a pretty damn good plot twist for a girl who never had a single godparent.
