Im forty years old now, and Ive come perilously close to tying the knot twice. Not because I havent loved. No, its because in both cases, I realised marrying would mean misplacing a little bit of myself.
Im a solicitor specialising in international law. My life revolves around airports, hotels, virtual hearings, and client meetings in a smorgasbord of countries. Its taken years of slog to achieve any semblance of stability. Fourteen-hour workdays, studying on trains, snoozing in airport lounges, cancelling holidaysnone of this was handed to me on a silver platter. My family isnt exactly the sort who keep caviar in the fridge or have a trust fund stashed away, so everything I have, Ive built myself.
The first time I met my fiancé, I was thirty-four. Ben was a surgeon already settled in Manchester, with his own practice, a terraced house, and a calendar so tidy it would make Marie Kondo weep with joy. Initially, it was all champagne and late-night calls, spontaneous weekend trips, grand plans to see each other monthlyeven if Ryanair disagreed.
Eight months in, Ben proposed at a posh restaurant. He whipped the ring out dramatically, and everyone gasped. I said yes, cried, hugged him, and rang my mum the minute I got home. Reality, of course, arrived soon after. Suddenly, it was When you move in here, When you stop travelling so much, When you find something a bit less frantic. Never once did Ben ask if *I* fancied relocating. He assumed, as only the British can, that Id simply slot into his life seamlessly.
One evening, while he was poring over the hospital rota and I was gazing at my diary crammed with flights and client meetings, it dawned on me: marrying Ben would mean morphing into the doctors wife rather than the woman whod built her life brick by brick. Two months later, I handed the ring back. We both sobbed; it was excruciating, but Ive never regretted it for a moment.
The second near-wedding was different. Met him at thirty-seven, literally in the arrivals lounge at Heathrow. Tom was an airline pilot, dashing and globe-trotting like me. Our conversation started over a delayed flight and ended with dinner in Edinburgh. He was thoughtful, witty, and knew his way around an airport. After a year, he proposed. No flashy restaurant this timejust a hotel room after a bad landing. I said yes, because for once I felt someone understood my whirlwind life.
Then the oddities crept in. Mood swings, phones always on silent, WhatsApp chats vanishing, alibis about flights that clashed with the airlines actual schedule. One day, a woman messaged me from an unknown number. She didnt say much, but dropped details only someone close could know. I couldnt prove anythingno photos, no contracts, just suspicions. As I started to piece it all togetherthe disappearances, the fibs, the evasionsit became glaringly obvious.
One night in my own flat, I confronted him. He denied everything, looked me dead in the eye, and swore I was imagining things. That very night, I made my decision. I called off the engagementno shouting matches, no emotional pyrotechnics. Just told him I couldnt marry someone I couldnt trust.
Now, at forty, I know Im not in the prime demographic for 2.4 children and a Labrador. But Im not panicking. I have my career, my tempo, my travel, my home, and my blissfully quiet evenings with a cup of Earl Grey. I dont feel hollow. I dont feel unfinished.
Sometimes people ask if I regret not getting married. I always reply: Id only regret it if Id married for the sake of compromise, or for a betrayal.
Whats next? Who knows. But for now, Im quite at ease.
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