SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

SINGLE AT 37:
AM I HAPPY?

SWATI SHARMA
Copyright © 2025 Swati Sharma

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9798283000701
 DEDICATION

To every woman who has ever felt the pressure to conform,

to every soul who has questioned their worth based on
societal expectations, and to my younger self, who finally
learned to love the beautiful, messy, and utterly imperfect
woman I am today. This journey wasn't easy, but it was
worth every tear, every struggle, every moment of self-doubt
that led me to this place of unwavering self-acceptance. This
is for you. This is for us.
SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?
 CONTENTS

PREFACE

INTRODUCTION

SECTION 1 - WHEN SILENCE SHAPED MY

STORY

1 CHAPTER 1: THE PRESSURE COOKER OF 1

EXPECTATIONS

2 CHAPTER 2: HOW IT ALL BEGAN - THE 5

SEEDS OF COMPARISON

3 CHAPTER 3: THE UNSPOKEN REJECTION 11

SECTION 2 – CHASING VALIDATION: THE

COST OF SUPERFICIAL LOVE

4 CHAPTER 4: REINVENTING MYSELF FOR 18

THE WRONG REASONS

5 CHAPTER 5: THE HARSH REALITY OF 24

SUPERFICIAL LOVE

SECTION 3 - BREAKING FREE &

EMBRACING MY TRUE SELF

6 CHAPTER 6: LEARNING TO ACCEPT 30

MYSELF COMPLETELY

7 CHAPTER 7: UNLEARNING THE IDEA 38

THAT ‘MARRIAGE = HAPPINESS’

8 CHAPTER 8: CHOOSING A CAREER THAT 45

FEEDS MY SOUL
 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

SECTION 4 – LOOKING BACK, LOVING

FORWARD

9 CHAPTER 9: HOW TO CHOOSE YOUR 50

PARTNER (BEYOND BUTTERFLIES AND
INSTAGRAM CAPTIONS)

10 CHAPTER 10: A LETTER TO MY YOUNGER 60

SELF
 PREFACE

For years, I lived my life according to a script that wasn't

mine. The script whispered promises of happiness found in
marriage, motherhood, and the seemingly perfect life
showcased on social media. A life that, for me, felt more like
a pressure cooker than a sanctuary. I was a high-achieving
woman in her late twenties, yet the unspoken judgment
surrounding my unmarried status weighed heavier than any
professional accomplishment. This book isn’t about finding
a husband; it’s about the journey of reclaiming my life, my
narrative, and my definition of happiness. It's a deeply
personal exploration of the societal pressures placed on
women, the crushing weight of expectations, and the
transformative power of self-love. I hope my story will
resonate with you, offering comfort, validation, and a
roadmap for navigating your own unique path toward self-
acceptance. Because the truth is, there is no one-size-fits-all
script for a fulfilling life; your story is uniquely yours to write,
and it’s time to claim your pen.
 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

INTRODUCTION

If you had asked my younger self where

I’d be at 37, I would’ve answered without
hesitation: happily married, thriving in a
stable career, maybe even raising a couple
of kids. That was the dream—or so I
thought. It was the script handed down
by society, the one we’re all expected to
follow: finish school, earn a degree, land a
respectable job, find the right partner, get
married, and live happily ever after.
I bought into that promise, believing that
by 30, I’d have it all figured out. But life
rarely unfolds according to plan.
Today, at 37, I am single—not tragically,
not regretfully, but powerfully. This isn’t
the life I once imagined. In many ways,
it’s better. But arriving here took pain,
doubt, and a lot of unlearning.
For years, I carried the invisible weight of
expectations—those of society, family,
and most crushing of all, my own. When I
 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

began my search for a life partner, I was

met with rejection, criticism, and shallow
judgments. Some dismissed me instantly.
Others picked apart my appearance. Even
those who showed interest seemed more
concerned with how I looked than who I
was. So, I tried to change—I worked on
my health, my looks, everything I thought
would make me more “desirable.” But the
more I shaped myself for others, the
more I hollowed out my own identity.
Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of
me.
In trying to be “chosen,” I forgot I had
the right to choose. But then came a
shift—slow, quiet, powerful. I stopped
trying to fit into a mold that never fit me.
I started asking hard questions: What if
being single isn’t a failure? What if it’s
freedom? What if happiness isn’t found in
being chosen by someone else, but in
finally choosing yourself?
That realization changed everything.
It’s not that marriage is wrong—it can be
beautiful, transformative, even
miraculous. But only when it’s with
 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

someone who sees you, respects you, and

loves you beyond the surface. Without
that, marriage is just another item checked
off a list that was never yours to begin
with.
In letting go of the pursuit of validation,
I found something infinitely more
valuable: myself.
This book is the story of that journey. A
raw, personal reflection on what it means
to unlearn everything we’ve been taught
about love, timelines, and worth. It’s
about the quiet struggles we face when we
don’t fit society’s mold—and the power
in choosing not to.
Whether you’re single, coupled, or
somewhere in between, this book is for
you. It’s a reminder that you are already
whole. That love—true love—starts with
choosing yourself. And that marriage
should only happen when you're ready
and when you’ve found someone who
deserves you, not someone who merely
checks a box.
 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

SECTION 1

WHEN SILENCE SHAPED MY

STORY
 CHAPTER 1
THE PRESSURE COOKER OF
EXPECTATIONS

Thirty.
That number seemed to follow me everywhere. It hung in
the air like a shiny but slightly threatening presence—at every
family event, every casual work chat, every random catch-up
with a well-meaning friend. It didn’t feel like just a number
anymore; it felt like a ticking timer, counting down on some
invisible scoreboard that society uses to measure success. And
apparently, I was behind.

It started out subtly. A quick glance when someone

mentioned a wedding. A polite, but clearly pointed, question
about my relationship status from Aunt Poonam. Quiet
whispers during family dinners about how I should start
“finding the right one.”

So there I was—walking through this emotional minefield

of being endlessly single—when Aunt Poonam decided to
show up with her usual brand of not-so-subtle questions. “Oh
dear, still unattached, I see,” she said sweetly, her eyes sparkling
with that mix of fake concern and thinly hidden excitement.
She lived for these moments—when she could dig for gossip
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 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

under the guise of caring. “You know, your cousin Isha just got
engaged. She’s, what, five years younger than you? Time really doesn’t
wait for anyone, does it?”
I felt the weight of her words. Every one of them felt like
a quiet little jab aimed at my supposedly falling-apart love life.
Aunt Poonam, as always, didn’t stop there. She kept going, her
sarcasm disguised as concern. “You know, dear, it’s not like we
don’t want you to be happy. We just want to make sure you’re not, you
know... missing out on life’s biggest joys.”
I could picture her fiddling with her pearl necklace, a smug
little smile curling at the edges of her lips. “After all, we wouldn’t
want you becoming one of those sad, lonely spinsters, would we?” She
said it gently, but she knew exactly where to twist the knife.
And right on cue, the murmurs from the rest of the room
began—relatives whispering just loud enough to be heard.

“Maybe she’s too picky,” someone said quietly.“Or maybe she’s

just not trying hard enough,” someone else added. And there I
stood, feeling like I was under a spotlight—like some kind of
specimen for everyone to analyze.

My love life—or lack of it—was the main topic of the

evening, once again. What they didn’t know was that my clock
wasn’t ticking for a wedding. It was ticking toward something
much bigger—my own timeline, one that had nothing to do
with what they expected.

The pressure didn’t come in dramatic waves. No one stood

in front of me shouting, “You should get married!” or “You’re
falling behind in life!”
It was softer than that—more quiet, more subtle. But in
some ways, that made it even harder to fight. It showed up in
everyday conversations. A friend showing me pictures of her
wedding outfit, her eyes glowing with excitement. A colleague
chatting about how her kid just started school and how fast
they’re growing up. A cousin laughing over the chaos of family
life—school pickups, birthday parties, parent-teacher
meetings.

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 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

None of them said anything to make me feel left out. But

I still felt it. There was a silence that followed whenever I
shared something about my life. A polite nod. A quick change
of subject. Or worse—just that awkward pause. And in those
little moments, something unspoken hung heavy in the air:
“You should be here too.”
“You should be doing this.”
“You should have this by now.”

It was everywhere—woven into small talk, TV shows,

family dinners, social media scrolls. And even when no one
said it out loud, I felt it deeply.

At first, I told myself I was imagining things. That no one

really cared what I was doing with my life.
But over time, the weight of those small, everyday
reminders started building up.
And inside me, there was this constant tug-of-war. On one
side was my own truth: I wanted something different. I wanted
a life that was slow, thoughtful, meaningful. A life built on
intention, not timelines. I didn’t want to tick boxes just
because everyone else was. I wanted to choose—freely,
consciously, wholeheartedly. But on the other side, there was
this heavy cloud of expectation.
What will people think?
Am I disappointing someone?
What if I regret this later? Even when I was alone—
especially when I was alone—I couldn’t escape those
thoughts. I’d sit in my room after a long day, trying to relax.
But instead of feeling peace, I’d start replaying conversations.
Was that a judgment in their tone?
Did they pity me?
Did I sound defensive when I said I wasn’t planning
anything yet? The quiet moments that were meant to give me
rest became filled with overthinking, anxiety, and self-doubt.

And this was the part no one talked about—the loneliness

of making different choices. The exhaustion of constantly

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 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

justifying your path, even if only in your own head.

I wish I had the guts to scream and say this back then -
“I’m not lost. I’m just not walking the same road as you. That
my life isn’t delayed, it’s just unfolding differently. That I’m
not waiting for something to start—I’m already living it. Fully.
Deeply. In my own way.
I wanted to say that I’m not afraid of commitment, I’m just
more committed to knowing myself first. That I’m not behind,
I’m just not in a race. And that choosing peace, growth, and
alignment over pressure isn’t settling—it’s actually freedom.”
(I wish!)
I wasn’t unhappy with my life. But I was deeply tired—
tired of carrying the invisible weight of trying to be someone
I wasn’t, just to make other people feel more comfortable with
my choices.

That’s the thing about unspoken expectations. They don’t

shout, but they linger. They sit with you in the quiet moments,
filling up space where peace should be. And if you’re not
paying attention, they begin to shape your decisions—subtly,
silently—more than your own desires ever do. At some point,
I had to ask myself: Where did all this pressure begin?

How did I learn to care so much about fitting in, meeting

timelines, and living up to silent standards no one ever clearly
set?

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 CHAPTER 2
HOW IT ALL BEGAN - THE SEEDS OF
COMPARISON

Some of my earliest memories feel like old movie clips—

some clear and bright, others a bit faded around the edges. I
didn’t grow up with a strong sense of purpose or a big plan for
who I was supposed to be. Like most kids, I was just living—
curious, wide-eyed, taking everything in without really thinking
about where I fit in.

Life back then was simple. Most days started with the smell
of chai in the air. My mom would be busy in the kitchen while
my dad sat with the newspaper, often shaking his head at the
news. The ceiling fan hummed above us, neighbors chatted in
the distance, and I could hear the sound of kids running to
school outside. Those small sounds were the background of
my childhood.

School was a routine—clean uniforms, neatly written

notebooks, and teachers who were sometimes kind,
sometimes strict. I wasn’t the best student, but I wasn’t a
troublemaker either. I just blended in. I did okay, nothing that
made me stand out.

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 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

But I remember the first time I really felt what comparison

felt like. It wasn’t because of something harsh or obvious. It
was more subtle—a pause, a small glance, a quiet sigh from
my parents when someone else’s child did something special.
That was the moment something shifted. I started to wonder
if just being me was enough.

Back then, I didn’t understand the pressure or the

expectations that no one really said out loud. I just noticed that
the praise, the claps, the excitement—always seemed to go to
someone else. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to do something
great. I just hadn’t figured out what that “something” was for
me yet.

But childhood wasn’t only about quiet comparisons. It was

also full of little moments that made me happy—lazy Sunday
afternoons watching cartoons, the excitement of getting an
extra five-rupee note to buy ice cream from a roadside cart,
the cozy feeling of reading a book while it rained outside.
There were friendships built over sharing lunch boxes and
whispering secrets in class. There were dreams inspired by the
stories I read—stories that made me believe there was
something bigger out there, beyond the narrow streets I was
used to.
I grew up believing that life would unfold in a
straightforward way—study hard, get a job, build a
future.That’s the plan I saw everyone around me follow, the
one passed down from one generation to the next. It felt safe,
and I trusted it. I believed it was the right way to live.

Little did I know, the journey ahead would challenge every

expectation I had ever carried.

The Classroom Realization

The classroom was filled with excitement as the teacher

handed out report cards. Students leaned over their desks,
whispering and comparing their marks. Some smiled with
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 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

pride, others sank into their seats. I sat quietly, looking at the
numbers on my paper. It was decent, but nothing special.
"Wow, Priya got full marks again," someone said, and the
room filled with admiration.
I looked at her—Priya, the girl who always came first. She
sat up straight, confident, her face glowing with the pride of
always being the best. A few classmates leaned over to
congratulate her; their voices full of praise.
I looked back at my report card. My grades were fine.
Good, even. But good wasn’t great. Good wasn’t enough to
turn heads.
I stuffed the paper into my bag before anyone could ask.

Stuffing the paper into my bag before anyone could ask, I

focused on the ticking clock above the blackboard, counting
down the minutes until I could leave.

That evening, the smell of dal and freshly made rotis filled
the dining room as I sat across from my parents. My father, as
usual, split his attention between his plate and the news playing
on the small TV in the corner, shaking his head at the
headlines. My mother, in between bites, asked casually, “So,
how were your results?”
I hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering.
“Good.”
She waited, expecting me to elaborate. When I didn’t, she
turned to me with a raised brow. “How good?”

I could feel the weight of their expectations pressing

against me. Clearing my throat, I told them my marks, careful
to keep my voice steady.
My mother gave a small nod—neither approving nor
disappointed. Just… neutral. But that neutrality said enough.
"Priya topped again," I added, as if addressing the elephant in
the room before they could.

My father didn’t look up. My mother simply sighed, picking

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 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

up another piece of roti.

“You need to work harder,” she said before returning to her
meal. It wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t cruel. But it sat in my chest like
a stone.

Later that night, I stepped onto the balcony, trying to get

away from the silent pressure inside the house. The night air
felt cool against my skin, and the city below hummed softly. I
could hear distant car horns, quiet conversations, and an
occasional dog barking.
I leaned on the railing, looking out at the world. The
streetlights cast long shadows on the road, where a group of
kids played cricket under the flickering light of a street pole.
In the distance, I heard the ring of a bicycle bell, followed by
the sound of an old Bollywood song playing from a radio.

I thought of Priya, of my classmates, of all the times I had

been told to "work harder." What did that even mean? Was
there some secret formula to being exceptional? Or was I just
not meant to stand out?

The questions swirled in my head, unanswered. I looked

up at the sky, dark and vast, wondering if life had more to offer
than this quiet race for approval.
A single thought whispered in my mind: Is this all there is?

I didn’t have the answer. But deep down, I knew

something had to change.

That feeling didn’t disappear as I got older. It was like a

shadow that followed me everywhere—always there, just
behind me—even as I stepped into adulthood. I remember
standing on stage at my school farewell, the crowd cheering,
my family smiling proudly. I should’ve felt happy, but instead,
there was a voice in my head quietly saying, “What if you can’t
live up to this? What if this is the best it ever gets?” It felt like
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 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

the applause was just a short break before the next wave of
doubt hit me.

In college, I thought I could silence that voice with good

grades and certificates. I spent late nights buried in textbooks,
running on coffee and stress. When I did well in a tough exam
or got an award, I’d feel a short burst of happiness—like a bit
of sunshine breaking through. But as soon as that feeling
faded, the shadow came back. It reminded me that those wins
were only temporary. “What will you do after college?” it
would whisper. “What if you can’t keep this up when real life
begins?”

Then came my first job, which I thought would be exciting.

But the moment I stepped into the office, I knew something
felt off.
Rows of desks, people typing away, serious faces staring at
screens—everyone looked busy, focused. I found my seat and
tried to settle in, but I didn’t feel like I belonged.
The work was dull to me. I wasn’t curious about it, so I never
tried to learn beyond what was necessary. Because of that, I
made mistakes. Sometimes small ones, sometimes big ones.
My mind wandered, and I struggled to focus.

I could tell that my lead and my teammates noticed.

The Harsh Comment

One afternoon, during a meeting, my lead was explaining

something important. He moved quickly, showing us how
things worked.
I tried to follow, but my mind felt slow. The words didn’t
make sense, and soon, I was lost.

Before I could ask him to repeat, he turned to my colleague

and said, loud enough for me to hear— "Isko samajh me thoda
kam aata hai kya?" (Does she understand things a little less?)
It wasn’t meant to be cruel, but it hit me hard. My colleague
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 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

gave a small smile, not sure how to react. I sat there,

pretending I didn’t hear it, but inside, I felt embarrassed.

I wanted to say something—I’m not dumb, I just don’t care

about this work. But I stayed quiet. Because deep down, I
knew he wasn’t wrong.

All these small experiences quietly settled into my mind,

and without even realizing it, they started showing up in my
behavior. No matter how good I looked, whenever I went
out—to the mall, a party, or any event with friends—I would
always notice other girls who seemed prettier, better dressed,
more confident.

And just like that, I would start comparing myself. I’d

think, “My hair doesn’t look as good,” or “My laugh sounds
weird,” or “I don’t look as put together.” Even when I had put
in so much effort, I still felt like something was missing. I was
always thinking about what I could fix or improve to feel
better about how I looked.

That constant pressure to be “good enough” stayed with

me—and slowly, it began to affect how I saw myself in
relationships too.

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 CHAPTER 3
THE UNSPOKEN REJECTION

As I moved through the world of dating with this mindset,

it got harder and harder to truly see people for who they were.
Instead of thinking about things like shared values or real
connection, I kept worrying about how to show only the best
version of myself. I was scared that if I let my guard down or
showed any weakness, I’d be rejected again. I tied my sense of
self to how others saw me. Every compliment felt nice for a
moment, but it didn’t last—it just covered up a deeper hurt
inside me.

I didn’t see that relationships are complicated and depend

on many things beyond just someone’s worth—things like
timing, chemistry, or shared goals. Instead, I took every
rejection personally. I saw each one as proof that I wasn’t good
enough. It started to feel like a cruel game where the rules were
unfair from the start. The more I looked for approval in
relationships, the harder it became to find. And every time
someone pulled away or lost interest, it only confirmed the
story I had started to believe: that something was missing in
me.

It was a Saturday evening, and I was sitting across from

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him at a rooftop café, with the city lights flickering behind us.
The air was cool and carried the smell of the rain from earlier
that day. I had been looking forward to this date—he seemed
nice over text, even funny. But the moment I walked in and
saw the small shift in his eyes, I knew.

It wasn’t about what he said—it was about what he didn’t.

He was polite and asked me about my day, but there was
something distant in his voice, like he had already made up his
mind. I tried to ignore that feeling, laughed at his jokes, kept
the conversation going. But every time I looked at him, his
eyes didn’t stay—they moved around, like he was searching
for something he couldn’t find in me.

The whole time, it felt like I was the only one making an effort
— talking more, trying to connect, trying to learn about him.
But he seemed distant, like he wasn’t really all that excited
about the conversation. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it,
but something about the way he responded just didn’t match
the energy I was putting in.

We decided to take a short walk outside the cafe, and while we

were walking, I tried to keep the conversation going, hoping
something might click. But he didn’t seem very engaged. It was
like I was the one doing all the work, and he was just there,
going through the motions. Finally, when he dropped me off
at my place, he said, ‘It was nice meeting you.’ That’s when it
hit me — I just knew. There wasn’t going to be a second date.
And I was right.

A few days later, his texts got shorter, and then stopped
completely. I understood what that meant. I told myself it
didn’t matter.
That he wasn’t really my type anyway. But deep down, a quiet
voice asked—Was it something about me? Was it how I
looked? I hated that I even let that thought in. Hated that I
gave a stranger so much control over how I felt about myself.
But in that moment, it was hard not to.

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That night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I kept replaying

the evening over and over in my head. I was afraid of being
rejected, and my mind was filled with all the worst possible
scenarios.
Looking back, it felt like I was preparing myself for
disappointment before anything even happened. And just like
they say—you attract what you constantly think about—that’s
exactly what unfolded.
A notification lit up my phone. "Had a great time, but I
don’t think we’re a match. You’re amazing, though!"
I stared at the message, expressionless. You’re amazing,
though. The polite rejection wrapped in a compliment, as if
softening the blow would make it sting less. I wanted to ignore
it, pretend I didn’t care, but my fingers moved before my brain
could catch up. "No worries. Wish you the best!"

The moment I hit send, a wave of frustration washed over

me. Not at him, but at myself. At how easily I had absorbed
rejection like it was proof of something—proof that I wasn’t
enough. I had always told myself that confidence came from
within, that I shouldn’t let anyone else define my worth. But
in moments like these, that belief felt shaky. Because no matter
how strong I tried to be, part of me still longed to be chosen.

The Matrimony Search That Shattered Me

I still remember the day my parents sat me down to discuss

marriage seriously. It wasn’t a demand, but an expectation—a
quiet understanding that this was the next step in my life. At
first, I approached it with optimism, believing the process
would lead me to someone who valued me for my personality,
ambitions, and shared values. But I was unprepared for the
reality that awaited me.

The Café Meeting

It was a warm afternoon when I agreed to meet a prospective
groom and his family at a café. My mother had spent the
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morning coaching me on the finer details of etiquette: “Sit

straight,” “Smile more,” “Don’t talk too much, but don’t be
too quiet either.” I nodded along, trying to suppress the
growing anxiety in my chest as I selected my outfit—a simple
yet elegant kurta that I hoped would strike the perfect balance
between traditional and modern.

When I arrived at the café, his mother greeted me with a polite

smile, but her eyes scanned me from head to toe in a way that
made me feel like I was being evaluated. Her son sat beside
her, scrolling through his phone without even glancing up. I
tried to shake off the unease and focus on making a good
impression. We exchanged pleasantries, and then his mother
began what felt like an interrogation. Mother: “So, what do you
do for work?”

Me: “I’m a software engineer at a firm.”

Mother: “That’s good. The IT Sector is booming these days.” She
paused and added, “Do you plan to continue working after marriage?”
I hesitated for a moment before answering.

Me: “Yes, I’d like to. But of course, I’d also prioritize family
responsibilities.” She nodded approvingly but quickly moved on
to other questions—about my cooking skills, hobbies, and
even how often I exercised. Her tone was polite but clinical,
as though she were ticking off boxes on a checklist.

Meanwhile, her son barely looked up from his phone. His

disinterest was palpable, but I decided to try engaging him
directly. Me: “So, what do you do in your free time?”
Son: Without looking up “I watch cricket.” I smiled and tried
again.
Me: “Do you play as well?”
Son: shrugging “Sometimes.”

The rest of the meeting was equally one-sided. His mother

dominated the conversation while he remained detached and
uninterested. By the end of it, I felt drained but hopeful that

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perhaps they would see beyond appearances and consider who

I was as a person.

The Words That Broke Me

Later that evening, my parents received feedback from

their family. My father’s voice was calm but tinged with
disappointment. Father: “They said she’s nice… but they were
expecting someone slimmer.”
Those words echoed in my mind like a broken record:
someone slimmer. It wasn’t just rejection—it was being
reduced to my physical appearance as though nothing else
about me mattered. All my achievements, personality, and
dreams—none of it seemed relevant.

I couldn’t stop replaying those words in my mind: “We

had someone slimmer in mind.” The sting of rejection wasn’t
just about being turned down—it was about being invisible to
people who didn’t even try to see beyond appearances. That
night, as I stood in front of the mirror in my room, tears welled
up in my eyes. The house was quiet except for the faint sound
of television from the living room where my parents sat
discussing other proposals. But all I could hear were those
words: “someone slimmer.”

I stared at my reflection for what felt like hours—

scrutinizing every inch of myself with a critical eye. My hands
instinctively moved to smooth down my kurta over my
stomach as though hiding something shameful. For the first
time in years, I hated what I saw staring back at me. Me
(whispering): “Why wasn’t I enough?”

The question hung in the air unanswered. My mind raced

through every interaction during that meeting—the polite
smile from his mother that never quite reached her eyes; his
disinterest; their checklist of expectations that seemed
impossible to meet. I thought about all the effort I had put
into presenting myself—the carefully chosen outfit, the

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practiced answers—and how none of it mattered because they

had already decided that I didn’t fit their mold.
As tears streamed down my face, frustration bubbled up
inside me—not just at them but at myself for letting their
judgment affect me so deeply. But no matter how much I tried
to push it aside, the sting of rejection lingered like an open
wound.

Standing there before the mirror that night—my reflection

blurred by tears—I knew one thing for certain:
I had to change something in me here.

16
 SECTION 2

CHASING VALIDATION: THE COST

OF SUPERFICIAL LOVE

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CHAPTER 4
REINVENTING MYSELF FOR THE
WRONG REASONS

I wish I could say my decision to change came from a place

of self-love, but that would be a lie. The truth is, it didn’t spring
from some empowering realization that I deserved better or
that I was worthy of love just as I was. It wasn’t about health,
confidence, or even happiness. It was about one thing—being
chosen. The moment I believed that I wasn’t getting matches
because of my looks, a singular thought took root in my mind:
if I wasn’t being selected, then I would change my looks. It
seemed simple enough.

At first, the changes were subtle—small tweaks that felt

manageable and even exciting. I began switching out my
wardrobe, trading in older pieces for more trendy items that I
hoped would attract attention. I started watching beauty
tutorials online, fascinated by the transformations that could
be achieved with just a few strokes of makeup. Experimenting
with different products had now become a new hobby; each
application felt like a step toward becoming the version of
myself that might finally catch someone’s eye.

But soon, what began as innocent adjustments spiraled

into an obsession. I found myself scrutinizing my face in the
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mirror for hours, analyzing every perceived imperfection like

a critic assessing a work of art. Each blemish, every uneven
feature became magnified in my mind, feeding the relentless
cycle of self-doubt. I dove deep into researching skincare
routines that promised flawless, glowing skin, convinced that
achieving this ideal would somehow unlock the door to
acceptance.
As I immersed myself in this quest for transformation, I
started noticing the way women who received attention
dressed, walked, and spoke. It was as if I was conducting an
informal study on beauty and desirability. Every detail
mattered; from the cut of their dresses to the confidence in
their stride, it all seemed like a formula I needed to crack. The
more I observed, the more it became clear that I wasn’t just
trying to improve—I was trying to become someone else
entirely. Someone who would finally be enough in the eyes of
those who had rejected me.

Then came fitness. What had once been a source of

numbness and despair transformed into a powerful motivator.
The rejections that had stung so deeply now fueled my
determination at the gym. Each time I replayed a man’s
dismissive comment in my mind, it ignited a fire within me,
compelling me to push harder. I found myself in the weight
room, counting each rep with a fierce resolve—one more rep,
one more kilometer on the treadmill, one more skipped meal.

This wasn’t about embracing a healthier lifestyle or

cultivating strength; it was about something far more
insidious. It was about shrinking myself—literally and
figuratively—molding my body into something more
palatable, something that wouldn’t be dismissed so easily. I
envisioned a version of myself that would finally command
attention and approval, one that would silence the critical
voices echoing in my head.
As I worked out, I became hyper-aware of every inch of my
body, every curve and contour. The gym became both a
sanctuary and a battleground—a place where I could channel

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my pain into physical exertion. With every drop of sweat, I felt

like I was shedding layers of rejection, sculpting myself into an
ideal that I believed would finally make me worthy of love and
acceptance.

But as the days turned into weeks, the line between

motivation and obsession began to blur. The numbers on the
scale became my new measure of self-worth, and each
workout session turned into a relentless pursuit of perfection.
I pushed through fatigue and soreness, driven by the belief
that if I could just reach this arbitrary standard of beauty, then
maybe—just maybe—I could escape the cycle of rejection that
had haunted me for so long.

In this quest for transformation, health took a backseat to

appearance. Skipping meals became routine; I convinced
myself it was discipline when in reality it was desperation. My
focus shifted from nurturing my body to punishing it for not
fitting into the mold I had created in my mind. Every time I
felt the burn in my muscles or the rush of endorphins from a
workout, it was tinged with an underlying anxiety—a fear that
if I didn’t keep pushing, if I didn’t keep striving for that elusive
ideal, then I would remain invisible.

Fitness had become less about empowerment and more

about proving something to those who had rejected me. It was
a misguided attempt to reclaim control over my self-image by
transforming my body into something that would finally earn
me validation.

The Aha but not so Aha moment

I still remember the night I got ready for my friend’s

birthday party.

I finally had the confidence to buy that dress I’d always

scrolled past online—sure it was too “fancy” for someone like
me. Slipping it on, my heart felt like it might burst with
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 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

excitement. I sat at my little vanity, followed an easy YouTube

tutorial for my makeup, and curled my hair until it bounced
softly around my shoulders. When I looked into the mirror, I
felt a warm rush of pride—I really liked what I saw.
As I walked into the party, compliments started to trickle
in, and with them came a wave of validation I had longed for.
Friends told me I looked stunning, some even asked if I’d lost
weight or changed my skincare routine. Their words made me
smile, and for a moment, I felt like I had finally arrived—like
all the hard work I had put into transforming myself was being
noticed and appreciated. It felt good. Really good.
Relatives, who had once sighed and exchanged knowing
glances at my single status, now beamed with pride, telling me
how much better I looked. Their words felt like a warm
embrace, a reassurance that my efforts hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Colleagues began to comment on my appearance too, casually
asking if I had lost weight, their approval wrapped in
seemingly innocent remarks. Each compliment was like a
small trophy, a tangible reminder that I was finally being seen.

And then, finally, the attention from men started to pour

in. Men who once dismissed me now acted as though I had
suddenly become interesting, intelligent, worthy. But I knew
the truth—they weren’t noticing me, they were noticing the
body, the face, the carefully curated version of myself I had
constructed. And the worst part? I let them. I entertained
conversations, agreed to dates, and soaked in the validation as
if it could fill the void inside me.

I remember the moment vividly—the first time a man who

had once ignored my existence suddenly began to pay
attention. He was someone I had met months ago in
Toastmasters, back when I was still the ‘before’ version of
myself. Back then, he had barely acknowledged me; I was just
another face in the crowd. But now, as if some invisible switch
had flipped, he lingered in conversations with me, leaned in
closer as we spoke, laughed at my jokes with genuine interest.
It felt surreal to have him notice me after all this time.

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In that moment, I should have felt triumphant. I should have

felt like I had won some unspoken battle against rejection and
invisibility. Yet, as his attention enveloped me, all I felt was a
deep, unsettling emptiness gnawing at the edges of my
happiness. It was as if the very thing I had worked so hard
for—the validation and recognition—was now tainted by an
uncomfortable truth.
Instead of basking in the glow of his interest, I found myself
questioning everything. Did he truly see me for who I was
now? Or was he simply drawn to the surface changes—the
new clothes, the makeup, the body that had been molded into
something more acceptable? The thought sent a shiver down
my spine. This attention felt like a double-edged sword; it
brought with it a sense of accomplishment but also an
overwhelming fear that it was all built on a façade.
As he laughed and engaged with me more than ever before,
I couldn’t shake the feeling that this newfound connection was
fragile—built not on who I truly was, but on the changes I had
made to appear more likable, more attractive, more "worthy."

On the surface, it felt like a win. The compliments, the

attention, the validation—they all came pouring in. But inside,
the emptiness only grew louder. The joy I expected to feel
never truly arrived. And in that quiet discomfort, I realized
something painful: even though the world had finally started
noticing me, I still felt invisible.
The transformation that was supposed to bring acceptance
left me questioning everything. Was this really who I wanted
to be? Was this what connection was supposed to feel like—
conditional, surface-level, transactional?

Now, don’t get me wrong here. I’m not saying looks don’t
matter. They do. Working on yourself—whether it’s your
appearance, your health, or your confidence—is powerful. It’s
a form of self-love. And in many ways, I did start to feel better
about myself. I started treating myself with more care, more
softness. But here’s the part no one tells you: once you become
conventionally attractive, you have to become even more

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cautious. You start to wonder—Do they like me, or just the

way I look? Are they listening, or just watching? And the real
clarity comes only when you meet someone who isn’t just
drawn to your appearance, but actually wants to know you—
your thoughts, your stories, the things you care about.
Someone who doesn’t treat you like an image, but like a
person. That’s when you realize how often you’ve felt seen,
but not really known. How easy it is to feel alone, even when
everyone’s looking at you.
I could see their intentions clearly—who genuinely cared and
who was only interested in the packaging. That’s when it hit
me. This wasn’t love. Not the kind I had always longed for.
This was something else. Something fleeting, surface-level,
and hollow.
This was the harsh reality of superficial love.

23
 CHAPTER 5
THE HARSH REALITY OF SUPERFICIAL
LOVE

CHEMISTRY IS NOT COMPATIBILITY

I learned that the hard way. For the longest time, I couldn’t
see past a good-looking guy’s charm. If he had the right smile,
the right words, the right aura—I was instantly pulled in. It felt
like connection, like something meaningful. But in reality, it
was just surface-level spark. Attraction without alignment.
After my own transformation—after I started feeling better
about how I looked—it was as if someone had handed me a
new lens. Suddenly, I could see what I had missed before. All
those moments where I had mistaken excitement for depth.
Where I had confused someone’s attention with affection. The
truth hit me hard: I wasn’t really seeking love.
I was seeking self-worth.
I was hoping that if someone found me desirable, it would
somehow validate my existence. That if I was chosen, it would
mean I was finally enough. My desire for love had become
tangled with a deeper longing—to feel good about who I was.
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But when I started receiving that attention I had once craved,

it didn’t bring peace. It brought clarity. And for the first time,
I saw it for what it really was—the deceptive nature of
superficial love.
It looks like connection.
It feels like validation.
But it rarely stays when the packaging is peeled back. And
that’s when I realized: chemistry fades. Compatibility is what
holds.
And no amount of external validation can fill the space
where self-worth is supposed to live.

The Social Media Illusion – Are They Really

Happy?

It’s incredibly easy to feel low when scrolling through

social media, especially when you’re single or struggling in
your relationships. The endless stream of happy couples
posting their romantic vacations, anniversary celebrations, or
even casual date nights can make you feel like you’re falling
behind in life. I’ve been there—sitting on my couch, phone in
hand, watching the world seemingly move forward while I felt
stuck.
It usually starts innocently enough. You open Instagram to
kill some time, maybe to check out a meme page or look at a
friend’s story. But then the algorithm does its magic, and
suddenly your feed is filled with couples. There’s the picture-
perfect shot of a couple holding hands on a beach at sunset,
captioned with something like “My forever ”. Then there’s the
engagement post—her hand adorned with a sparkling
diamond ring as he smiles beside her. And finally, the
anniversary slideshow: “Three years with my best friend and
soulmate.” And you think: “Wow, they look so happy. Why does it
feel like everyone has someone except me?”

You try to brush it off and keep scrolling, but the feeling
lingers. It’s not just envy—it’s a deep sense of inadequacy. You
start comparing yourself to them.
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But are they really happy? It’s a question that started as a

whisper in my mind.
So, I decided to dig deeper. To not just believe the picture,
but to understand the story behind it.
What was really going on behind those dreamy travel vlogs,
anniversary captions filled with heart emojis, and couple dance
trends that seemed to scream we're perfect? Was it all as
effortless and joyful as it looked? Or was there something
carefully constructed beneath the surface?
I started by paying closer attention—not just to what
people were posting, but how they were posting. I noticed the
frequency of couple posts always went up around major
holidays, birthdays, or right after public fights (if you
happened to know them personally). I noticed the way
captions became more performative over time, filled with
poetic declarations and hashtags about “forever,” while their
real-life interactions grew quieter, colder.
I couldn’t help but question: Is this genuine celebration, or silent
compensation?
That curiosity led me into research papers, psychological
studies, and firsthand accounts. What I found was both
fascinating and heartbreaking.
A study published in the Journal of Personality and Social
Psychology suggested that couples who constantly post about
their relationship online may be seeking reassurance more than
expressing happiness. Another research by Hootsuite revealed
that 1 in 3 people admitted to posting happy couple
content while privately going through major relationship
struggles.
I even stumbled upon therapy discussions where
relationship counselors shared patterns they’d seen—how
couples in crisis would show up with a picture-perfect
Instagram feed but couldn’t make eye contact in the waiting
room. How some partners admitted to feeling pressure to
maintain their online “image” of love, even when they felt
emotionally distant at home.
Then there were the stories from individuals—anonymous
threads, heartfelt blog posts, confessionals from influencers

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who eventually opened up.

One woman wrote, “We looked like couple goals online, but we
were roommates with matching outfits. The phone saw smiles; the house
held silence.”
These stories cracked something open in me. They made
me realize how easy it is to conflate visibility with authenticity.
Social media has turned relationships into performances—
where the applause comes in the form of likes and comments,
not quiet, intimate understanding. Where success in love is
measured by how beautifully a proposal is filmed, not by how
well two people communicate or grow together.
And somewhere in all this noise, we’ve lost the truth: that
real connection is quiet. It doesn’t always photograph well.
Sometimes it looks like staying in during an argument, not
storming out. Sometimes it’s not pretty at all—but it’s real.

I wasn’t just learning about others. I was learning about

myself. About how often I had envied a picture, unaware that
behind the frame could be loneliness, resentment, or
unspoken pain. About how often I had judged my life’s
progress by someone else’s carefully chosen square on a feed.

It became clear to me—what I was chasing wasn’t love. It

was the idea of love, as sold to us in pixels and filters.

Rising Divorce rates

The more I uncovered, the more I felt a pull to dig even

deeper... to understand the real pain behind the growing
number of broken marriages - and what I discovered was
unsettling, but not surprising.
A 2019 Psychology Today article reported that people tend
to make initial romantic decisions based 80% on physical
appearance, especially in online dating scenarios where bios
and values are easily overlooked.
We are choosing lifelong partners based on fleeting
attraction and visual appeal—and ignoring the deeper
alignment of values, communication styles, emotional
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maturity, or shared visions for the future.

What’s more interesting? - A 2022 study from Pew
Research found that communication breakdown, lack of
emotional connection, and unmet expectations were
among the top reasons for divorce—not infidelity or financial
struggles as often assumed.
When we choose partners based on how they look, how
they dress, or how they photograph—rather than how they
think, how they cope with hard days, or how they handle
silence—we’re building bonds that are skin-deep.
It’s not that physical attraction doesn’t matter. Of course,
it does. But it can’t be all that matters.
The harsh truth is: we’re taught to chase validation, not
connection. We’re trained to look “dateable,” but not to be
emotionally available. We glorify external beauty, but rarely
cultivate inner alignment.
And in doing so, we mistake attention for affection, and
chemistry for compatibility. Being pretty opened many
doors—but none of them led to real intimacy.
That only comes when someone sees you without the
packaging and still wants to stay. And the more I looked
around, the more I realized: many of us are chasing the wrong
things… and wondering why it keeps falling apart. Because no
one tells you that looking the part won’t save you from feeling
lonely.
No one tells you that performing love is not the same as
receiving it. And no one prepares you for that quiet ache—the
one that follows every moment you’re praised for how you
look… but never really seen for who you are.

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 SECTION 3

BREAKING FREE & EMBRACING

MY TRUE SELF

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CHAPTER 6
LEARNING TO ACCEPT MYSELF
COMPLETELY

FLAWS DON’T MAKE US UNWORTHY. THEY

MAKE REAL.

For the longest time, I believed self-acceptance was

something that would come after I became a better version of
myself—after I fixed my flaws, achieved more, looked better,
or became someone worthy of admiration. I thought self-love
was a reward, something I had to earn. But I was wrong. Self-
acceptance isn’t about becoming perfect. It’s about embracing
imperfection—seeing every flaw, every insecurity, every past
mistake, and saying, “I still choose myself."

Facing My Own Judgment

The hardest part of self-acceptance wasn’t dealing with

what others thought of me—it was dealing with what I
thought of myself.
My inner critic was relentless, constantly pointing out what
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I lacked, what I wasn’t doing right, and how I wasn’t enough.

I had unknowingly spent years collecting reasons to not accept
myself.
Every time I compared myself to someone more
successful, more attractive, more accomplished, I reinforced
the idea that I needed to be better before I could be at peace
with myself. I began to see that most of my harsh self-talk
wasn’t really mine—it came from the world around me. From
magazines, movies, and comments about how a
“perfect” body or flawless skin should look.

I also noticed something important: I knew so many

women who didn’t fit those narrow standards—some carried
extra weight, others had blemishes or wore simple clothes—
and yet they walked into a room radiating confidence. Why?
Because they were raised to believe in themselves from an
early age. Their environments taught them that worth isn’t tied
to appearance, but to who they are inside.
I also learned to accept that you can’t please everyone, and
not everyone in this world will like you. You could be in a
room with ten people—maybe five of them will like you,
maybe all 10 will, or maybe all 10 won't like you. And
that’s perfectly okay. You don’t need every single
person’s approval to know your own worth.

All these realizations helped me become self-aware. I

started paying attention to all that I’d been telling myself since
childhood—“You’re not enough,” “You must look perfect,”
“You need more success to matter.” Those messages had
nestled deep into my subconscious and shaped how I felt
every day.
Once I recognized that my inner critic was just echoing other
people’s expectations, I made a choice. I stopped using those
impossible standards to judge myself. Instead, I practiced
kindness.
I started small. Instead of skimming self-help books, I’d pick
one exercise each day—and actually do it. One morning, that
meant writing three things I appreciated about my life right

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now (no “I’m grateful for being thin”—but “I’m grateful for
my resilience, my curiosity, my kindness”). Another day, I
paused mid-scroll on social media and asked, “What am I
really feeling?”—then let myself sit with it for a minute,
breathe it out, and move on.
One night, during a journaling exercise on self-judgment, I
caught my pen hovering over the page. The prompt said,
“Write down every flaw you see in yourself.”
My hand itched to fill the page with criticisms, but I
stopped. Instead, I wrote one sentence: “These aren’t flaws—
they’re threads in the tapestry of who I am.” It felt bold,
almost silly. But writing it out cracked something open. I
began asking better questions.

- Would I speak to a friend the way I spoke to myself?

- Why did I believe these old labels—"too quiet," "too

sensitive," "funny laughter"?

- What would happen if I chose to see those parts not

as flaws, but as me?

Embracing My “Flaws”

True self-acceptance meant making peace with the things I

once tried to hide.
I remember how often people would call me too
emotional—whether I teared up at a heartfelt movie scene, got
excited over small joys, or felt deeply for someone else’s pain.
It used to make me self-conscious, like I needed to toughen
up or suppress what I felt.
But as I started embracing even this side of myself,
something shifted. The next time someone said, "You’re too
emotional," instead of shrinking or explaining, I simply smiled
and said, "Yes, and I love that about myself."
At first, people were surprised. Some laughed, some
paused, but I didn’t feel the need to justify anymore. I had
stopped seeing my emotions as a weakness. Instead, I saw
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them for what they truly were—a sign of my depth, my ability

to feel, and my capacity for connection.
And that was something worth celebrating, not hiding.
When that old voice whispered, “You don’t measure up,” I
gently reminded myself, “I’m doing my best, and that is
enough.”
In social settings, I used to feel like my laughter was too
boisterous, my opinions too strong. I would often hold back,
trying to blend in with the crowd. However, as I began to
embrace my true self, I realized that my exuberance brings joy
to those around me.
For instance, during a recent gathering with friends, I
shared an animated story about a trip I took. Instead of the
usual self-doubt creeping in, I felt liberated as everyone
laughed and engaged with my energy. It dawned on me that
being “too much” was simply being authentically myself.
I used to dread making mistakes; they felt like failures
looming over me. But now, I've come to understand that each
misstep is merely a lesson in disguise. One memorable mistake
was when I mismanaged a project at work due to poor time
management. Initially, I felt defeated and embarrassed.
However, upon reflection, I recognized it as an opportunity to
improve my organizational skills.

Since then, I've implemented strategies that not only help

me manage my time better but also allow me to support
colleagues who face similar challenges.

As I started accepting myself more and more, I had another

powerful realization—my looks were never the problem.
I had always been good enough. It was the constant
negative self-talk and inner criticism that made me feel
otherwise.
That mindset was pulling me into the wrong situations and
attracting the wrong people. But once I became aware of it, I
also began to understand my energy better.
I started making intentional choices to protect it, so I could
stay true to who I really am.

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Choosing Right People

I started noticing how drained I felt after spending time

with some people, as if I had to perform or edit myself to fit
in. Conversations revolved around gossip, complaints, or
shallow validation. If I shared a dream or an idea, it was met
with skepticism or indifference. If I spoke about my struggles,
I either felt dismissed or compared to someone who had it
“worse.” And then, I contrasted that with the rare moments
when I felt at home—the conversations where I could pause
and think before speaking, where I didn’t have to prove
anything, where I felt encouraged instead of subtly criticized.

Choosing the right people wasn’t about cutting everyone

off or making grand declarations about removing “toxic”
people from my life. It was a quiet shift—one where I simply
started noticing who made me feel lighter, who made me feel
more like myself.

I gravitated toward the ones who:

Listened without making me feel like a burden.

Encouraged my dreams instead of poking holes in them.

Celebrated my uniqueness instead of subtly suggesting I

should be “different.”

And just as importantly, I started stepping back from those

who made me doubt myself, those whose presence required
me to shrink, filter, or constantly seek approval.

At first, it felt uncomfortable—choosing differently meant

breaking patterns I had lived with for years. But over time, I
realized that when you surround yourself with the right people,
self-acceptance doesn’t feel like an uphill battle—it feels like a

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natural response.
I wasn’t looking for people to complete me. I was looking
for those who allowed me to be fully myself. And once I
started choosing them, everything changed.

Learning to Shut Out Societal Noise

I was in a conversation that felt way too familiar. The

person I was talking to was, once again, giving me advice I
didn’t ask for—telling me what they thought I should be doing
with my life. They meant well, but it felt more like they were
planning my life for me, without really knowing what I wanted.
Normally, I would’ve tried to explain myself. I would’ve
gone into detail, trying to help them understand where I was
coming from. But this time, I didn’t.
Instead, I just stopped. I smiled, nodded, and let them talk.
I didn’t agree, but I also didn’t argue. And honestly, that felt
like such a relief.
I realized I didn’t need to respond. I didn’t need to
convince them of anything. I didn’t even need them to
understand. Their opinion didn’t have to shape my choices.

For a long time, I had been worrying way too much about
what other people thought. I wanted people to approve of my
decisions. I wanted them to understand my path. But that kind
of thinking kept me stuck. It made me second-guess myself. It
made me feel like I had to live their version of my life, not
mine.
But in that quiet moment, I realized something important:
other people’s opinions are just that—opinions. They’re not
facts. They don’t define me. And I don’t have to carry them
around like they’re mine.

That realization gave me a kind of freedom I hadn’t felt

before. I could finally breathe. I could make decisions based
on what I want, not what others expect from me.
From that day on, I started choosing myself more. Not out
of rebellion, but out of peace. I stopped trying to be

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understood and started focusing on being true to myself.

Because at the end of the day, I’m the one living this life—not
them.

I redirected My Energy Like It Was Currency

Now, I spend my energy where it actually counts—no

more wasting time on things or people that leave me feeling
drained or unseen. I’ve learned to be intentional about where
I give my attention, because energy is not unlimited, and I’m
done running on empty. I pour into work that lights me up—
projects that challenge me, inspire me, and make me feel like
I’m building something meaningful. I’m no longer trying to
prove anything to anyone. I’m simply doing what feels aligned
with who I am. And just as importantly, I make time for rest.
Not just sleep, but real rest—the kind that brings me peace,
helps me reset, and reconnects me to myself.
Rest is no longer something I feel guilty about; it’s
something I protect.
No more emotional over drafting.
No more giving out of guilt, fear, or habit.

These days, I give from a full cup—or not at all.

Practicing Compassion

Learning to accept myself also involved practicing self-

compassion. I had to remind myself that it’s okay to make
mistakes and that no one is perfect.
When I faltered or faced setbacks, instead of berating
myself, I learned to treat myself with kindness and
understanding.
This practice has been incredibly liberating; it allowed me
to forgive myself and move forward without carrying the
weight of guilt or shame.
Today, acceptance is not a destination but a continuous
journey. There are still moments when self-doubt creeps in,

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but I now have the tools to combat those feelings.

By acknowledging my flaws, shifting my perspective,
embracing vulnerability, practicing self-compassion, and
celebrating my uniqueness, I have learned to accept myself
fully.
In this journey of self-acceptance, I've discovered that true
beauty lies not in perfection but in authenticity. Each flaw tells
a story; each quirk adds color to the canvas of who I am. And
for that, I am grateful.

37
 CHAPTER 7
UNLEARNING THE IDEA THAT
‘MARRIAGE = HAPPINESS’

“Shaadi ho jaaye toh sab theek ho jaayega.”

(Once married, everything gets fine)

How many times had I heard that growing up?

From relatives, neighbors, even complete strangers—marriage
was always spoken of as the magic solution. The fix-it-all
formula for a woman’s life. No matter what phase you were
in—too ambitious, too quiet, too emotional, too
independent—marriage was the answer. It’s almost funny, if
you think about it.

Not are you happy?

Not are you at peace?
Just—are you married yet? Someone even said it kindly, as if
they were doing me a favor:
"Shaadi toh khushi ka reason hoti hai."(Marriage is the reason for
happiness).
I smiled, out of habit. But inside, I wondered:
Is it really? Because all around me, I could see the cracks
beneath the shiny Instagram reels and family functions.
The friend who got married early and often confided about
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feeling invisible in her own home.

The cousin who did “everything right,” only to realize she had
nothing in common with her husband.
The colleague who wore a mangalsutra to work, but looked
exhausted, carrying both her job and her emotional world
alone. These were real people. Their stories weren’t
dramatic—they were just quiet.
And in their quietness was a truth I couldn’t ignore:
Marriage does not automatically bring happiness. Now, dont
get me wrong here, I’m not saying that one should never get
married, or that marriage is a bad decision, or that it can’t bring
happiness. Marriage can be truly beautiful but only when it’s
with the right person, for the right reasons, and with a heart
that’s ready. What I was beginning to understand was that
happiness was not a guaranteed outcome of reaching a
milestone.
It was something far more personal.
Something that required intention, self-awareness, and
emotional safety—not just ceremony. And yet, society had
sold us the idea that once you get married, you’re done. You’ve
won.
As if it’s a trophy.
As if the rest of your life is just a soft fade into the background
music of contentment. But here’s the thing nobody tells you:

A wedding is a day. A marriage is a lifelong decision. And

happiness?

It’s not in either of those things unless you bring it with you.

I had to unlearn the idea that there’s only one path to joy. That
there’s a “right time” for everything.

I began to understand that success isn’t about ticking boxes—

it’s about creating meaning. And sometimes, that means
slowing down, stepping off the path everyone else is on, and
asking yourself, What actually matters to me?
And here is what I’ve come to realize: being single and

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being lonely are not the same thing.

Loneliness is a lack of connection. Singleness is simply a

relationship status.

You can feel lonely in a room full of people. You can feel
deeply isolated in a relationship where you're not understood.
And on the flip side, you can feel completely whole while
sipping chai alone on a Sunday morning, dancing around your
kitchen, or doing things that make your heart feel full.

The more time I spent with myself, the more I realized I was
never truly alone—I had just never listened to myself before.
I had been so caught up in trying to be someone worthy of
love that I forgot I was already worthy, just as I am. No
performance needed.

That’s the beauty of singleness when you stop seeing it as a

waiting period and start treating it as a season of becoming.

It’s where you meet yourself, again and again, in the smallest
of ways—through choices made for yourself, not in response
to someone else. Through evenings that don’t need to be
“filled” because they’re already enough. Through the slow
unraveling of the belief that your life only begins when
someone else walks into it. And the surprising part?

When you’re no longer afraid of being alone, your energy

changes. You stop settling. You stop shape-shifting. You stop
confusing chemistry with connection and attention with
affection. You start wanting more—not just from others, but
from yourself, from life. Being single isn’t a pause in the story.

It is the story.

One where you get to be the main character. Where the plot
twists are yours to write. And where the ending isn’t about
who you find—it’s about how deeply you find yourself.

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 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

How I handled family and societal pressure

After accepting myself completely and understanding that

marriage doesn’t automatically bring happiness, the next big
hurdle was speaking to my parents—sharing how I really feel
about marriage and asking them to ease off the constant
pressure.
It sounds simple now, but back then, it felt like preparing for
the most delicate conversation of my life.

It wasn’t a dramatic showdown; in fact, it began on a quiet

Tuesday evening—one of those ordinary days that ends up
changing everything.

I had just returned from work, still half-lost in my thoughts

about a content idea I’d been brewing, when my parents called
me into the living room. The air felt heavy—not because of
tension, but because of the weight of unspoken things.
I sat down on the old, familiar sofa, the one with the slightly
sunken seat and that tiny thread sticking out we never
bothered to fix.
In front of me, a small pile of wedding invitations lay on the
coffee table—bright envelopes, smiling couples, ceremonies
scheduled one after another like milestones I was expected to
follow blindly.
I looked at them for a moment. And then I looked at my
parents—two people I loved deeply, who had always wanted
the best for me, but who also carried their own ideas of what
“the best” looked like.
I took a deep breath, feeling nervous but strangely calm, like I
knew this was a moment I was meant to walk through. “Maa,
Papa,” I said finally, my voice steadier than I expected, “I’m not
ready to get married just because it’s ‘time.’ I want to find the right
person—on my own terms.”

There was a long pause. My mother, who had been pouring

her evening masala chai, stilled for a moment. The soft clink

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 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

of the cup against the saucer echoed in the hush. My father

lowered his newspaper, his eyes meeting mine, searching but
not stern.
I braced myself for resistance, maybe even disappointment.
But instead, something beautiful happened. My mother gently
placed the cup in front of me, sat down beside me, and asked
quietly, “Beta, tumhare liye ‘right partner’ ka kya matlab hai?”
(“What does ‘right partner’ mean to you?”)

That one question changed the energy in the room.

It was no longer a confrontation—it was a conversation.
I realized in that moment that what mattered wasn’t arguing
my case or proving a point. What mattered was opening a
window into my world.

So I did. I told them about the marriages I’d seen unravel

around me—not because people didn’t love each other, but
because they hadn’t understood themselves yet.
I talked about how I didn’t want to treat marriage like a
checkbox, but as a sacred, conscious choice.
I explained how my own journey of self-awareness had shown
me that I first needed to be aligned with myself—emotionally,
mentally, spiritually—before I could share my life with
someone else.
And then I told them about what I did want. Not just in a
partner, but in life.
I spoke about my growing love for counseling psychology, the
content I was creating, the kind of impact I hoped to make. I
talked about the peace I felt when I helped someone feel
understood.
About the purpose I had found in learning how to hold space
for others—something I never experienced in my old job,
where I often felt lost and out of place.
I even shared my dreams of travelling, meeting new people,
soaking in different cultures—not just for Instagram
moments, but to really understand myself beyond familiar
boundaries.
They listened. Really listened. And when I was done, my

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 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

father, who’s often quiet and reserved, reached out and gently
held my hand. “Beta, hum tumpe bharosa karte hain. Jab tum ready
hoge, hum hamesha tumhare saath rahenge.”
(“My child, we trust you. Whenever you’re ready, we’ll always
stand by you.”)
Those words settled something deep within me.

It felt like a release—not just of fear, but of the decades of

internalized pressure I didn’t even realize I’d been carrying.

I no longer had to prove myself. I just had to be myself. With

my parents' support, everything else started to feel lighter.
Relatives who once prodded with “Shaadi kab?” became easier
to handle.
I didn’t need to argue or explain—I simply smiled and said,
“Abhi nahi,” and left it at that.

What once felt like judgment now felt like noise—background

static in a life I was finally living on my own terms.

Of course, not every day was perfect. There were still awkward
family gatherings and the occasional nosy comment.

I remember one moment at my cousin’s engagement, when an

aunt leaned in and said with concern-turned-warning, “You
know, your time is running out.” I looked at her, smiled gently,
and said, “I’m exactly where I need to be.” She blinked, a little
startled, and moved on.
That’s when I realized—when your conviction is real, you
don’t need to defend it.
Your peace becomes your quietest, yet strongest, response.

Dealing with family and societal pressure wasn’t about being

rebellious or dismissive. It was about choosing courage over
compliance. It was about trusting my own pace, while also
respecting where others were coming from.

And most importantly, it was about realizing that sometimes,

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the thing we fear the most—like disappointing our parents—

can actually become the doorway to deeper understanding, if
we just speak with honesty and love. Because in the end, when
you stop chasing timelines and start honoring your truth, you
don’t fall behind—you finally catch up with yourself.

44
 CHAPTER 8
CHOOSING A CAREER THAT FEEDS MY
SOUL

In learning to fully accept myself, I also uncovered a deeper

truth—I was never meant to work in IT. It didn’t align with
who I was at my core. This realization was both terrifying and
freeing. Terrifying—because now I could no longer hide
behind the excuse of “maybe it’ll get better.”
Freeing—because I had finally named the emptiness. I had
stopped gaslighting myself into thinking I was just being lazy
or difficult. Once I admitted to myself that my IT job wasn’t
meant for me, a new question emerged: If not this, then what?
But the answer didn’t come right away.
What came first was grief.
Yes, grief—for all the years I had spent trying to fit into a mold
I was never made for. For all the energy I had wasted trying to
prove myself in the kind of work that didn’t excite me. For the
version of me that had believed, “This is what success looks
like.” I remember sitting alone one evening, laptop shut,
phone on silent, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slowly
above me.
There was no dramatic music, no cinematic moment.
Just a stillness that felt honest.
A pause between two versions of myself:
The one who had followed the rulebook.
And the one who was about to burn it. I didn’t have a business
plan.
I didn’t have clarity about what I was meant to do.

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All I had was this stubborn, quiet knowing: I couldn’t keep

living someone else’s version of a meaningful life. But what do
you do when your dreams are blurry, and your paycheck is
stable? At first, I hesitated.
What would people say?
“She left a good IT job? Counselling and content creation?
Arey, that’s just a hobby, na?” But deep down, I knew—if I
didn’t take this leap now, I’d keep building a life that looked
good on the outside and felt empty within. So, I chose courage
over comfort. I gave myself permission to be a beginner again.
I started sharing thoughts online—raw, honest reflections that
came straight from my heart.
To my surprise, people resonated.
Strangers messaged me saying, “This is exactly what I needed to
hear today.”
And in those tiny moments, I began to see the shape of a new
life forming. I also began studying, learning the art of
counselling—not to “fix” anyone, but to hold space, to ask
powerful questions, and to walk beside those who were feeling
lost like I once was. And to my surprise, that was something
which came naturally to me. The more I was counseling, the
more I was feeling at home. It wasn’t glamorous in the
beginning.
No viral posts. No big brand deals. No six-figure dreams.
Just me, a laptop, a notebook, and a whole lot of faith. But
something shifted in me.
For the first time, I wasn’t just working—I was creating.
Not just hustling—I was serving.
Not just existing—I was alive. And let me be honest: It wasn’t
always easy.

There were days I questioned everything. Days I feared

judgment. Days I wondered if I’d made a huge mistake. But
every time someone said, “Your words gave me clarity,” or “Your
session helped me feel seen,”—
I knew I was exactly where I was meant to be. It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t flashy.
But it felt more fulfilling than any LinkedIn badge or

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 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

Instagram like I had ever received. Because this time, it wasn't

about being liked.
It was about being real.
It wasn't about being admired.
It was about being of service. And that changed everything. I
was no longer performing for approval.
I was creating from alignment.
No longer desperate to be chosen.
I had chosen myself. And with that choice came a joy I had
never experienced before.
Not the fleeting joy of achievement, but the steady, soul-deep
joy of belonging to myself. A joy that didn’t depend on who
praised me or how many people noticed. A joy rooted in
meaning, not metrics. I guess that’s what aligning with your
purpose does.
It brings you home.
Not to a destination, but to yourself. And once you’ve tasted
that kind of joy, you can never go back to chasing crumbs of
validation again. How I Show Up in the World Now (Making
Meaning, Not Just Money) Today, what I do is rooted in
meaning, not metrics.
It’s no longer about holding a job title that sounds good on
paper. It’s about waking up and feeling deeply connected to
the work I do, the people I serve, and the life I’m building.
Now, I create content that speaks to the soul—stories,
reflections, and insights drawn from my own journey of
unlearning, healing, and self-discovery.
I speak to those who, like me, never fit into just one box.
I write for the ones who feel too much, too scattered, or too
late.
I coach, guide, and hold space for people who are figuring it
out, just like I am. Sometimes, my work looks like helping
someone reconnect with their purpose.
Other times, it’s having honest conversations about self-
worth, identity, or letting go.
And often, it’s just showing up as I am—real, flawed,
learning—and letting that be enough. I don’t have a fixed
blueprint for success anymore.

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Instead, I have a compass: Does this feel honest? Am I helping

someone feel less alone? Am I growing? So, what I do now is
this:
I create, I connect, I support, I grow—and through it all, I stay
close to who I truly am. Because that is the kind of work that
doesn’t just build a career.
It builds a life.

48
 SECTION 4

LOOKING BACK, LOVING

FORWARD

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 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

CHAPTER 9
HOW TO CHOOSE YOUR PARTNER
(BEYOND BUTTERFLIES AND INSTAGRAM
CAPTIONS)

Choosing a partner isn’t about finding the most exciting

person in the room. It’s about finding the person with whom
you feel most like yourself.

Looking back, after walking through my own journey —

through the maze of confusion, the thrill of attraction, the
ache of heartbreak, and the slow, beautiful work of healing —
here’s what I’ve come to understand. And what I so
desperately wish someone had told me earlier.

1. Choose Someone you don’t feel scared of losing.

The best kind of relationship is with someone you’re

not afraid to lose. Not because you don’t care, but
because you feel secure. That kind of security comes
when you stop seeing the person as perfect or above
you. It’s not just about butterflies or intense
chemistry. Those feelings are exciting, but they come
and go. What truly lasts is mutual respect,
understanding, and ease.
You don’t put them on a pedestal thinking they’re
better than you. You don’t chase their attention or
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feel the need to constantly prove your worth. Instead,

you see them as your equal—someone you can laugh
with, be real with, and share life with, just like you
would with a close friend.
When you treat someone as a friend first, without
pressure or fear, you create space for something
deeper and more honest to grow. And that kind of
connection—the kind where you’re seen, heard, and
accepted for who you are—is where real love begins.

2. Choose someone with whom you feel

emotionally safe

Emotional safety isn’t about living in a bubble where

nothing ever goes wrong. It’s about feeling secure
even when things do go wrong. It’s about knowing
that you can be your raw, unfiltered self—and you
won’t be judged, dismissed, or made to feel small. Let
me paint a picture. Imagine this:

You’ve had an awful day. Maybe work drained you,

maybe an old wound was triggered. You walk into
your home, trying to hold it together, but your energy
is off. You're quieter than usual, maybe a little distant.
In one relationship, your partner might say: “What’s
wrong with you now? Can’t you just be normal for
one evening?” In another relationship—the right
kind—your partner might gently ask: “Hey… I can
tell something’s off. Want to talk about it, or should I
just sit here with you for a while?” That’s emotional
safety. Not having to perform. Not needing to be
“on” all the time.

Being met with presence, not pressure. Another

example: Let’s say you open up about a past
insecurity—something you’ve never really told
anyone before. In the wrong relationship, you might
hear: “That’s weird… why would you even feel like

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that?” But in the right one, you’d hear: “Thank you

for sharing that with me. I’m glad you trust me with
this. I want to understand more if you’re okay talking
about it.” That moment? That space between
vulnerability and response? That’s where emotional
safety lives. It’s not about always agreeing, or never
having arguments. It’s about knowing your emotions
are welcome, that your imperfections don’t make you
“too much,” and that your partner holds space for the
whole of you—not just the polished parts. A partner
who makes you feel emotionally safe is one you can
grow with. Because when you don’t have to protect
yourself from the person you love, you can focus on
healing, evolving, and building something real—
together.

3. Choose someone who shares your core values—

not just your interests

It’s easy to get swept away by surface-level similarities.

You both love coffee shops, road trips, binge-

watching crime thrillers, and have the same taste in
music.
It feels like a match made in heaven, right? But fast
forward a few months—or a few years—and you
might find yourselves clashing on the deeper stuff:
how you handle conflict, what your definition of
commitment is, how you want to raise a family (or if
you even want one), how you view money, personal
growth, or spirituality.

Interests can bring you together. Values

determine if you’ll stay together.

Let’s take an example: Suppose you’re someone who

deeply values honesty and emotional growth.
You believe in talking things out, being transparent

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even when it’s hard, and constantly learning from

your mistakes.
Now imagine you’re dating someone who avoids
confrontation at all costs.
When things get tough, they shut down. When you
bring up something emotional, they change the
subject or say, “Why do you always have to overthink
everything?”
At first, you might let it slide because they make you
laugh or because you enjoy spending time with them.
But slowly, the disconnection starts to show. You
begin to feel alone—even when you're with them.

That’s the difference between shared interests and

shared values. Here’s a healthier contrast: You’re with
someone who also believes in growth and open
communication.

Even if your hobbies differ, your foundation is the

same. When you say, “Hey, something’s been
bothering me—can we talk?” They don’t run. They
stay. They listen.

And even if they don’t fully understand, they try.

That’s the kind of alignment that builds long-term
connection. Shared values are about the deeper
things:

• How you approach commitment

• Your views on loyalty, family, money, and ambition
• How you handle failure and success
• Whether you see relationships as a space for growth
or just comfort

You can always discover new interests together. But if your

values don’t align, you’ll always feel like you're walking in
different directions—no matter how much you enjoy the ride.

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4. Choose someone who respects your individuality

A healthy relationship is not about becoming one

person—it’s about being two whole individuals who
choose to grow together. When you're with the right
partner, you don’t feel the need to shrink to fit into
their world. You don’t have to give up your passions,
friendships, or dreams just to keep the peace.

You are encouraged to be you—fully, freely,

unapologetically. Respecting individuality means they
don’t see your independence as a threat. They don’t
get insecure when you want alone time.

They don’t guilt you for making decisions that are

right for your growth—even when those decisions
don’t revolve around them.

Let’s say you decide to take a solo trip because you’ve

always wanted to travel on your own and reconnect
with yourself.
A supportive partner might say: “That’s amazing! I’ll
miss you, but I’m so proud of you for doing
something that’s meaningful to you.”
On the other hand, someone who doesn’t respect
your individuality might say: “Why do you need to go
alone? What if something happens? Don’t you care
about us?”

The difference is clear: one response is rooted in love,

the other in control or insecurity.

Another example—imagine you get an opportunity to

pursue a passion project or start something new. The
right partner will cheer you on, maybe even
brainstorm ideas with you. They won’t say: “But will
you have time for me?”

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They’ll say: “This lights you up—and I love seeing

you happy. Go for it.” When you feel free to grow, to
evolve, to explore different sides of yourself without
judgment or resistance—that’s when you know you’re
with someone who doesn’t just love you, but respects
you. Because the truth is—you can love someone
and still clip their wings.
But someone who respects your individuality will
never ask you to dim your light just so they can shine
brighter. said—it’s about creating a space where truth
can live.

5. Choose peace over passion (when passion is

toxic)

We often romanticize the kind of love that’s intense,

dramatic, and all-consuming—the kind that feels like
fire. But not all passion is healthy. Sometimes, what
we call "chemistry" is actually chaos in disguise. Yes,
passion can be exciting.

The butterflies, the longing, the highs and lows—they

can feel addictive. But if that intensity comes with
confusion, anxiety, or a constant emotional
rollercoaster, it’s not love. It’s a red flag. Here’s the
hard truth:
If you constantly feel unsure where you stand with
someone...
If you’re always overthinking their words or
behavior... If the "passion" leaves you drained rather
than nourished... That’s not love. That’s emotional
instability dressed up as romance.

Example: You might have felt deeply drawn to

someone who gave you the highest highs—but also
the lowest lows. Maybe they were charming,
spontaneous, magnetic… but also unpredictable,
inconsistent, or dismissive.

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 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

You laughed together, but also cried in frustration.

You felt desired, but not safe. Now contrast that with
someone who brings you peace.

They may not give you the same dopamine rush, but
they give you clarity, consistency, calm.

You don’t have to guess what they’re feeling. You

don’t have to shrink yourself to be loved. You feel
seen, heard, and valued—without the chaos. It’s not
about choosing a boring love. It’s about choosing a
love that makes your nervous system exhale instead
of constantly brace. Because in the long run, the
relationships that last are not the ones that burn the
brightest—they’re the ones that burn steadily, with
warmth, respect, and ease.

6. Choose someone whose actions match their

words
It’s easy to say the right things.
“I care about you.”
“I want something real.”
“You mean a lot to me.”

But words, no matter how poetic or reassuring, mean

very little if they’re not backed up by consistent
action. Love is not built on promises alone. It’s built
on follow-through. It’s easy to fall for someone who
knows how to express themselves beautifully—who
knows the right things to say when you’re upset or
confused.
But the real question is:
Do their actions align with their words?

Example: Maybe they said, “You can talk to me about

anything”—but when you opened up, they brushed it
off or changed the subject.

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 SINGLE AT 37: AM I HAPPY?

Maybe they said, “You deserve to be treated right”—

but then they kept cancelling plans or showing up late
without apology.

Maybe they said, “I’m not like the others”—but you

kept feeling exactly like you were with the others.

When someone’s actions and words don’t align, it

creates emotional confusion. And often, we blame
ourselves for that confusion.
We think maybe I’m asking for too much, or maybe I
misread what they meant.

But deep down, we know the truth: consistency is

clarity. And the people who truly care about you don’t
just say it—they show it, day after day. Choosing
someone whose actions match their words is about
emotional safety, maturity, and integrity. It’s about
knowing that if they say they’ll be there—they will be.
Not because they have to, but because they want to
be dependable. Because in love, reliability isn’t
boring—it’s beautiful.

It builds trust. And trust builds everything else.

7. Choose someone who chooses you—every day

We often think love is a one-time declaration. A

moment. A feeling.

But real love—lasting love—is a daily choice. It’s easy

to feel special in the beginning, when everything is
new and effortless.

But what happens after the excitement fades? After

the routines settle in, and the sparkle of “newness”
gives way to reality?

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That’s when love is tested. And that’s when choosing

matters most.
Choose someone who doesn’t make you wonder
where you stand. Someone who isn’t hot one day and
cold the next. Someone who doesn’t just say you
matter, but shows you—in the way they show up,
listen, care, and make space for you in their life.
Example:
Maybe it's the way they remember the little things that
matter to you.
Or how they make plans with you in mind, not just fit
you into the gaps of their schedule. Not because they
have to. But because they want to. Because you’re a
priority, not an afterthought. And it’s not always
grand gestures—it’s the quiet consistency.
The hand reached out when you feel low. The
supportive message before a big day. The willingness
to work through misunderstandings without shutting
down or walking away.
Because love isn’t just a feeling—it’s a commitment.
It’s showing up, not only when it’s easy, but also when
it’s inconvenient.

So choose someone who doesn’t love you out of habit, duty,

or convenience—but someone who wants to be in it with you,
who chooses you intentionally, fully, and without hesitation,
again and again. Because being chosen once is lovely. But
being chosen every day? That’s the kind of love that lasts.

Here’s the truth:

You are not hard to love. You’re just not meant to settle for
surface-level affection.

You deserve depth. Consistency. Safety. Joy.

You deserve a partner who doesn't just love the idea of you—
but truly sees you, hears you, and wants to build with you.

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And remember, the most important part of choosing a

partner… Is learning how to choose yourself first.

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 CHAPTER 10
A LETTER TO MY YOUNGER SELF
(INSPIRED BY “EVERYBODY’S FREE” SONG)

Dear Younger Self,

I know life feels confusing right now. You’re

probably wondering where it’s all headed,
questioning your place in this vast, chaotic world.

Maybe you feel like you don’t belong, like the

world doesn’t see you or understand you. I want
you to know something important: it’s okay. It’s
okay to feel lost, to feel invisible, or even to feel like
you’re falling behind. These feelings don’t define
your worth—they’re just part of the journey.

You see, every human being is wonderfully unique,

and that includes you. Your quirks, your dreams,
your fears—everything that makes you different—is
what makes you extraordinary. Right now, it might
feel like those differences isolate you, but trust me,
they will one day become your greatest strengths.
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You’ll learn to embrace them, and when you do,

they’ll guide you toward a life that feels truly yours.
So don’t waste time trying to fit into molds that
were never meant for you. Celebrate what sets you
apart—it’s the key to finding your path.

Let me remind you of something: you are

beautiful.

I know there are days when the mirror feels like an

enemy and insecurities whisper lies in your ear.
You might think you’re too fat or too plain or not
enough of something—but those thoughts are not
truth; they’re fear.

Beauty comes in so many forms, and yours is no

exception. You won’t always see it, but others
will—and one day, so will you. And while we’re on
the topic of self-care: please don’t forget to remove
your makeup before bed! :)

Life is full of uncertainties. There are people who

are 22 and still don’t know what they want to do
with their lives—and there are people who are 50
and still figuring it out. You don’t need to have all
the answers right now (or ever). Maybe you’ll get
married; maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll have kids;
maybe not. Maybe heartbreak will find its way into
your life at 30—or even at 50—and that’s okay too.

Life isn’t a checklist of accomplishments; it’s a

journey of experiences. Don’t measure your worth
by what society deems as success. Instead, focus
on living authentically—on being true to yourself.
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Appreciate your body for what it is: an incredible

instrument that allows you to experience the world
in ways no one else can. Dance when no one’s
watching; run just because it feels good; laugh until
your stomach hurts—these moments are gifts that
make life worth living. Don’t let others’ opinions
about how you look or move hold you back from
enjoying them. Their judgments mean nothing
compared to the joy of simply being alive.

Be kind to your siblings—they’re the ones who’ll

walk beside you through life’s ups and downs long
after others have come and gone. Friends will drift
in and out of your life over time, but hold onto the
ones who truly care for you—the ones who see the
real you and love you for it. Those relationships are
precious; nurture them with all the love and
gratitude they deserve.

And if at any point in life you feel like you're

falling short—like you're not hitting those
"perfect" milestones everyone seems so obsessed
with—don’t let regret consume you. Life isn’t a
race where everyone runs at the same pace or
crosses the same finish line. Your journey is yours
alone—unique, unpredictable, and beautiful in its
own way. Comparing yourself to others will only
rob you of joy; instead, focus on carving out a path
that feels right for you.

You are extraordinary in ways the world may not

always recognize—but that doesn’t mean those
ways aren’t real or valuable. If people don’t
understand you or if this world feels foreign and
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unrelatable sometimes, don’t despair. Instead,

create something new—a space where your
authenticity shines brightly enough for others to
see and follow.

And yes—please don’t forget to remove your

makeup before bed!

With love always,

Your Older Self

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Swati is a writer, content creator, and a lifelong student
of counseling psychology who chose to walk away from
the traditional path to carve a life of purpose and
authenticity. After leaving a stable IT job that no longer
aligned with her values, she turned inward—exploring
what it means to live meaningfully, especially as a single
woman in her 30s in a society that often equates success
with marriage.

Through her counselling sessions, she shares honest

reflections on identity, relationships, and personal
growth, creating a space where others can feel seen,
heard, and less alone. With a mix of vulnerability, insight,
and quiet rebellion, she invites like-minded people to
reimagine fulfillment on their own terms.

This is her first book, born from her lived experience

and the stories she once felt too afraid to tell out loud.

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