Last week, I was at a dinner party in New York City and having a friendly conversation with an older man who was very inquisitive about my love life. He lodged question after question as I told him the Cliff’s Notes version of my recent relationship that I ended in April. I also shared some bits about the guy I was heartbroken over at 30 and how it had been the catalyst for becoming who I am today.
“I’m worried that you’re sad,” he told me at the end of the night as we said our goodbyes.
I felt confused. What did I do to give him any indication of such?
I promised him, “I’m not sad. I have a great life.”
His words echoed in my head for my hour-long car ride back to Westchester, and I brought it up in therapy the next day. I shared with my therapist how annoyed I felt that that was his perception of me—but I wasn’t going to waste my energy trying to “convince” him or anyone else otherwise, especially someone I had just met.
But at the same time, if I was bothered, did that mean he was right? Was I sad about being alone?
On the other hand, I recounted to my therapist that I had also just attended my 20-year high school reunion, where almost everyone there was married with children except for me and a few others. From there, I went to dinner with my four best friends from high school, who are all married with exactly two children. I never felt like the odd woman out, though, and no one questioned my single and childless status. It was merely another example of how everyone has taken their path in life, and I’m on mine.
“People see being single as a transition state before something immaculate happens,” my brilliant therapist said to me. I told her it feels like even if you tell people you’re okay or happy, they’ll always think you’re full of shit because we’re conditioned to believe that we’re not complete without romantic love and, therefore, we can’t possibly be okay if we don’t have it. My therapist noted that we rarely acknowledge that there can also be feelings of grief when entering a committed relationship and navigating the loss of independence and having to make choices based on someone else.
Yes, there was a time when my single status felt like a curse or an affirmation that something was wrong with me. Throughout my thirties, I’ve faced these fears head-on and challenged the ideals that scared me the most, like the prospect of being alone forever. As my therapist reminds me, “What we fear the most is what we want the most.” I learned to redirect the energy I was throwing at men who couldn’t meet my needs back to myself. I had to recognize the patterns and find the courage to interrupt them. This journey isn’t about my own struggles—this is generational. It’s the most challenging and rewarding work I've ever done. While it’s hard to feel the progress in the thick of it, confronting these insecurities, which felt all-consuming, has helped me feel more rooted in myself.
So, the assumption that I can’t be happy without romantic love also felt like it diminished all I’ve done to find happiness and contentment within the confines of my own life—something I once doubted was even possible. Of course, no one, not even those closest to us, can ever see all the work we put in. People just don’t always understand it, and that’s okay. I have to be at peace with that because I know the effort I’ve made and can feel my progress.
At the end of the day, I can hold two truths: I am proud and fulfilled by the life I am building for myself. A lot of that is fueled by professional success and achievements. Every day, I wake up excited that I get to do what I love. It brings me so much joy to share this journey with others—and I feel that it is all part of my higher calling. I have a family that loves me so much. I have friends I can depend on. The other truth is that being in a relationship is a very deep desire I have always held, and I’m excited and look forward to one day being partnered. But I won’t allow the fact that I’m not partnered to take away or devalue all the other goodness in my life.