A few months back, during a funeral, a remark underscored my role as the family’s eternal singleton. While cradling my cousin’s newborn, a relative quipped, “Take a good look at this. Because it’ll be the last time you see Rachel holding a child.” My family and friends turned to gawk, and someone even snapped a photo to immortalize the moment.

It was the first chuckle I’d had on an otherwise gloomy day. That day brought a torrent of comments about my single status. “Aren’t you married yet?” one relative inquired. “They haven’t created the man for Rachel,” another added. “Is that a fact?” I responded.

This year signifies ten years of being single since parting ways with my last serious boyfriend and never looking back. This period has been invaluable for personal insights and growth. Reflecting on the last decade, I’ve gleaned wisdom from heartbreak and experiences that revealed truths about myself. Here are some important lessons I’ve absorbed.

Some individuals feel uneasy around women who decide to remain single. The moment at the funeral is just one of myriad encounters I’ve faced. My extended single life baffles some, yet I’ve devised methods to parry comments and stay unfazed. I remind them they were the ones urging me to “D-U-M-P” my last boyfriend. What exactly do they expect from me?

It’s not solely family. Friends also attempt to rationalize my unattached state, each with their unique theory. “I think I’ve cracked it,” one friend proclaimed. “You just text guys without ever going on dates.” “You’re so strange,” another friend remarked. “It’s just not that important to you right now,” another concluded. The latter assertion is nearest to the truth. But why does my absence of a boyfriend require justification? When was the last time you heard a couple explaining why they’re not single?

I’ve become adept at deflecting inquiries about my single status with clever retorts. “I’ve chosen a life of feminist separatism!” is my current favorite. Mostly, I just chuckle and sip my wine. At a recent family gathering, a younger relative inquired whether the remarks about my lack of a boyfriend upset me. “Oh, I honestly couldn’t care less,” I replied.

Perhaps my single status makes others uncomfortable, but the only viewpoint I value is my own. And I feel entirely at ease with being single.

There’s no ‘if’ or ‘when.’ In my teenage years and twenties, I told myself I’d date once I lost weight. I’d feel good about myself after shedding a few pounds. I believed being slim meant being appealing and “girlfriend material.” Like many women, I absorbed the notion that desirability correlates with thinness. I’ve wrestled with the link between my weight and self-esteem since childhood. In school, I wished to be someone else, to feel confident in my own skin. But those other girls likely faced their own struggles.

Those thoughts lingered, growing stronger. Sometimes they quieted, but there was always a persistent murmur. I attempted to tackle them by restricting my food intake, but the self-worth I craved never materialized. I came to realize that change had to stem from within. My relationship with food has improved now, but those thoughts can still rear their heads.

Loving oneself is challenging yet crucial. A few months ago, I confided these feelings to two close friends. Since my youth, I’d conditioned myself to lead a life dependent upon looking a certain way. “The patriarchy has really messed with us,” one friend said. “One day,” the other added, “you’ll look back at pictures and see how gorgeous you were.” Her words brought me to tears. I’d already experienced that moment of realization, feeling sorrowful that I hadn’t appreciated my own beauty.

As Lizzo said, “It’s so hard trying to love yourself in a world that doesn’t love you back.” Self-love is the most significant relationship we’ll ever nurture.

Alone time is invaluable. An older gentleman once advised me to maximize my writing career while I’m young and free of children. “Because once you have kids, you won’t have time.” I wondered if he’d convey that to a male writer.

A recent piece in the Guardian titled “A woman’s greatest enemy? A lack of time to herself” struck a chord with me. “As I struggled to carve out time for writing, a colleague suggested reading about the daily routines of great artists,” Brigid Schulte writes. “What struck me was not their routines, but those of the women in their lives.” Schulte concluded that creating demands extensive stretches of alone time, something women haven’t had the privilege to anticipate.

Since I was young, I’ve felt anxious someone would urge me to be productive. Even with feminist parents, it takes years to dismantle the notion that writing time is a guilty indulge. I’m not adept at multitasking and susceptible to distractions. As a writer, I require uninterrupted creative solitude. My weekends and evenings are dedicated to writing, with pauses for social interactions. Alone