What It’s Like to Regret Being in a Relationship For Your Whole Adult Life

Sorry, husband of mine

At eight years old, all I wanted was a boyfriend.

All my friends had boys who would chase them around the schoolyard, buoyed by society’s obsession with projecting romantic notions onto prepubescents.

But I didn’t have a boy chasing me.

I felt left out, ugly, unwanted. I was deep into the idea of Cinderella-style princess love that society loves to peddle to young girls, and I wanted to know why I didn’t have an adoring Prince Charming at my side.

Even at eight.

I was 17 before I entered into a relationship. And between then and now — 22 years — I have been single for a total of six months, all before I was 20 years old.

I fulfilled my societal duty to become a girlfriend, then a wife (albeit not a mother), all by a nice young age. None of this galavanting around single for decades on end.

Job done, apparently.

And yet.

I think I’ve missed out on something. Something big. Something that could have seen me become a rounder, more confident version of myself.

Sometimes, I wish I’d known what it’s like to be a single adult.

Because I have no idea.

Being married is good (at least for me). Knowing yourself is better

Now is about the time in the story I feel like saying don’t get me wrong, I love my husband and I’m happily married. I’m throwing no shade on him here.

It’s true. I do like being married. He’s alright, that Sam Dixon Brown.

But this blustery justification only feeds into societally-approved notions of singledom vs. coupledom — that being part of a couple is the holy grail. We can’t complain because we’re the ones who caught our white whale. And we certainly shouldn’t say insensitive things like I’m jealous of your singlehood!

But honestly, I am a little bit jealous.

If I was being glib, I’d say something like never being single means I’ve never had full control of the TV remote.

But there’s more at stake than TV control here. If you’re in a situation like mine, you’re talking about your very character.

My husband and I are not the sort of couple to spend much time apart. Not because we’re co-dependent — we’re very independent mentally if not physically — more because we enjoy each other’s company and seem to get on better than most.

We’ve owned a business together. We’ve extensively traveled together. We’ve been known to spend every minute of every day together for months on end without thinking too much about it.

It works for us. But it also comes with its challenges.

I think I know myself pretty well, but I only know myself as part of a couple. What would I know about myself if I had spent some time single?

Would I know what independence truly means? Would I get out of the house more? Would I rely on myself to make better, more decisive decisions?

Would I be more confident?

I’d be the first to admit I heavily rely on my husband. I’m nervous about speaking Portuguese and because his is better than mine, he deals with the majority of our everyday interactions here in Portugal. I’m socially awkward with people I don’t know well, so tend to hide behind him and his easy nature.

I constantly compare myself to him and frankly, life comes easier to him, so I often feel like I lag behind.

Perhaps if I’d had the chance to be single after the development of my frontal lobe, I would have had the confidence to find my own footprints without trying to step into my husband’s.

But that’s the funny thing about life. You can only experience one version of it. And for me, that means never knowing single adult life.

You’ll never know what it’s like to be someone you’re not

Every relationship status comes with its advantages that are by design unavailable to someone in a different situation. You can’t truly understand what it’s like to be in a polyamorous relationship if you’ve only ever been in a monogamous one, for instance.

And for as long as I’m with my husband (we’re aiming for 60 years then we might divorce for sh*ts and giggles), I’ll never know what it’s like to be single during my 20s, 30s and beyond.

If you talk to me about one-night stands in your 20s, I can’t relate. Ask me about online dating and I’ll crack some joke about how Tinder wasn’t even a twinkle in the creators’ eyes when I got with my husband.

And if you talk to me about what being single does not only to your independence but to your very being, I can only imagine.

Being in a relationship my entire adult life was just the way it turned out for me, but it could easily have looked entirely different.

After all, it’s not entirely in your control when you meet someone you jive with.

Which is why it’s so unfair that society says there’s something wrong with you if you don’t.

I’m told I want for nothing

Society tells me I got the big prize — the husband.

We still love the idea of coupled-up humans. We reward them with tax breaks, societally-approved baby-making environments and the most tempting offer of all.

Neverending happiness.

Of course, most of us in marriages know that’s complete BS.

Women, in particular, are damaged by marriage. There’s plenty of research to suggest that women are happier single and without children, whilst men are — unsurprisingly — happier having a live-in skivvy (sorry, wife).

I find it unbelievable we still spin the yarn about finding the ultimate fulfillment in your life partner. You only have to look at the massive success of shows like Love is Blind and The Bachelor to see how invested we still are in happily-ever-afters.

There’s even a name for this — amatonormativity. Coined by philosophy professor Elizabeth Drake, this is the widespread assumption that all humans are happiest and best off in a monogamous long-term relationship.

It’s this assumption that makes it feel very weird to lament not having a single life. I feel like society would deem me ungrateful. Selfish. Stupid, even.

I’m none of these things. I just believe that life is best experienced as richly as possible.

And a little bit of independence, especially for a woman, goes a really long way. Independence that — so long as all goes to plan in my marriage — I’ll never have the opportunity to know.

Eight-year-old me got her wish. A boyfriend and eventually, a husband.

No Prince Charming because my husband is a living, breathing 3D male feminist, not a Disney character.

Thirty-nine-year-old me knows that this was not the only way I could have sought happiness and contentment. This version of me understands that there is a lot of value in being single. That perhaps the Disney princess narrative — the one that had a stranglehold on my childhood — is not as perfect as it likes to think itself.

And perhaps I didn’t need to rush into a very serious relationship at just 19 years old.

Then again, that wasn’t entirely in my control. And I’m not about to divorce him because I think the grass is greener being single.

I don’t think that. I just think the grass looks different when you’re on your own.

Times have changed since I was eight. Single no longer means spinster. The sad, single Bridget Jones character is dying. Even if I never got a chance to explore single adult life, others do. And I hope they have a damn good time with it.

They should. Full control of the remote sounds fun.

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