The Loneliness of Being Single at 52 (And Why I Chose It)

I've been married twice. Both marriages failed. Now I'm single by choice—and it's the best decision I've ever made. Even when it's lonely.

I've been married twice. Both marriages failed. And for a long time, I carried that as proof that something was fundamentally wrong with me. I was unlovable. I was too difficult. I was too anxious, too sensitive, too much. If I could just be different—calmer, easier, more "normal"—someone would stay.

Here's what I know now, at 52, that I wish I'd known at 32: I'm not the problem. Relationships are hard for me because the performance of partnership is exhausting. The constant negotiation. The sensory sharing of space. The expectation to be emotionally available on demand. The way someone else's presence in my home—even someone I love—drains my battery instead of charging it.

I am single now. By choice. And I am much, much better out of a relationship than in one.

That doesn't mean it's never lonely. It is. Sometimes the loneliness is acute—a sharp ache in my chest when I see couples doing ordinary things together. Sometimes it's a low hum in the background, the awareness that there's no one to share the small moments with. No one to tell about the funny thing that happened. No one to bring me tea when I'm sick. No one to notice if I'm struggling.

I live alone—well, in a rented room in a shared house, which is its own kind of alone. My door is locked. My space is mine. I eat alone, sleep alone, navigate panic attacks alone. There's no warm body beside me at 3am when my heart is racing. There's no one to reach for in the dark.

And yet. I choose this. Every single day, I choose this.

Because the alternative—being in a relationship—was slowly destroying me. The performance of being a "good partner" required so much masking, so much energy, so much suppression of my own needs. I was constantly managing someone else's emotions, someone else's expectations, someone else's presence in my space. I was never fully myself. I was always performing a version of Jennie that was easier, calmer, less demanding. And it was exhausting.

Now, when I close my door at night, I can finally exhale. There's no one to perform for. No one to manage. No one whose needs I have to anticipate. Just me. My weighted blanket. My travel kettle. My cold cup of tea. My own nervous system, finally allowed to just... be.

The loneliness is real. I don't want to pretend it isn't. But there's a difference between being lonely in a relationship—feeling unseen, unheard, unknown by the person beside you—and being lonely on your own terms. The first kind of loneliness is a wound. The second kind is just... a fact. A neutral fact. Sometimes sad, yes. But not a wound.

I've learned to meet my own needs. I make my own tea. I comfort myself through panic attacks. I celebrate my own small victories. I've built a life that fits me—a small life, by some standards. A rented room. A locked door. A website I built myself. A community of people who get it. It's not what I imagined at 22. But it's mine. And it's enough.

If you're single at this age—whether by choice or by circumstance—I see you. I know it's not always easy. The world is built for couples. The questions—"are you seeing anyone?" "why are you still single?"—are exhausting. The assumption that you must be lonely, must be looking, must be incomplete without a partner. It's all exhausting.

But here's what I want you to know: you are complete. Right now. Exactly as you are. A partner won't complete you. A partner won't fix you. A partner, if you choose one, should add to your life—not fill a hole you've been told you have.

I'm not against relationships. If the right person appeared—someone who understood my need for space, for quiet, for a locked door and a lot of alone time—I'd be open. But I'm not looking. I'm not waiting. I'm not putting my life on hold until someone arrives to make it "complete."

My life is already complete. Messy. Anxious. Sometimes lonely. But complete. And I'm finally, slowly, learning to believe that.

Anxiously Ever After is written by me, Jennie, a 50-something-year-old single woman who chose solitude over performance. I live in a rented room with a locked door and a lot of peace. I'm not waiting for anyone.