I’ve always joked that I’m the youngest only child—caught in that strange little space where the age and gender gap between me and my siblings made me feel like I was raised solo.

But that strange little space turned out to be a gift. It taught me how to enjoy my own company. I had friends—and still do—but I genuinely love being alone.

I can kick it all by myself. Give me some books, some music, a good program or movie, and I’m just fine.

But according to society, I’m supposed to be riddled with anxiety and regret over not being married—as if a woman has no value unless she’s attached to a man, preferably with a ring to prove it.

Naturally, there’s going to be somebody reading this thinking, “That old bitch is lying. She knows she’s lonely as fuck.”

What they’ll never understand is this: when you truly and sincerely love yourself, you stop chasing validation from a relationship.

You don’t mind being alone with yourself—you settle into it, stretch out in it, make a home there. Silence doesn’t scare you; it speaks. Your own company isn’t something to escape—it’s something you savor.

Now, would I like to meet my soulmate? Of course I would—the kind of man who makes my soul sing and my nether parts tingle.

But in the meantime, he’s not here yet. And truth be told, he might not ever show up.

And I’m okay with that.

Because I’ve already built a life that feels full in my own hands—a quiet kind of joy, steady and real. I laugh when I want, rest when I need, move through my days without waiting to be chosen.

If he comes, he’ll be an addition—not a rescue.

And if he doesn’t? I’m still here. Whole. Rooted. Living a life that already belongs to me.