The diary of almost everything

At thirty-eight, I’m somewhere between “perfectly content” and “wait, you’re how old and still single?”; what some might call anomaly-adjacent. (Translation: society thinks I missed a memo somewhere.)

I live with two hairless, slightly ridiculous Sphynx cats. The kind of stinky, wrinkled little nudists that look like they crawled straight out of a Tim Burton film. I adore them. I talk about them like they’re my kids, not in an over-the-top way, but with the kind of love that would definitely raise a few eyebrows at a barbecue.

I don’t spend my days aching for something I don’t have. But I do get reminded, often. Because people still view life as a predictable playlist: grow up, study, party, move out, date, move in, marry, reproduce, repeat. If you’re not singing along, they assume something must be off-key.

At brunch, someone leaned in once, voice soaked in gentle panic, and asked if I’d considered freezing my eggs. I think it was somewhere between the salad and dessert. Another asked if I was maybe already in perimenopause? I laughed and ordered another latte.

Do I want kids? Honestly, I’m not sure. I don’t feel the famous ticking of my ovaries, but I don’t rule it out either, maybe not through me, but I wouldn’t mind loving a partner’s children like my own. It’s not black and white. Not everything has to be.

Sometimes, when I spot a baby’s curled little toes poking out of a sling, something in me softens, a passing breeze, a brief pause. Not longing exactly. Not sadness either. Just a quiet question that doesn’t really need an answer.

I had a relationship that lasted eleven years, which, to be fair, should’ve ended at around year three. We weren’t bad people. We just weren’t good together. Since then, there have been sparks, flings, and a few emotional detours. Including a soft spot for charming Latin men and emotionally unavailable artists. And while I apparently fall for men who dance well… fun fact: you’ll rarely catch me dancing. I freeze the moment someone even gestures toward a dance floor. I’m more “coffee and conversation” than “Bachata at midnight.”

You’ll never find me on Tinder. I hate dating apps, not just because they feel like emotional fast food, but also because I tend to fall fast. Too fast. Before I really know someone. And then it’s usually me left holding the bag of broken feelings. So yes, say hi to me in a coffee shop instead; preferably my local café where I know the barista, the playlist, and exactly how I like my almond milk foamed. But now I’m wondering… do I limit my life by frequenting the same spot, seeing the same faces? Or am I just choosing consistency over chaos? I don’t know. But the coffee’s really good.

Maybe I need to move abroad to find someone who isn’t afraid of feelings and knows how to cook. Of course I can be alone, I’m excellent at it. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t love to experience something real. The wanting and the waiting aren’t mutually exclusive. They exist together,  like coffee and a slightly burnt croissant.

The moment people find out I’ll be alone at Christmas, the invitations begin, not the joyful kind, but the “we just didn’t want you to be alone” kind. They mean well, but it always sounds more like pity than preference. I usually say no. I’d rather eat risotto in my pyjamas and watch old movies with my cats than sit at someone’s table as the seasonal charity case.

I have people I love, people who love me. Friends who show up. Friends I show up for. I have community. I laugh. I eat well. I people-watch like it’s a sport. And still, I sometimes stumble across a reel of a 44-year-old gorgeous woman, single, no kids, radiating joy, and it feels like a secret handshake. A little reminder: you’re not alone in this kind of alone.

People often assume I chose to step off the standard path, like it was some grand, rebellious decision. But I didn’t.
I just kept choosing what felt right at the time. One quiet, curious step after another.
So no, I don’t think I’ve missed the path.
I just don’t walk the same one everyone else does.
It doesn’t mean I’m lost.
It means I’ve made peace with the map in my hands, even if it doesn’t come with landmarks.

Am I happy? Yes.
Do I have questions? Of course.
Will I ever know who I truly am, to the core? Probably not…. but maybe that’s the point.

We evolve. We unlearn. We rest.
And maybe the life I’m building isn’t traditional. Maybe that’s the whole magic of it.

– Sophie Quinn