Not to sound dramatic, but 29 feels more dramatic than 30 ever could. It’s like standing in the middle of a metaphorical tug-of-war. On one end, my 20s pull me towards one last round of poor decisions and even poorer dating choices—but at least they’ve got a disco light. On the other, my 30s beckon with cashmere pullovers, fluffy duvets, and the promise of stability—tempered by chronic back pain, a 10 pm bedtime, and zero patience for first-date small talk about favourite colours. 

And yet, through it all, the need for a partner lingers—like background noise I couldn’t quite mute. So, in true millennial fashion, I spiralled—mostly under the influence—and cycled through downloading and deleting dating apps like they were cursed objects. What went wrong? Where did my great love story go off track? Somehow, I’d Benjamin Buttoned my way through romance. 

At 18, I realised I was attractive. At 19, I found someone who tolerated both my face and my terrible puns (a rare combination). By 20, we were discussing baby names. The plan was airtight: move in by 25, get married at 27, pop out the first kid by 30. 

The problem? I took the role too seriously. I became, for lack of a better term, a childless dad. A walking embodiment of weekend lawn-mowing energy—complete with a protruding beer belly, dad glasses, and polo shirts stretched to their limits, buttons pleading for mercy. It wasn’t until an Uber driver casually asked how many kids I had that I realised just how deep I’d sunk. 

Fast forward a few years, countless fights, and mutual confusion about what we actually wanted from life, and I was single again at 26. Seven years of partnership gone. And just in time for the rise of situationships—a relationship without commitment, minus the basic decency to call it one. 

Fresh off shedding the dad weight (still drowning in oversized polos, but baby steps), I was ready for adventure. Hook-ups? Sign me up. Flings? Sure. Polyamory? Let’s experiment. A committed relationship? At 27? Err… not again, at least not for a while. 

That while stretched into a long, reckless blur—cities into bars into beds. People came and went, and with them, pieces of myself I didn’t even realise I was leaving behind. Until, somewhere in my late 20s, the afterparties faded, replaced by the aforementioned early-30s back pain. 

Maybe my body was trying to tell me something. Maybe it was time to find someone new. 

And find I did. 

My type? According to my best friends: “Skinny, bisexual, and just girl-next-door enough for you.” A cool girl. A hip one. The kind who believed love was a construct and relationships were just capitalism’s way of making us invest in wedding venues. Maybe that’s why I was drawn to her—because she was the physical manifestation of the life I had been pretending I wanted. 

But reality has a way of catching up with you. 

Every plan was a negotiation. Every conversation about where this was going was met with an amused shrug. What do you mean, where? This is it, bruv. 

And then, the glass-shattering moment: I wasn’t as cool, free-spirited, or polyamorous as I thought I was. 

I indeed wanted to be an oversized, bad-pun-making dad. Just not yet. 

Cue heartbreak number two. And let’s be honest—the second ones are worse because now you know exactly what’s coming. The first time, you naively believe you’ll never feel that way again. The second time, you recognise the storm before it even arrives—the sleepless nights, the mindless scrolling through old texts, the gut-wrenching moment when you see them laugh in a photo that doesn’t include you. 

And that’s when I hit rock bottom—not the fun, boozy-brunch-messy-but-endearing kind, but the silent, bone-deep loneliness kind. The kind where no amount of bar-hopping, reckless flirting, or performative coolness could drown out the realisation that I had spent years trying to escape myself. 

It took a therapist (and a painful invoice) to tell me what my friends had been saying all along: I was looking for love in the wrong places. Or rather, the wrong parties. 
 

Because, maybe, just maybe, I needed to love myself as much as I had always loved the idea of being loved. 
 

That’s the thing they don’t tell you about heartbreak—it forces you to meet yourself in a way no romance ever could. To sit with the silence, with the grief, with the version of yourself you’ve tried so hard to outrun. And after years of running, I finally stopped. 
 

So here I stand, at the edge of 30, still caught in the tug-of-war—wanting the freedom of a restraint-free, unconventional life, yet craving the convenience of a conventional one. I don’t expect to wake up on my birthday with all the answers neatly folded on my nightstand, but I think, for the first time, I’m okay not having them. 
 

I think I’d be okay even if I don’t find someone. I think I’d be okay as a loner in a small Goan village, fixing motorcycles—even though I know absolutely nothing about fixing motorcycles. 
 

Because, for the first time, I’m not just alone. 

I’m at peace.