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Here s what I ve learned. | Mashable
Single by choice for over 10 years: the self-love lessons Rachel Thompson learned from not having a boyfriend for a decade. I haven't had a boyfriend for a decade.
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Here's what I've learned. Rachel Thompson is the Features Editor at Mashable. Rachel's second non-fiction book The Love Fix: Reclaiming Intimacy in a Disconnected World is out now, published by Penguin Random House in Jan. 2025. The Love Fix explores why dating feels so hard right now, why we experience difficult emotions in the realm of love, and how we can change our dating culture for the better. I was at a funeral a few months ago when something was said to me that threw my status as my family's perennial singleton into sharp relief. I was holding my cousin's new baby when a relative called out, Get a good look at this. Because it'll be the last time you ever see Rachel holding a child." My aunts, uncles, cousins, and even family friends turned their heads to do precisely as they'd been instructed: have a good gawp at me. Someone even took a photo to memorialise this moment. It was the first good laugh I'd had during what had been an otherwise upsetting day. That was the umpteenth time that day I'd had a comment about my absence of a partner. "Are you not married yet?" one relative asked me during the wake. "They haven't made the man for Rachel," someone else interjected. "Is that so?" I retorted. This year, I'm celebrating 10 years of being single. A decade since I broke up with my last serious boyfriend and never looked back. This time has been an invaluable period of learning and personal growth. That may well sound trite, but I've been reflecting on the knowledge this decade has brought me, the hard lessons reaped in moments of painful heartbreak, the experiences that brought with them unparalleled insights about myself. It's hard to distill 10 years of being boyfriend-free into one article, but I thought I'd share some of the most meaningful lessons I've learned during this time. Some people are uncomfortable around single-by-choice women. The first lesson I learned is twofold. The moment at the family funeral is one of innumerable interactions I've had the displeasure of enduring. In learning that my protracted singledom leaves some people scratching their heads, I also developed strategies for deflecting those comments and feeling decidedly unbothered by them. Need I remind these people that they were the ones instructing me to "D-U-M-P" the last time I had a boyfriend. Like seriously, what do you want from me? It's not just my extended family. I've noticed friends attempting to explain my status as an unattached human, inserting their own narrative each time. "I think I've figured it out," one friend informed me. "You just text guys without ever going on dates with them." "You're so weird," another friend told me. "It's just not a priority for you right now, that's all," another concluded. The latter statement is closest to the truth. But, why is my lack of boyfriend something that requires an explanation or excuse? When was the last time you heard a couple explaining why they're not single? When was the last time you heard a couple explaining why they're not single? I've become very skilled at deflecting the inane questions about my singledom with vaguely witty quips. "I've actually opted for a life of feminist separatism!" is my current favourite. But mostly I just laugh loudly and drink my wine. During a recent family gathering, a younger female relative brought up the comments I get about my lack of boyfriend. "Does it not make you really angry? Because it annoys the hell out of me." The truth is, it really doesn't. "Oh I honestly couldn't give a fuck," was my reply. Perhaps the absence of a boyfriend makes my family and friends uneasy. Perhaps they ponder how this peculiar anomaly ended up in their family. But the only opinion I care about on this particular subject is my own. And frankly, I feel chill as fuck about being single. There is no 'if' and 'when' For much of my teens and twenties I told myself I’d go on a date once I’ve lost weight. I'd feel good about myself once I shed a few pounds. When I'm thin, I’ll be desirable and therefore "girlfriend material". I, like many women and girls, ingested the patriarchal idea that to be desirable means to be thin. I have battled the perilously close relationship my weight and self-worth have had since girlhood. At school, I longed to switch places with someone else. I looked at other girls in my year who carried themselves with an air of confidence. I longed to be them. I yearned to know what it felt like to like the skin you're in. But the truth is, those girls may well have been fighting their own inner battles. Those thoughts didn't go away. They got louder, more difficult to drown out. Sometimes they quietened down, but there was always a low hum thrumming in the background. I tried to address them in the worst way possible — by limiting my food intake. But the self-worth I had promised myself never arrived. I waited for it but it never came. I realised the change didn’t need to come from outside — it wasn’t the flesh on my body that needed to change, but the thoughts within it. My relationship with food is better now. But from time to time those thoughts rear their heads. Loving yourself is hard. But it's the most important relationship any of us will ever have. A few months ago, I uttered some of those thoughts aloud to two of my dearest friends. That since adolescence I'd been promising myself a life that could only be unlocked if I looked a certain way. Like a video game with a level I just couldn't get to. "Man, the patriarchy has really done a number on us," one friend replied. "One day," my other friend cut in.
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