“How are you still single?”

I turned 33 on a Tuesday morning. There was no romantic breakfast, no birthday text from someone who knew the color of my soul. Just me, a lukewarm cup of tea, and a quiet acceptance that once again—I was alone. Still.

At this point, I’ve stopped counting how many times people have asked, “How are you still single?” As if love is something you graduate into if you’ve ticked all the right boxes. As if being 33 and unmarried is some kind of mistake.

But here’s the thing—they don’t know the story.
They don’t know my story.

At 21, love was supposed to find me in lecture halls or campus cafeterias. But the guys there were all too Conny, too confident, too good at sweet-talking their way into your heart and disappearing before sunrise. I watched my friends play along, hearts broken and mended over and over, but I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to be an option on someone’s “campus conquest” list.

At 24, I was thrown into the chaos of my first internship—fresh-faced, eager, and still slightly hopeful. But the workplace was another jungle. It was full of bad boys in suits, charming with their office banter and Friday night drinks, but emotionally unavailable in the ways that matter. I once sat in a car with a guy who called me beautiful and then asked if I was okay being a “secret” because he wasn’t “ready.” That was my cue to walk away.

And yet, I didn’t give up.

I kept believing that love would find me when it was meant to.

So at 30, when I met him—the one who prayed with me, who called me “his peace,” who said he wanted to build something real—I let my guard down. I imagined anniversaries, matching mugs, family gatherings. I told my mum about him. He told his mum about me. For the first time, I thought, This could be it.

But just when I started opening my heart, he began closing doors. The calls slowed. The sweet words dried up. He disappeared without warning. Weeks later, I saw his engagement photos—with someone else.

That broke me in a way nothing else ever had.

And yet, I survived.

Now, at 33, I still haven’t found the kind of love you write poetry about. I still sleep in a bed I’ve never shared. I still wonder what it would be like to be someone’s first choice.

But I’ve also learned something powerful:
My worth isn’t defined by who chooses me.
It’s defined by how I choose myself—every single day.

I laugh loud, I cry when I need to, and I show up for the people I love. I’ve learned how to be a home to myself. I’ve made peace with silence. I’ve stopped comparing timelines.

Yes, some nights still ache. Yes, I still want someone to look at me like I’m magic. But until then? I’m building a life I don’t need to escape from. A life that’s full, honest, and mine.

Maybe love isn’t late.
Maybe it’s just waiting until I become the kind of woman who can’t be easily swayed by crumbs.
Maybe it’s waiting to arrive in a form that doesn’t require me to shrink, beg, or break.

Until then, I’ll love myself harder.
Because 33 is not a failure.

It’s a milestone.
And I’m still standing.