UnlearningSilence.blog

One of the questions I am asked most often is surprisingly simple: “Why are you still single?” It is usually asked by relatives, family friends or well-meaning acquaintances. Sometimes there is concern behind it, sometimes curiosity and occasionally genuine confusion. The question itself does not bother me. What fascinates me is the contradiction that often sits behind it.

I grew up in Central Asia where the script for life was relatively straightforward. You met someone, you married and you built a family. Dating, at least in the Western sense of the word, was not something many young women were actively encouraged to do. The expectation was not that you would spend years meeting different people, learning about yourself through relationships and gradually discovering what kind of partner suited you best. The expectation was that you would find the right person, marry and get on with life.

As girls, we were taught many things. We were taught to work hard, to think about our families, to be respectful and to protect our reputations. We were taught how to be good daughters, good wives and, one day, good mothers. What we were not taught was how to date. We were not taught how to approach someone we liked, how to express romantic interest or how to navigate the uncertainty that inevitably comes with modern relationships. Most importantly, we were not taught how to choose. We were taught how to be chosen.

In my case, that was almost literally true. My first relationship was with the man who became my husband. My mother introduced me to him and told me, with the certainty that mothers sometimes possess, that he was the person I would marry. And she was right. I married him. We built a life together. We had children. We stayed married for eleven years.

At the time, none of it felt unusual. Many people around me followed a similar path. Looking back, however, I realise that I entered adulthood without ever having to make one of the biggest decisions of my life entirely for myself. There was no dating, no awkward first coffees, no conversations with friends analysing text messages or wondering whether someone liked you. There was simply a path, and I followed it.

Ten years ago, I left my marriage. Since then, life has looked very different from the one I imagined as a young woman. There were children to raise, a career to build, bills to pay, responsibilities to carry and problems to solve. Like many women, I gradually became the person everyone relied upon. The person who figured things out. The person who kept moving forward because there was no other option.

Over the years I have made countless difficult decisions. I have built a life in a country very different from the one in which I grew up. I have raised two boys who are slowly becoming young men. I have rebuilt myself more than once. Yet when it came to love, I often found myself feeling strangely uncertain.

Part of the reason, I think, is that I no longer live in the world I was prepared for. I live in Britain, where dating is not merely accepted but expected. Most people do not marry first and then discover whether they are compatible. They date. They spend time together. They learn about one another. They make mistakes. Relationships begin and end. Through that process they gradually learn what they want, what they need and what kind of partner is right for them.

This creates a peculiar dilemma for many women who grew up in more traditional cultures. We are often asked why we are still single, yet the very process through which people usually find partners can feel unfamiliar, uncomfortable or even vaguely rebellious. The same culture that asks why you have not remarried is often the culture that taught you not to actively look. The same people who wonder why you are alone may also be uncomfortable with the idea of dating. The expectation is that you should somehow find a husband without going through the process by which most people find one.

It is a puzzle with no obvious solution.

The reality becomes even more complicated when children are involved. Dating is no longer simply about personal happiness. Every decision carries wider consequences. There are my sons. There is my mother. There are relatives in Central Asia. There are cultural expectations, family expectations and my own expectations.

Questions that might seem straightforward become much more complicated. When do you introduce someone to your children? How do you know whether a relationship is serious enough? How do you protect your family while remaining open to the possibility of love? How do you balance caution with hope?

I sometimes think people underestimate how much thought goes into these decisions. Finding a partner at twenty is different from finding a partner at forty. At twenty, you are often choosing a future. At forty, you are trying to integrate somebody into a life that already exists. That life contains children, routines, responsibilities, history and hard-won peace. The stakes feel different.

Perhaps that is why I have become less interested in finding someone quickly and more interested in finding someone well.

For a long time, I viewed my uncertainty as a weakness. Perhaps I was too cautious. Perhaps I was too independent. Perhaps I was not trying hard enough. Perhaps I was trying too hard. Like many women, I spent years wondering whether I was somehow failing at a game whose rules seemed to change depending on who was explaining them.

More recently, I have begun to see things differently.

The truth is that I am no longer a young woman waiting for life to happen to her. I am not waiting for somebody else to make decisions on my behalf. I have spent years making difficult decisions for myself and for the people I love. I have navigated challenges that once seemed impossible. I have built a career, raised children and created a life that did not exist when I first arrived in this country.

Why should choosing a partner be the one area of my life in which I surrender my judgement to somebody else’s expectations?

This does not mean rejecting where I come from. I still value commitment. I still believe in family. I still believe that love should be serious. I still hope, one day, to find a relationship built on trust, friendship, affection and genuine partnership. What has changed is my understanding of who gets to decide what that relationship should look like.

For a long time, I thought the challenge was finding the right person. Now I think the challenge is something else entirely. It is learning to trust myself. It is recognising that I can honour my culture without being constrained by every expectation that comes with it. It is understanding that I can respect tradition while still making my own choices. It is accepting that the life I have built requires a different set of rules from the ones I inherited.

Most importantly, it is recognising that for the first time in my life, this decision belongs to me. Not my mother. Not my relatives. Not my culture. Not society. Me.

Perhaps that is why I am no longer in a hurry. I spent eleven years in a marriage. I spent another decade raising children, building a career and rebuilding my life. If it takes time to find the right person, then it takes time.

For the first time, I am not waiting to be chosen. For the first time, I am choosing.

And that, more than any relationship, feels like a new chapter.