There’s a certain script that society expects you to follow, and I’ve never been one to stick to a script.
At twenty-seven, I have a thriving career, an apartment I adore, and the freedom to wake up every morning and choose how I want to spend my day. To me, that sounds like a life well-lived. But to others? It’s a tragedy.
“You’re almost thirty,” my aunt reminded me at a family gathering last month. “You should be thinking about settling down.”
I smiled, took a sip of my wine, and shrugged. “I’m happy with where I am.”
“But don’t you want a husband? Children? A family of your own?” My mother chimed in, her voice laced with concern.
“I have a family,” I replied. “I have friends who support me, a job I love, and a life I’ve built on my own terms. Isn’t that enough?”
The table fell silent, but the disapproving glances spoke volumes.
It wasn’t just family. Friends, co-workers, even strangers felt the need to comment on my supposed misfortune.
“You’ll regret waiting,” one colleague told me over lunch. “The older you get, the harder it is to find someone.”
“You don’t want to wake up one day and realize you’re alone,” another warned.
“You must be so lonely,” a well-meaning neighbor sighed.
The first few times, I laughed it off. But the more I heard it, the more I realized something: people weren’t just questioning my choices. They were blaming me for them.
As if being single at twenty-seven was some kind of failure. As if not having kids meant I was wasting my existence. As if happiness could only come in one specific form—a wedding ring and a nursery.
One evening, after another exhausting conversation about my “biological clock,” I sat in my apartment and really thought about it. Was I missing something? Would I regret this later? Was I making a mistake by choosing myself over a life dictated by expectations?
And then, clarity hit me like a lightning bolt.
I wasn’t the one making a mistake.
The mistake was believing that happiness was a universal formula, that one path fit all. The mistake was allowing people to project their fears onto me.
I had worked too hard, built too much, and sacrificed too many dreams to let guilt dictate my future.
The next time someone commented on my single status, I was ready.
“Aren’t you worried about being alone?” my cousin asked at a wedding reception.
I looked around the room, at the couples sitting in silence, scrolling through their phones, at the parents chasing after their children with tired eyes.
“I think being alone looks different for everyone,” I said. “And right now, I feel more fulfilled than I ever have.”
She blinked, as if she had never considered that possibility.
And that was the moment I realized something even bigger: people weren’t pressuring me out of malice. They were projecting their own fears, their own insecurities. They had been told that happiness came in a box, wrapped in a timeline, tied together with societal approval.
I wasn’t failing. I was simply refusing to settle.
So, to anyone who thinks I should be worried about my future, let me say this:
I am not missing out on life. I am living it.
I am not waiting for love. I am building a life worth loving.
And most importantly—I am happy.
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