The summer I was 31, I put my belongings in storage and went to Europe. I told everyone I was planning to finally finish my novel, but in reality, I was hoping to meet my future husband. I went on Tinder dates across Europe before I settled in Dublin, Ireland, for a few months.
By the fall, I was back in the U.S. I didn’t have a husband, or a boyfriend. But I was pregnant, and committed to raising my child as a single mom. The details matter less and less with each passing year, and I try to keep them relatively opaque to preserve my daughter’s privacy. But her dad isn’t in the picture or on her birth certificate. Since the first day I saw the double pale pink line on the pregnancy test, it’s just been the two of us. And I am so grateful for that.
In my 20s, I worked at a women’s magazine, primarily focused on sex and relationship content. My circle of friends was predominantly women. I saw relationships as a means to an end. By the time I hit 30 and more of my friends were becoming partnered, I felt unmoored and panicky. I was done with my life as a single woman, but unsure what I wanted for the future. I would approach dates like job interviews, trying to cast the person in front of me for the role of husband. Did he have a stable job? Great. A good relationship with his family? Awesome. Did he want kids in the future? Then I would do whatever I could to ensure we would have a second date. I didn’t have time to talk about favorite books or musical tastes or what inspired him. If he sounded good on paper, then he was the right fit for me. To me, having a partner was essential to “ladder up” in the game of life. While I knew this wasn’t a healthy approach to relationships, I also didn’t really see an alternative. I wanted a family. And a husband was the way to get it.
But then, my unexpected pregnancy changed everything — starting with my outlook.
I went to the hospital in labor on the subway, by myself. I came home three days later, cesarean-section-sore, by myself. For the first seven months of being a parent, my daughter came everywhere with me, simply because there was no one else to watch her. Were there sleepless nights? Of course. Hours of endless Googling the afternoon she rolled off the bed onto the carpeted floor? Without a doubt. But there was also a sense of calm growing inside me. The more things I did by myself — even things that people around me said couldn’t be done, like taking care of a newborn alone — the more I realized I didn’t need a partner. In fact, I realized that in many ways, I didn’t want one.
This became more apparent as I saw how easily resentments could grow in relationships. I saw partnered friends struggle with compromises and have disagreements about child-rearing. Everything from which foods to introduce to their infants to where to send their child to day care was a topic for discussion, and often disagreement. Not needing to compromise made me rely on my own intuition and become incredibly comfortable with my own internal voice and compass.
I was also falling in love, and it looked nothing like what I had imagined. Instead of falling in love with a potential partner, I was experiencing love for the first time with my child. I was entranced by her opinions and her personality, the way she loved animals and sang off-key to the “Frozen” soundtrack and the millions of other things she did that were toddler-typical but also unique to her. She had mannerisms that I recognized from my own childhood pictures — a half smile, bright blue eyes — but was so very much herself.
She was also completely dependent on me. Everything from the jobs I took to where I lived was decided within the lens of what was best for her. But rather than feel resentful, I felt empowered. I had the ability to put someone else above myself.
In my 20s, I dated one man for six months, which is my longest romantic relationship to date. His biography — lawyer, smart, wanted kids in the future — checked all the right boxes. One night, he called me because he had sprained his wrist during a workout. “I don’t want to be by myself tonight. I think I need someone here,” he said. I remember bristling in annoyance. I had a huge work project due the next day. My plan had been to spend the weekend holed up in my apartment, alone, completing it. In fact, I had liked being by myself, without anyone interrupting me. I didn’t want to be with him, and I didn’t want anyone depending on me. But I felt the right thing to do was to put aside my own needs and go take care of him for the evening, even though I was resentful and angry.
We broke up not long after, but that experience worried me. Maybe, I thought, it was proof I wasn’t meant for relationships. His request had been so normal. Why had it made me so angry? It wasn’t until I was parenting Lucy did I realize what love without expectations felt like. I was learning to parent while learning to love, and it was a deep, intense, healing journey that would have been impossible if I had just fallen into a relationship because someone checked the right boxes.
I don’t want to say that being a solo parent is easy. It’s not. I’ve made a ton of compromises in my career to have the flexibility needed for taking care of a young child. The parent-child relationship when there’s only one parent and one child can be incredibly intense. I never want Lucy to feel responsible for my emotions, and I want her to realize that while this is a life that makes sense for me, it’s not one that makes sense for everyone. I would love her to be able to have that deep, all-consuming love with a partner that eluded me in my twenties. But I know now that it’s also fine if she doesn’t.
Today, Lucy is 8. And I know a child is very different from having a partner. But as so many of my friends’ and acquaintances’ marriages crumbled due to COVID and other factors, I’m so thankful for the stability that I was able to give Lucy by recognizing that my potential as a parent was independent of my potential as a partner.
In the past two years, I’ve also started going on dates. I’ve lost the need to couple up, which has meant I’m a lot more genuine on dates. I’ve lost the “pick me, pick me” mentality of my 20s and finally have the perspective I needed to determine: Do I like this person? I also have confidence in knowing what is right for me. I know that I will never settle into something that isn’t the right fit, and that’s something I want Lucy to learn, too. I want her to learn she has inner strength and resolve inside her. But most of all, I want her to know that sometimes, living life out of order can be magical, empowering and exactly the right path.
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This article was originally published on TODAY.com
