I’m forty years old, and twice I found myself on the brink of marriage. Not because I lacked love, but because, in both cases, I realised saying I do would mean losing a piece of myself.
Im a solicitor specialising in international law. My life revolves around airports, hotels, virtual conferences, meetings with clients in different countries. It took me years to reach this sort of stability. I worked fourteen-hour days, studied while travelling, slept in departure lounges, cancelled holidays. I didnt come from wealth; everything I own, Ive earned myself.
When I met my first fiancé, I was thirty-four. He was a surgeon, well established in Manchester, with his own practice and a routine life. At first, everything was exhilaratinglate-night conversations, weekend trips, plans to see each other every month.
Eight months into the relationship, he proposed to me in a fancy restaurant, pulling out a ring in front of everyone. I said yes, shed tears, hugged him, called my mum that night. But reality soon stepped in. He talked about, when you move here, when you stop travelling, when you find something more settled. Not once did he ask if I wanted to relocate; he simply assumed Id fit myself into his world.
One evening in his flat, while he checked his hospital schedule, I sat on his sofa staring at my diary, filled with flights and appointments. It struck me that marriage would mean becoming the doctors wife instead of the woman whod built her own life from scratch. Two months later, I returned his ring. We both cried. It hurt, but I have no regrets.
The second time was different. I met him at thirty-sevenliterally at Heathrow Airport. He was a commercial pilot. Our first chat about a delayed flight ended with dinner in another city. He was considerate, funny, always jetting around like me. A year later, he proposed, not in a swanky restaurant but in a hotel after a long flight. I accepted, feeling for the first time that someone understood my pace.
But then odd things started happening. Changes in his mood, phones on silent, deleted texts, excuses for flights that didnt match his public schedule. One day, a woman messaged me from an unknown number, dropping hints only someone close could know. I had no proof, no photos, but the facts slowly lined uphis absences, the small lies, vague explanations.
One evening in my flat, I confronted him directly. He denied everything, looked me in the eye and swore I was imagining things. That night, I made my choice. I broke off the engagement quietly, without drama. I told him I couldnt marry someone I no longer trusted.
Now, at forty, I know biologically Im not in the easiest phase for starting a family. Yet, I dont live in fear. I have my career, my pace, my travels, my home, my quiet evenings. I dont feel empty. I dont feel incomplete.
People sometimes ask if I regret not getting married. My answer is always the same: Id only regret marrying for the sake of compromise or betrayal.
I dont know what the future will bring. But Im at peace.
