You’re probably wondering why I’m still single. If I had a euro for every time someone’s asked that, I’d be lounging in the Mediterranean sun instead of recounting my romantic misadventures to you. But here we are.
Let’s rewind to when I was 14 and hopelessly in love with a guy six years my senior. I was young, naïve, and blissfully unaware that I’d fallen for someone whose emotional maturity rivaled a vintage cheese—so aged it crumbled under any pressure. Years later, when I asked why he’d treated me so poorly, his response was a shrug and “We were young!” Newsflash: If you're 20 and I'm 14, “young” is not an excuse—it's a crime.
That heartbreak became my invitation to dive headfirst into the wild, weird, and occasionally disastrous world of dating. My next stop was a tall, handsome basketball player who’d survived a civil war and lost his entire family. I thought, I can handle this. Spoiler alert: I could not. Emotional baggage on that scale doesn’t come with an instruction manual, and at barely 20, I was in no position to write one. Loving someone with that much trauma left me drained and questioning if I’d ever be enough.
When that relationship unraveled, I threw myself into work. Surely, a career was immune to emotional chaos, right? Wrong. Work didn’t provide an escape; it just gave me more responsibilities I wasn’t ready for—paperclips included.
Then came bus guy. We met on public transport, and I thought, This is destiny! Turns out, destiny had a twisted sense of humor. He was a widower, raising a daughter while still grieving his wife. I was, of course, at the back of the line: the deceased wife came first, then the daughter, and I was somewhere behind the family dog. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fill the void, nor should I have tried.
Next, there was the man with views so “unconventionally bigoted” they bordered on surreal. Imagine a Black man who held deeply racist beliefs about other Black people—it was a tragic comedy written by someone who’d clearly lost touch with logic. Suffice it to say, that relationship didn’t last long.
And then there was the recovering alcoholic who seemed harmless until he turned into a stalker. His storyline ended with a jail sentence, leaving me wondering if my love life was being scripted by the writers of a bad soap opera.
As I watched my friends settle down, post filtered photos of their kids, and curate their “perfect” lives, I started to feel like a lost tourist in the dating world. The men I met ranged from one who asked me for €600 on the first date (gambling addiction, of course) to another who passionately described making yogurt in his desk drawer for two hours.
Adding to the mix, my parents never missed an opportunity to sprinkle their “supportive” charm. My father, in a moment of drunken honesty, once said, “You’re too fat for the good-looking guys but too pretty for the ugly ones.” Subtle, right? My parents have always viewed me as “fat,” which does wonders for the self-esteem.
Then there’s the sage advice I’ve received over the years: “You’re intimidating. Maybe play dumb so men won’t feel threatened.” Imagine being told your intelligence is the problem, as if shrinking yourself is the key to love. Spoiler: it’s not.
So, why am I single? Because I’ve seen what settling looks like, and I refuse to play a supporting role in a poorly written drama. My dating history may read like a collection of comedic errors, but it’s also been an education. I’ve learned to value myself—not as a consolation prize, but as the lead in my own story.
And until the right co-star comes along, I’m happy waiting. After all, the best love stories take time to write.
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