A love letter to the women who stopped apologizing for choosing themselves.

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The Myth of Completion

Somewhere between Disney movies and dating apps, we were brainwashed. Conditioned to believe that a woman’s story isn’t whole until a man enters the frame—until there’s a ring, a “Mrs.” before your name, and a happily ever after that usually ends with her cleaning up someone else’s emotional mess.

I fell for it. Twice.

Now, heading into my second divorce, people tilt their heads and offer the same sympathetic smile. “You’ll find someone someday.” As if being single is a wound that needs tending. As if peace and partnership are interchangeable words.

Spoiler: they aren’t.

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The Pity Parade

I can’t count the number of times someone has called me “strong” in one breath, then followed it with “You’ll meet someone” in the next. Why? Why do I have to? I’ve struck out twice. Maybe the universe is telling me something.

Maybe this chapter is about me.

I have two little girls who think I hung the moon. They are the ones I’m building my life around—not some hypothetical man.

And yet…the pity keeps coming, disguised as encouragement. The world doesn’t know what to do with a woman who chooses herself.

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The Fear That Never Leaves

There’s this small, sharp voice in the back of my head—one I inherited from every cautious mother before me. It whispers warnings: You have two beautiful babies. You never really know who someone is.

It’s awful that we have to think that way. But that’s the reality I was raised in, and once you’ve seen what harm looks like, you don’t unsee it. So now, I choose caution over companionship. Not because I’m bitter, but because I’m responsible.

I’ve made peace with that.

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If the Universe Has Other Plans…

If a magical unicorn of a man wanders into my orbit someday, I won’t slam the door. But I’m not leaving it open waiting for him either.

I’m focusing on healing. On protecting and raising my daughters. On rediscovering who I am when I’m not someone’s wife or someone’s disappointment.

Just carve this on my tombstone:
She tried. Twice.