You know you really should…

It always starts the same. Some well-meaning friend or relative or random stranger on the street finds out that I’m single and after the usual “you’re such a catch, why are you single?” the advice comes pouring in:

“Have you tried….?”

“My friend’s son…”

“What about that app…?”

I’m thirty-three and in the roughly thirteen years since I graduated college my relationship status has become synonymous with who I am. I’m highly accomplished by the way. I’ve got two masters. I was the first person in my family to attend an Ivy League. I’ve written several romance and therapy books. I own my own business. And yet, when it comes to chatting with people, the topic of dating always comes up whether or not I mention it.

It seems that dating is the topic that everyone loves to offer words of wisdom about but no one really wants to listen to what it’s actually like to be doing it. They don’t want to hear about the very real sensations of loneliness or grief because those sensations are not something that can be fixed by going out.

All those well-intended pieces of advice do is make me feel like I’m not trying hard enough and it’s taken me years to realize that trying hard isn’t the only factor that goes into meeting your person. It’s timing, circumstance, relationship to self and pure luck. All of these things play a role and unfortunately or fortunately for me depending on how you look at it, I’ve had an ample amount of years to grapple with all of them.

When it comes to timing, I firmly believe in right person right time and I’m grateful to the relationships I’ve had at certain points in my life that helped me grow and learn.

When it comes to circumstances, I understand how certain ones can lead to more opportunities for connection just as equally as I comprehend that you can be in the most ideal circumstance and still not meet someone.

When it comes to my relationship to self, trust me when I say we’re good. I’ve used the last eight years to build a formidable relationship with myself, one built on self-love, respect and care. I’ve done “the work” as they say and I’m incredibly proud of who I’ve become.

When it comes to luck, I’ve realized one thing as certain – I can’t control it. I cannot predict how or when I will meet my person. I can’t control how it will unfold or where the cosmos will dictate the two of us crashing into one another. I can only control how much I care for myself, how I spend my time and who I associate myself with. The rest is up to whatever is up there in this big universe.

Now despite what I consider to be a fairly healthy relationship with myself and with my life, I can still acknowledge that being single at this particular inflection point in my life is hard. I feel like I’m on the outskirts of other people’s lives. It’s a natural shift as people form their own families. They get married, they take couple trips, they plan vacations with other people who have kids. But where and how do I fit in?

With each group pairing off, I’ve felt more alone. Yes I have built community with other single women and I maintain healthy friendships with married or coupled friends. But that sense of belonging is missing from my life. It’s no longer enough to belong to myself. I want and need more – something that only someone else can offer.

I’ve built a life I really never wanted to build. If I was given the option between building something alone or building something with a (healthy) partner I would choose the later. It’s not just about having someone to help me unpack the boxes or help me hang the shelves. It’s someone to share life experiences with and I’m tired of having all of these life experiences on my own.

The first night in my new apartment, I poured a glass of wine, sat down on my couch and cried. I cried because I really wished there was someone sitting on the other end of the couch. I wish there was someone there to witness what I had just done. I wish there was someone in my corner acknowledging this step I had just taken. But no one was there and as I looked around at all of my stuff, the grief eclipsed the pride. I’m proud of myself for moving cities and I’m proud of myself for being able to do this alone. I’m happy I live in a place that feels like a home but two things can be true at once. I can be proud and sad and in that particular moment, the grief was overwhelming.

When I told people I was moving back to Boston a few said, exciting! New chapter! New adventure! But most said: “Maybe the Boston dating pool will be different” or “I hope you meet someone up there.” These are the same people who look at me apologetically when in a group setting talking about their weddings or their kids. They become aware that I have little to contribute on those topics and suddenly I’m getting asked “how’s work?” Followed quickly by “Are you seeing anyone?”

I’m more than my dating status but having run the gammut of being the single friend: The one with the stories, the one who has chosen herself, the one who provides the entertainment to the couples, the one who gets treated like someone’s pet project - I would be remiss not to acknowledge how common it is to reduce a single person to their relationship status.

Few people to want to hear that being single is not something that can be solved. If my latest viral TikTok on LaurenMarieWritesRomance is any indication, there are a lot of people who enjoy telling people that their emotions and personal experience are invalid or incorrect.

I refuse to accept that wanting love is a bad thing and I refuse to suppress my own feelings to make others feel more comfortable. I spent years doing that. Years molding myself to what others told me to be or to do. When they told me I wasn’t trying hard enough to meet someone I tried harder. When they told me I tried too hard and seemed desperate, I felt embarrassed and did less. When they told me to be more open I went out more. When they told me I was going out too much, I focused on my career. The list of things I’ve been told about how to find my person is never ending and the only thing all those things made me do was become more uncertain about my ability to find someone at all.

One of the things that struck me as interesting about the comments on those TikTok videos is how many people assumed I was unhappy or that I hadn’t chosen myself enough. How they assumed I centered my entire life around men and I was sitting in my apartment twiddling my thumbs waiting for prince charming to knock on the door. What they missed was the very clear explanation that I have built my life up so fully that I want someone to share it with and I do not think for a second that wanting someone to share a life with is a bad thing. I certainly don’t think it should be met with shame.

Because that’s really what it is. Every time someone in the comments says “No! Focus on yourself” or “You need to work on yourself more!” or “Men aren’t everything!” or my personal favorite, “It’s not so great on the other side!” What I think to myself is, shame, shame, shame.  If you’ve been following me on Lost Girl Therapy you’ll know that shame is my least favorite emotion because you can’t produce it on your own. It has to be given to you by someone who is casting judgment on you for how you exist or what you do. The comments section that tell me all the ways I’m thinking about this “wrong” are just shame masked as advice. But make no mistake. It’s still shame and shame is a silencer.

The reason I’ve pushed back on so many invalidators in the comments of my TikTok is because I see how their harsh words disempower the other group of people who  are trying to be heard. This other group – the one who the original video was for – is full of people courageous enough to share their own feelings and journeys with being single. They’re acknowledging that it’s hard and lonely and sad and heavy and exciting and prideful and fulfilling. They’re naming all the feelings and I want their voices to be highlighted because the feelings their naming are things that need to be spoken about, not suppressed.