All day, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I should be doing something. But in reality, I couldn’t bring myself to do anything at all.
I wondered if just opening a blank note and pouring out my thoughts might help. On a day like this, with the wind blowing so hard, I wished the uneasiness swirling inside me would be swept away too.
I keep asking myself—Am I missing something? Am I the only one falling behind? That kind of anxious doubt ends up paralyzing me.
Maybe it’s the vague anxiety about the future, and the weight of words like “relationship” and “marriage” that’s been hitting harder lately.
After ending a five-year relationship, I’ve been single for over a year. In the beginning, the freedom felt incredibly liberating. For the first time in my life, I seriously asked myself: Am I really someone who can compromise?
I used to judge my friends who were obsessed with getting married, picking people apart based on looks, job titles, and education. I thought, Aren’t you asking for too much?
But looking back now, I think they were right. They knew what they wanted in a partner, and they made real efforts to find someone like that. Even if they didn’t end up with their “ideal,” at least they tried. Looking back, I was wrong.
One evening not too long ago, I came home to a pitch-dark apartment after work. I blurted out loud, I'M LONELY. And that single thought snowballed: I have no one. That turned into a sense of urgency, and that urgency eventually chipped away at my confidence.
Since then, I’ve been saying yes to blind dates, joining social gatherings—doing my best to “try,” even if it’s a little late. And I’ve learned something about myself: I’m surprisingly good at first meetings.
Whether it’s a blind date, a casual drink, or a meetup with total strangers, I’ve never not gotten a follow-up. But even with that, getting to the point where it turns into a real relationship has been incredibly hard. It's like I can open doors—but can't seem to walk through them with someone else. Everyone’s so cautious now that it feels impossible for two people to start off with the same level of interest.
Throw in all the other real-life obstacles, and March has felt heavier and more overwhelming with each passing day. And today, that weight became something tangible—pressing down hard on me.
Where are people even supposed to meet others after turning thirty? How does one even start dating again? Everything just feels so unclear.
I thought I’d be a more “put-together woman” by now. But what once came so easily in my twenties now feels impossibly hard. And all those feel-good words like “experience” and “wisdom”—they’re useless when things get tough like this.
Still, I tell myself: Fate isn’t something I can control. So at least let me work on the things I can. I try to set small goals and write them down, but they spiral too quickly—growing bigger than I can handle. Before I know it, the pressure is already clinging to my shoulders.
Even so, I’ll go home after work tonight, try to breathe, and from tomorrow, I’ll start again—small, quiet, and steady. Doing what I can do.
I don’t know if tomorrow’s me will be strong enough to carry the weight I’m feeling today. But I hope she will—because I’m counting on her.