Lately, I’ve been traveling a lot – for work, for projects, sometimes just to breathe. It’s been a season of motion, and while I’ve grown from it, I can see how, in my parents’ eyes, it signals something else: worry.
I’m turning “Almost 30,” as they like to say, soon. No marriage on the horizon. Just their daughter, always on the go, still very much herself. And in their eyes, that starts to look a lot like loneliness.
Last week, my mom finally broke the silence. In a quiet moment, she asked me – gently, carefully – when I planned to settle down. I told her honestly: I don’t think I can anytime soon. Because something’s missing. Or more accurately, some things are. The right foundation. Her reply surprised me: “Maybe you’ll just get too bored one day and marry someone random.”
And for a moment, that thought really stung. Not because she meant it unkindly – she didn’t. But because I’ve seen what that path leads to. Friends who rushed into marriages they thought would fix something or complete them… only to find themselves in the middle of quiet divorces, asking why didn’t it work?
I think part of the problem is that many of us were taught to see marriage as the solution. The final level. The thing that’ll finally make us whole. But the truth is, marriage doesn’t solve your problems. It doesn’t save you from yourself. It doesn’t magically fill the gaps in your heart or your life. And it was never meant to.
I think marriage is not the result of dating; it’s a conscious decision to build a life with someone whose values, pace, and vision align with yours. It’s not what comes after love – it’s what begins when love matures. Dating shows you who someone is; marriage is choosing them, again and again, even after the butterflies fade. It’s not about finding someone to rescue you from loneliness. It’s about finding someone who makes solitude feel less heavy – someone who gets it, and gets you.
When I imagine marriage now, I don’t think of the white dress or the photos or the grand promises. I think of someone I can laugh with when things go sideways. Someone I can share silence with comfortably. Someone who lives in a similar rhythm – or at least respects mine. A “partner in crime.” A mega partner. Not perfect. But compatible in the ways that matter.
Because I don’t want to wake up at 40 wondering why I feel trapped in a life I built just because I was afraid of being alone. I’d rather wait – maybe longer than people expect – and find something that feels real, even if it’s not flashy or fast.
And I want to be able to offer something real too – not just love, but stability. Not just passion, but presence. To know myself enough to know what I can give and what I still need to grow. That takes time. That takes solitude. That takes the kind of peace that doesn’t come from rushing into a relationship just to tick a box.
Marriage, to me, isn’t a destination. It’s a promise to walk with someone – not ahead, not behind, but beside. Through the boring days, the hard months, the shifting years. Through sickness and growth and seasons of doubt. It’s shared meals, shared plans, shared grace when you both mess up. It’s someone who knows how you like your coffee – and knows when you need space more than sugar.
It’s someone who doesn’t just celebrate your wins, but sits quietly with you through your spirals, your indecisions, your big ideas that haven’t landed yet. Someone who doesn’t flinch when your schedule changes for the fifth time in a week, or when you suddenly say, “I’m flying out again next Tuesday.” Someone who understands that your restlessness isn’t avoidance – it’s how you grow, how you learn, how you live.
It’s someone who sees your independence not as a threat, but as a strength. Who cheers you on when you’re building something out of nothing, even if they don’t fully understand it yet. Someone who doesn’t need to be the center of your world – just part of the constellation.
It’s chasing sunsets across different time zones. It’s shared playlists on long train rides, last-minute detours in cities you can’t pronounce, and holding hands in airport terminals. It’s doing things that make you feel alive – not just separately, but together. Opening your world to each other, not shrinking it down to fit a mold.
It’s not needing constant romance, but finding magic in the ordinary: folding laundry together, eating instant noodles at midnight after a long flight, or sitting in silence because words aren’t always necessary. It’s feeling safe enough to be soft, strong enough to be honest, and loved enough to still be yourself.
It’s a deliberate, quiet kind of love. One that doesn’t just say, “I love you,” but also says, “I choose you – even when it’s hard. Even when we’re tired. Even when life doesn’t go according to plan.”
Because in the end, I don’t need someone to complete me. I need someone to walk with me – through the messy middle, the still-unwritten chapters, and the quiet in-betweens. Someone who doesn’t try to hold me back or catch up – just walks, side-by-side.
So no, I’m not in a hurry. Because I’m not looking for someone to save me. I’m looking for someone to build with. Someone who meets me as I am – whole, growing, and still wildly curious about the world – and says, “Let’s do life together. On purpose.”
And if that takes time, so be it. I’d rather get it right than get it fast.
