Who chooses?

The story we absorb—sometimes without even realizing it—is that if you’re single long enough, there must be something wrong with you. Something broken. Something unlovable. The assumption is simple and brutal: if you were worth choosing, someone would have chosen you by now.

Society doesn’t say it outright most of the time. It doesn’t have to. It’s in the weddings and anniversaries we celebrate, in the way people ask if you’re “seeing anyone,” in the quiet relief when someone finally pairs off. Being coupled means you’ve been validated. Being single means… you haven’t.

I know, logically, that this isn’t true. I know life is more complicated than that. I know the narrative is slowly changing.

I know I have a beautiful family. Friends who are generous and kind and supportive. A life that, from the outside, looks full.

But knowing something intellectually doesn’t stop the feeling that sometimes creeps in late at night or in quiet moments. The feeling that says: you’re alone.

There’s no one reaching for you across the couch. No one pulling you into a hug after a long day. Sometimes even the smallest human touch—a hand on your arm, someone leaning into you—feels like something from another life. And underneath it all sits this stubborn, painful thought: no one has picked you. No one has chosen you.

That hurts more than I like to admit.

Still, chosen or not, I’m here.

I tell my parents I love them. I tell my kids how proud I am of them every chance I get. I am completely, ridiculously smitten with my grandson. I manage to get along with my sisters—sometimes well enough to even say nice things about them.

I foster rescue dogs who need somewhere safe to land. I show up in my community. I try, in the small ways available to me, to make the world a little softer for the people and animals in it.

My life matters. Even on the days it feels invisible.

And if my parents are any indication, I’ve probably got a long road ahead of me. Plenty of years left to keep loving my family, spoiling my grandson, and annoying my children.

Maybe somewhere in the next thirty years someone will decide they want to come along for the ride.

And maybe they won’t.

Either way, I’m still here. Still loving. Still trying. Still moving forward.

Even when no one is holding my hand.