There are some things nobody really talks about. And I don’t mean the random and largely unimportant things like having a favorite burner on the stove, or always putting the same sock on first, or secretly being afraid that you’ll trip on concrete and knock your front teeth out.

I mean things like how we all feel inadequate, and how hard it is to make friends as an adult, and how many times we’re blindsided by an idea or realization that we hadn’t ever seen, somehow. We don’t usually talk about these things.

While hanging up the laundry on my sturdy wooden clothes rack tonight (find a similar one here), I got to thinking about being single and thirty-five, and how unexpected it’s been, somehow. Not the part about being single so much, although twenty-year-old-me certainly didn’t expect herself to be still single at thirty-five. But what it’s been like, that’s been unexpected.

35. The big three five.

No big deal, I thought. Another birthday. Except that for some reason I really didn’t feel like celebrating this one. So much so, I considered hiding it, not mentioning it to anyone, and hoping nobody remembered to send cards. (I’m almost embarrassed to admit how very much I wanted to avoid it.)

Tonight, in the midst of the rhythmic movement of hanging clothes, I found some ideas about why.

Myth: If you’re single and don’t want to be, it’s all your fault and there’s something wrong with you that you aren’t willing to fix.
There’s a LOT of books, Instagram accounts, podcasts, and “dating coaches” perpetuating this idea. Just follow this process, buy this program, do these four things, change this attitude, and you will have good men falling over themselves to date you, they promise.
Swallowing this idea has tripped me up, stomped my ribs, and left me gasping in the dust. And the vicious thing is, there is just enough truth in the idea to make it seem all true. For many of us, there really are areas that we need to work on in order to become “marriageable”. Where I got tripped up was the notion that I could somehow earn a relationship and that if I didn’t get what I wanted, it was a reflection on my own worth. Which becomes a vicious cycle wherein passing time constantly and mockingly affirms my lack.
I’m still working through this one. No wise words of wisdom, no neatly wrapped package of ideas on how to work through this belief and come out the other side happy and secure.
“Advanced Maternal Age”. Thirty-five is the arbitrary age at which all pregnancies become automatically “high risk” because of the mother is now officially old. When I turned thirty, I grieved the fact that I will never birth a child in my twenties, like all my grade-school peers did (that’s right, every single one of them, except me). At thirty-five, I had to grieve the fact that I will never have a low-risk pregnancy, from a medical standpoint (I’m not getting into how I don’t agree with this, except to say that I don’t). And of course there is the increasing likelihood of never being able to have a biological child, which is also an unexpectedly heavy grief.
The myth of the expected career timeline. I’ve had an interesting and varied career, working in more areas than the average nurse, and gaining some unique skill and knowledge combinations, even including some overseas work. However, this jill-of-all-trades approach means that I feel like I’m barely getting started when my younger peers are often highly skilled in their niche. If I’m not careful, I will start to feel like an absolute failure. But the reality is…
Trauma affects one’s ability to learn and take risks. For almost five years. I stayed in a job that required far less of me than I was actually capable of. It took that long for me to work through several major traumatic events and regain my belief in my own ability to learn and tolerate risk. I wish it wasn’t this way, of course, and I wish I had been able to move on from it sooner. But I’m learning to have compassion and kindness towards myself, and to delight in the joy of learning as it’s returning.
The high cost of caring about excellence. Closely connected to the previous points. Imposter syndrome has been a near-constant companion all of my adult life, and probably even before. Imposter syndrome constantly whispers in my ear that I’m not REALLY good at this, I’ve just somehow fooled people into thinking that I am. Imposter syndrome says that I shouldn’t take risks, because I will fail and then everyone will know that I’m a fraud. It’s taken years to realize that some level of imposter syndrome is normal for anyone who cares about excellence and doing their work well. Now, when it whispers that I’m a fraud who doesn’t know enough, I just remind myself that I care a lot about doing this well, and that there is always more I can and should learn, and allow the discomfort to drive continual improvement instead of keeping me stuck. At least, most of the time. Occasionally I need a friend to bring me back to a more balanced view.

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