A,B,C

I’ve tried everything. The apps, the blind dates, the speed dating events that promised a fresh start. But here I am, still single and still trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. I’m a good person, a strong one. I have my life together—I have a steady job, I’m beautiful, and I have the best son. I take care of myself, I’m not a total wreck, and I’m not looking for a fairy tale. I just want someone who understands the world I live in. Someone who wants to be part of my world. I wanted my person. But it seems like that’s too much to ask.

Let’s be honest—who wants to be alone for the rest of their life? I don’t. But I haven’t been lucky enough to meet my person. After years of disappointment and trauma, I’m tired. What am I doing wrong? Every guy I meet seems interested in one thing: my body. They send me dirty texts, suggest casual hookups, and tell me they’re not “looking for anything serious.” I didn’t sign up for this. I don’t want to be someone’s late-night convenience. I want someone who will stick around for more than just a quick fix.

I’ve been on dating apps, swiping through profiles like I’m picking out groceries, hoping I’ll find something that feels right. I’ve gone on blind dates set up by well-meaning friends who think this time will be different. And then there are the speed-dating events. I’ve done it all. And every time, I walk away empty, frustrated, and feeling like I’ve wasted another night of my life.

Even when I think I meet someone promising, they ruin it. This guy seemed different at first—charming, a little quirky, and on paper, he looked like a potential match. We talked about our kids, shared stories about the challenges of balancing work, life, and being parents. I was hopeful. But by the end of the night, he was calling me a “milf,” talking about how much fun we could have.

I wasn’t stupid. I knew what he meant. It wasn’t about the drink. It wasn’t about getting to know me. He wanted to sleep with me.

It’s the same thing every time. They’re all the same. It’s infuriating. And I start to wonder if it’s me. Am I too serious? Too “mom” for these guys? I mean, I get it. I’m not as fun anymore. I have a bedtime for crying out loud. But why does that mean I can’t have someone who actually wants to be with me, not just in bed?

I was venting to a friend one night, feeling sorry for myself as usual. I said, “Everyone wants to sleep with me, but no one wants to be with me.” And when those words came out of my mouth, something clicked. I was sick of it. I was tired of feeling like the leftover option. I wasn’t getting what I wanted, so maybe I’d just give up on that for now. Maybe I didn’t need love. Maybe I just needed someone—anyone—to show me some attention.

So, I gave in. I lowered my standards. I started to play the field, looking for quick flings. I told myself I didn’t care about anything other than the occasional distraction. If that’s all they were offering, that’s all I’d take. I’d go out of my way to look irresistible, wear that little black dress I knew always got attention, flirt more than I ever had, even when I wasn’t interested.

I never got what I wanted. It was always the same—attention without the affection, sex without the substance. I was starting to feel like a commodity. I wasn’t a person. I wasn’t someone’s partner.

After a few months of playing the field, I found myself pregnant. The worst mistake I could’ve made in my situation. I was lost, confused, drowning in my own choices. To be honest, part of me just wanted to have an abortion. I couldn’t imagine restarting my life all over again, especially with a baby. I wasn’t equipped for this, and I knew it. A few weeks passed, and I was lying in bed one night, staring at the ceiling, thinking about all the terrible decisions I had made. How did I even get here? How had I let myself become this woman? I felt icky and gross. I just wanted a person. When I couldn’t find it, I found people. I don’t know what I was doing. Trying to fill a void? Maybe I should have found a therapist.

Suddenly, something was wrong. I felt it in my gut—a sharp, stabbing pain that made me freeze. My stomach tightened, then began to cramp violently. I sat up, gripping the sheets, trying to steady myself, but the pain came in waves, relentless and unforgiving. What in the world... I thought, feeling a panic rise in my chest. I was scared and confused. The cramps worsened, and I doubled over, gasping for air, barely able to catch my breath. The pain was worse than anything I had experienced. Then, it happened. Blood. It flooded from me like a tidal wave, warm and sticky, soaking through my clothes, staining the sheets. I screamed out, but no one was actually there. I was alone—completely, utterly alone in that moment. My body shook violently, my mind a blur of terror and disbelief. The pain was unbearable. The world around me blurred as tears filled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the bleeding. Lying in bed, waiting for everything to somehow go back to normal, I couldn’t stop the tears. They weren’t just from the pain—though that was sharp, a constant throb deep inside me—but from the crushing weight of the loneliness I was now drowning in. I couldn’t do it. It was insane, the realization of where I was, how I’d gotten here. Alone. Facing the consequences of my own reckless actions. This is what I wanted, right? The answer is no. I had convinced myself it would all be fine, that I could handle it, but now all I felt was raw regret. I needed to stop, to be better, to make different choices. But how? How was I supposed to deal with this? I didn’t know how to fix what had broken inside me. So, I did what I knew best—I pushed it down, buried it, and continued on as if nothing had happened. Pretending that I didn’t just scrub my sheets with so many chemicals to get the evidence of blood and tears gone. Pretending that I could scrub the memories from my brain.

A few weeks passed, and I still couldn’t shake the disgust I felt for myself. I hated who I was. I hated what I had done. I kept telling myself that I didn’t want to be alone, that anything would be better than being alone. But the truth was, it was a lie. Now, look where I was. Pretending to be fine. The truth? I was a mess—and no one was there to help me pick up the pieces.

For the first time, I realized how much I had given up. I hated myself as a person.

This wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted someone who would see me, see all of me, not just the parts of me that were easy to want. In the end, I just wanted a connection. I couldn’t find it. I just wanted attention, so I sought it out. In the end, my own mistakes came rushing back to me.

And maybe that’s the lesson. Maybe I’ve been looking for love in all the wrong places, in all the wrong ways. I’ve been looking for something I will never find. Maybe it's time to stop lowering my standards just for affection or “love.” Because I know what I deserve, I shouldn’t put myself in situations similar to past ones.

In the meantime, I’ll take a break from all of this. I need to deal with a few things. Maybe someday I’ll meet someone who’s worth my time, someone who’s willing to walk this crazy life with me, without rushing through it.

But for now? I think I’ll focus on being the best version of me for my son. And maybe, just maybe, the right person will come when I stop trying so hard to find them. Hopefully, the stressful situations will be harder to find as well.