Single at 30-Something: The Loneliness of Different Timelines

As those closest to me couple up and have kids, I'm experiencing a loneliness in my 30s that I hadn't quite anticipated.

My sister-in-law handed me a bottle of wine with a label reading “I can’t drink this but you can”. 

She and my brother were giving gifts to everyone in the room—my sister, who was 8 months pregnant at the time, her boyfriend, my nephew and my mom. I thought “this is kind of strange. They’re giving me a bottle meant for my sister, but because she’s pregnant she can’t drink it, so they’re giving it to me”....sometimes I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer. 

I smiled and said “thank you”. I love red wine, so I was happy. 

Two minutes later my nephew unwrapped his gift: A T-shirt emblazoned with “cousin”. I looked over at my sister-in-law and said “ooooohhh”, finally clocking the message on the bottle. She was pregnant. It was her that couldn’t drink. 

The whole room erupted into “oh my gods”, big smiles, enthusiastic shrieks and a round of hugs. I was happy for my brother and his wife. At this point they’d been together for 12 years, married for two and we were all keen on seeing a mini version of them. 

But something strange happened that night. I imagined my brother, sister and I were all ships in the open ocean, and suddenly my ship had drifted far away from theirs. 

My sister is with her long-term partner and they now share two kids. My brother is married and just welcomed his first child. I’m single and looking into freezing my eggs. 

While I’m happy for them, there’s grief in not sharing the same realities. 

Partners and Kids Change the Dynamics

Two things can be true at once: you can be happy for your friends and family for finding love and forming families, and you can also mourn that your relationships change. Because they do.

When my loved ones meet their partners or decide to have kids, I’m extremely happy for them. While most of us are equipped and resourceful enough to navigate life on our own, we’re not socially built to. I’m aware that studies show single, childless women are allegedly the happiest group (god knows why I’m so concerned about finding a partner given this) and that we can be socially fulfilled from platonic relationships, but I wholeheartedly believe in romantic partnerships.

To go through life without experiencing a healthy, romantic love seems like a major loss to me. 

I’ve witnessed firsthand my friends and family navigating the cesspit of dating. To see anyone get out of it is cause for celebration (if their chosen partner doesn’t suck, that is) and I’m their biggest cheerleader. But when they make the transition into a committed relationship, there’s an automatic signal to my brain: your relationship will change. 

Weekends are largely reserved for their partners as are holidays, and couple activities ensue—rightfully so. Once kids are added to the equation, you can kiss impromptu coffee catch ups goodbye. Everything is coordinated around nap and feeding schedules and unpredictability of child-rearing. I’ve been privy to many phone calls that abruptly end because one kid starts to cry, or is nagging, or hits their head or suddenly needs food. It’s a relentless cycle of 24/7 attention and I’m not envious of it. 

Most of my friends in serious relationships or have kids could win olympic gold in trying to accommodate seeing their friends. I feel their frustration when they have to re-organise because of kids, have to hang up because of an unhappy baby or have to say “no” to weekend plans because they’re already doing something with their partner where it wouldn’t really make sense for me to tag along. But it gets lonely when most of the people who have always been your go-tos start having lives where you don’t comfortably gel in anymore. 

I understand not being invited. The few times I’ve been part of groups where everyone but me is in a relationship and has kids, I get lost in diaper talk and laugh politely at tales about the nuisances of having kids and terror mother-in-laws. 

I’m sure one day when I’m in the same life lane I’ll find these conversations interesting, but it’s hard to connect when you’re not experiencing the emotions of raising a child firsthand. Romance I can relate to—I know what it’s like to be in love. But when it comes to kids, the best I can do is listen and extend compassion towards the person telling me about all their clothes being stained by baby sick and their lack of sleep. 

Navigating The Loneliness

I’ve struggled with loneliness ever since I left high school, but the loneliness I feel in my 30s is a strange one. It’s not because I don’t have friends—I do—but we’re all at such varying stages of life that there’s a disconnect. It’s a long time since my last serious relationship and I’ve never hit milestones like moving in with someone. I can’t relate to planning a family or actively having kids. Nor can I relate to having to divvy up my time accordingly based on these factors, but I try my best to be compassionate and understanding of those who are in it and act like a sponge, trying to absorb information that will be helpful for when I come to those paths. 

Another sore point of disconnect is that I’ve found that loneliness doesn’t just creep in when your friends start drifting away from you, but when they reinterpret your life from their new vantage point. 

I’ve often encountered that my own struggles are brushed off and invalidated with comments such as “wait until you’re a mom/married/in a relationship”. I have no doubt that your priorities and values change but to invalidate someone’s experiences because you don’t agree with them or your perspective has changed feels like a cheap shot. It also seems to peddle the narrative that until you have kids or are in a relationship, you can’t possibly know what life is like. And with this, I wholeheartedly disagree. There is room for multiple narratives to exist. 

I’ve had conversations with many in their 30s who start to feel like they’re outsiders looking in. There’s usually a practical acceptance that this is just how things are and devoid of any bitterness. One thing we all seem to sensibly do, is try to find new communities where our paths are a little more similar. 

It’s true what they say. Making friends as an adult is hard. Plopping yourself in a room full of strangers is no guarantee that you’ll actually walk out of it with a genuine connection. But, over the last few months, I’ve connected with a couple of women who I seem to align with. 

I can bitch about the woes of dating and singledom without feeling that I’m boring someone who’s made it to the other side of those torrential waters. I can talk about what it feels like to experience your closest friends and family go down paths you can’t yet join them on without feeling that my words are being misconstrued, or that I’m offending anyone.

The Grief 

Getting into serious relationships and having kids open up new social realms that you’re not a part of as a single person. Again, this makes sense, but it can feel like the river of division grows. And I start to panic: Will I ever be able to sit and giggle along at a long dinner table of couples? Will I ever be able to mingle with moms at a kid’s pick up and bitch about tantrums? If I remain single for a long time to come, will people pity me and invite me to sit at these tables or will I be welcomed?

I sometimes envision myself in my 50s, childless and partnerless—going without the latter, admittedly, hits me harder. I’m surrounded by my writing, my music and my books. I’m not unfulfilled because I’ve always had a purpose: to speak truthfully about what it means to be human. But I do think I would be lonely to do it without a witness. 

Only time will tell if my ship will coast closer to my siblings or if I’ll anchor at a different spot entirely.