Im forty now and twice in my life, I was a hairs breadth away from marriage. It wasnt because I didnt love. In both cases, I realised that tying the knot would mean losing a piece of myself.
Im a solicitor specialising in international law. My life revolves around airports, hotels, video conferences, and meetings with clients in various countries. It took many years to reach this level of stability. I worked fourteen-hour days, studied on trains and planes, slept in departure lounges, cancelled holidays. I didnt come from privilege; everything I have, I built entirely on my own.
When I met my first fiancé, I was thirty-four. He was a surgeon, already established in Manchester, with his own private practice and neatly ordered routines. The early days were intoxicatinglate-night chats, weekend breaks, cross-country visits to see each other every month.
Eight months in, he proposed at a fine restaurant. He took out the ring in front of everyone. I said yes, shed tears, embraced him, and phoned my mum that night. The reality, though, kicked in soon after. He started talking about when you move here, when you stop travelling, when you find something steadier. Never once did he ask if I wanted to uproot my life. He simply assumed I should mould myself to fit his world.
One evening, in his flat, while he pored over his hospital rota, I sat on the sofa, staring at my calendar full of flights and appointments. It dawned on me: if I married him, Id become the doctors wife, not the woman whod carved out her own path. Two months later, I returned his ring. We both cried. It hurt deeply, but regret isnt something I feel.
The second time around was quite different. At thirty-seven, I literally met him at Heathrow Airport. He was an airline pilot. We struck up a conversation about a delayed flight, ended up sharing a meal in another city. He was considerate, witty, and as constantly on-the-go as I was. After a year together, he proposed. This time, there was no glitzy restaurantjust a hotel room, after a long journey. I accepted, for the first time feeling genuinely understood.
But things quickly turned strange. Mood swings, silent phones, deleted messages, questionable explanations about flights that didnt match his published schedule. One day, a woman contacted me from an unfamiliar number. She didnt say much, but hinted at details only someone close would know. I had no legal proof, no photos. Still, I started connecting dotshis disappearances, small fibs, evasive replies.
One evening, in my flat, I asked him straight out. He denied everything, looked me squarely in the eyes, swore I was imagining it. That night I made my decision. I called off our engagement without drama or shouting. I told him I couldnt marry someone I no longer trusted.
Now, at forty, I know Im not at the simplest age to have children. Yet theres no panic in me. I have my work, my rhythm, my journeys, my home, my quiet evenings. I dont feel hollow. I dont feel incomplete.
People sometimes ask if I regret not marrying. I always say one thing: I would have regretted marrying for compromise or betrayal.
Ive no idea what the future holds. But Im at peacea lesson I wish Id learnt earlier, that the life I built is enough, and I dont need to surrender myself for anyone else.
