The Art of Choosing Me

“You’re still single? How? You’re literally a catch.” I sighed. My best friend meant well, but her pity-laced curiosity felt like a splinter under my skin. This wasn’t the first time someone had conflated my worth with my relationship status. I typed back, “Because I’m not starving for company. I’d rather eat alone than share a table with someone who doesn’t know how to season the meal.”

Last month, at a family reunion, my aunt cornered me with her signature interrogation: “You’re not getting any younger, sweetie. When are you going to let someone love you?” I bit my tongue. What she really meant was, “When will you shrink yourself to fit into someone else’s life?” I wanted to say, “When someone loves me the way I love myself.” Instead, I shrugged and changed the subject.

I used to think love was a game of endurance. At 22, I dated a guy who treated me like a backup plan. He’d vanish for weeks, then reappear with half-hearted apologies and gas station roses. I stayed, convinced I could “fix” his inconsistency with enough patience. Spoiler: I couldn’t.

Then there was the one who loved the idea of me — the curated version I posted online, not the woman who cried during dog food commercials or forgot to water her plants. When I showed him my messy, unfiltered self, he ghosted. It stung, but it taught me: Anyone who only wants the highlight reel doesn’t deserve the full story.

Dating apps? A carnival of contradictions. One match bragged about his “alpha male” status but threw a tantrum when I split the bill. Another waxed poetic about his “healing journey” but still trauma-dumped about his ex mid-sushi date. I started treating profiles like fortune cookies — cracking them open for a laugh, never expecting substance.

Once, I met someone who seemed… different. We talked for hours about our mutual love of stargazing and indie films. But when I mentioned I didn’t want kids, he recoiled like I’d slapped him. “But you’d be such a great mom,” he insisted, as if my body were a public service announcement. I left that night thinking, Why do strangers feel entitled to rewrite my life’s script?

Last summer, an ex resurfaces. “I miss us,” he texted, six years too late. I laughed. The “us” he missed was a girl who muted her needs to soothe his ego. The woman I am now? She doesn’t dim her light to make others feel brighter. I replied, “I don’t.” and blocked him.

My friends call me picky. I call it curation. I don’t want a project, a placeholder, or a puppet. I want a partner who sees my fire and doesn’t ask me to blow it out. Someone who knows trust isn’t earned through grand gestures but through showing up, day after day, even when it’s mundane.

I turned 30 last month. To celebrate, I took myself to Paris. As I stood on Pont des Arts, a street artist sketched my portrait. When he finished, he handed it to me and said, “You look like someone who knows her value.” I smiled. For years, I’d tied my worth to how others saw me. Now, I measure it by how I see myself.

Am I lonely? Sometimes. But loneliness isn’t a flaw — it’s a reminder that I refuse to numb myself with counterfeit connection. I’d rather ache with honesty than suffocate in a lie.

Do I believe in love? Absolutely. But I also believe in tectonic shifts — in the quiet, seismic growth that happens when you stop chasing and start choosing.

So until the universe sends someone who’s done their homework — someone who’s scribbled notes in the margins of their soul and arrives with hands open, not clutching a checklist — I’ll be here. Reading books in bathrobes, dancing in my kitchen, and relearning the sound of my own laughter.

Because the greatest love story I’ll ever write?

It starts with me.