Single, Secure, and a Little Bit Scared

When You Build a Life You Love Alone

There’s a strange thing that happens when you finally start to love your life — not just tolerate it or curate it for others but genuinely love it.

You get a little scared.

Not scared of losing it exactly — though that’s part of it. But scared that after all this time, after all the work, after all the healing and building and quietly starting again… you might have to risk it all again. For what? For someone else. For love.

Let me back up.

I’ve spent the past few years rebuilding. Not just my career or my sobriety or my sleep (though those have all had their own journeys). But rebuilding a life I actually want to live. One that’s structured, peaceful, fulfilling. One that makes sense without needing someone else in it.

And I mean that literally — I live alone. I eat what I want for dinner. I train hard. I used to hang out with my dogs (before they both sadly passed away). I’ve started to build a business that aligns with my values. I don’t have to explain my choices to anyone. There’s no emotional whiplash. No drama. No waking up wondering what version of someone I’ll get today.

It’s bliss.

It’s also lonely sometimes.

The Myth of Miserable Singles

We’re taught that growing older without a partner is tragic. That if you haven’t married by a certain age, you’ve missed the boat. But recent research is rewriting that narrative — and it resonates. People who stay single for life are not doomed to misery. In fact, many of them grow happier with age. They feel more satisfied. They’ve cultivated meaningful relationships on their own terms. They know who they are.

And I get it. I’m nearly 40 and I’ve never been more grounded. I’ve built something that feels intentional. Sustainable. But still — there’s a quiet whisper that occasionally creeps in: What if this is it? What if I never get to love someone deeply again?

And worse: What if I do… and it ruins everything?

The Peace Feels Too Good

This is the paradox I keep returning to: I’ve built a life that’s so nourishing, so aligned, so quietly content that the idea of inviting someone into it feels like a risk I’m not sure I want to take.

Because what if they mess it up? What if they bring chaos? What if I find myself once again twisting to accommodate, diluting my days to make room for someone who doesn’t fit the shape of the life I’ve built?

It’s happened before. I’ve contorted myself into versions that were more palatable. I’ve poured energy into people who didn’t pour back. I’ve chased the idea of connection that turned out to be just a performance of it.

Now, peace feels like a miracle. I’m not sure I want to trade it — even for something as tempting as love.

The Dogs Help. But…

Let’s be clear: I’ve never really been entirely alone. Until very recently I have always had dogs. Loyal, affectionate, slightly neurotic dogs who greet me every day like I’m their favourite person in the universe. They’re grounding, funny, and a genuine source of joy.

But even I know buying more dogs is not the answer to human intimacy. (Although… it does come close.)

I miss caring for someone. I miss the tiny domestic intimacies — the shared grocery lists, the inside jokes, the hand that finds yours during the boring part of the movie. I miss being known.

And sometimes, I miss caring for someone more than I miss being cared for. That, too, is something we don’t talk about enough.

The Gen Z Dating Dilemma

There’s a new generation coming up behind us who are even more hesitant — even more unsure of how to date in person, how to be vulnerable without a screen buffer, how to let someone see them awkwardly, unfiltered.

They’re not weak. They’re navigating a hyper-digital world that has trained them to swipe before they speak, to perform before they connect. The pandemic interrupted the most formative years of their social development. And telling them to just “get out there” reeks of extrovert privilege.

We’re all learning, again and again, how to be close.

And maybe that’s why I’ve found so much value in building something like Get Out — not just for others, but for myself. It’s not about fixing loneliness with apps or algorithms. It’s about helping people remember how to find their way back to one another — awkwardly, imperfectly, beautifully.

Loving What You’ve Built — And Staying Open

So, where does that leave me?

I don’t have an answer. I just know that I’m no longer willing to burn down my peace for someone who doesn’t add to it. I’m no longer romanticising chaos. I’m not pretending that someone else will fill the parts of me that only I’ve learned to hold.

But I’m also not shutting the door.

I think I’m just learning how to be open without being hollowed. Curious without being consumed. Willing to share without abandoning the life I’ve so lovingly built.

Maybe the next great love of my life won’t arrive with fireworks or grand declarations. Maybe it’ll be quiet. Steady. Respectful of what I’ve made — and interested in being a part of it, not the whole thing.

Maybe that’s the next season of growth: learning to let someone in, without losing the best parts of myself in the process.

Because yes — I’ve built a good life alone.

But maybe — just maybe — the right person won’t wreck it. Maybe they’ll water it instead.