Why I Am Single

Some people marry young, while others settle. I built a life so beautiful, it feels like the greatest love story. And I’m not waiting for anyone to write the final chapter.

People love to ask the wrong questions.

They look at me—smart, beautiful, successful—and go, “What’s the catch?”

As if I’m a discounted handbag with a hidden defect.

But here’s the thing: the question isn’t “what’s wrong with her?”

It’s “why do you assume there is?”

I don’t belong to the world where women are incomplete without a man. I’m not auditioning for the part of girlfriend, wife, or mother just to fit your mold. I’m not chasing validation in the form of diamond rings or shared mortgages.

That version of womanhood—where we shrink to fit, sacrifice by default, and stay for survival—is not my story.

Gloriously content, I don’t need someone to split bills with. I eat anything I want, anywhere in the world, whenever I feel like it. Paris for lunch tomorrow? Tokyo for dessert on Saturday? Say less.

My closet has more pieces than I’ll ever wear. I buy myself flowers and real jewelry. Gifts from me, to me.

I’ve explored 35 countries and counting. I studied architecture, chemistry, business, and filmmaking—not for a resume, but because I could, and because I was curious. I visited over 100 museums around the world, just to lose myself in the stillness of old oil paintings.

So, the catch is: I’m single because I’m full.

It’s hard to explain this to people, especially when we’re raised with societal and cultural expectations. The truth is, there is no void to fill. I’m not missing anything. I’m not lonely. I’m not sad. I’m not “waiting.”

I am living—happily, possibly ever after.

And if a partner comes—someone secure, emotionally mature, with depth and delight—I’ll welcome them with open arms and champagne chilled.

I’ll say, “I’m glad you’re here. Want to go skiing in Canada this weekend?”

But until then, and even then, I remain my own greatest love story.