I’ve been single for 20 years. This is what I’ve learned from my decades in the dating world
Our writer reflects on her years navigating community matchmaking and dating apps
–
It’s been an unusual and symbolic year for me in the dating world. If I’m lucky, I secure one in-person date annually on average. But in the past few months, two turned up like buses.
The first guy was my wild card from Bumble — a martial artist from London who lived with his mum, had had a few girlfriends and was sweet and flirtatious. He was 11 years my junior, and it was the first time I’d dated someone that much younger than me. The second suitor came through a friend of a friend, a strait-laced accountant from Lancashire who had never been in a long-term relationship. At 55, he was the oldest person I’d been on a date with.
Neither were quite right for me. But both dates, with their two-decade difference in age, made me reflect on my more than 20-year-long dating life — the tears, the laughs, the hopes and the heartache. At 46, I am the unwilling virtuoso of singlehood.
The precursor to my halal dating life was the rishta era (an Urdu word commonly used for suitors). It was the end of 2000, I was 22 and not remotely interested in looking for a partner. But the pressure was on, mostly from cultural expectations rather than my parents. My mum assured me they weren’t pushing me to get married, it was simply to start the process, as she warned it might take years to find someone.
Nevertheless, potential candidates and their families turned up in our living room to view me like a prized cow. The entire process made my skin crawl. They were all suggested by matchmaking auntie figures who were convinced that, on paper, two people were perfect for each other, but in reality the only thing they had in common was a pulse.
After two years of those dreaded meetings, I told my parents, please, no more. I was now ready to find someone and fall in love myself. They understood, saying all they wanted was for me to find a good man. Aged 24, I went on my first date outside of the home environment. We were still introduced via a matchmaker, but I felt liberated and independent. (Well, not entirely, as my older brother was my chaperone.) In any case, the guy turned out to be too conservative and barely raised his eyes to mine.
When I decided it was getting too embarrassing to drag my brother along to dates, I went solo. I’d drive across the country to try out awkward speed-intro events, hoping that being in a room of 100 people — half of whom were meant to be men, but were always mostly women — would raise my chances of finally finding a partner. But hearing the same small talk on repeat for three hours only left me with a headache.
As I reached my late 20s I entered the new era of online matchmaking. I felt hopeful but nervous as I signed up to platforms such as Single Muslim and Shaadi.com. This was still uncharted territory in the mid-noughties, when many of us were finding our way through the internet and navigating the very early days of social media. I hesitantly posted a picture on my profile with a statement about my personality, faith and outlook on life, and waited for an answer to my prayers: a soulmate.
Messages pinged into my inbox that were the exact antithesis. “NO TIME FOR TIME-WASTERS. DO YOU WANT MARRIAGE?” read one man’s capslock attempt at wooing me.
Meanwhile, I was handing over my biodata — an Asian term for a matrimonial CV including your height, job, ethnicity, education, hobbies and even, for some, skin tone — to marriage bureaux and matchmakers. The results were pretty grim. One South Asian guy listed his preference for a white convert or slim Arab girl, aged 24-27, who doesn’t wear hijab. The call-out ended with a number to contact, that of his mother. He was 42.
Then came the dating apps. There was ghosting, unsolicited inappropriate messages, relationship-phobes only looking for “intimacy without commitment”. It was enough to turn me off completely. I uninstalled the apps several times throughout my 30s to preserve my mental and emotional wellbeing. I questioned if it was all worth it. My duas started to sound more desperate.
I thought back to the rishta era. Perhaps I should have been more grateful for a cultural support system that practically hands you a husband on a plate, with a community looking out for you. It would have been easy to say yes to any one of the potentials who expressed interest in me, but I knew I wanted more than a convenient marriage. Of course, I’d met people over the years who I had liked but they just hadn’t felt the same about me, and those who did like me I couldn’t bring myself to like back. I didn’t want to settle. I wanted a true partnership. I wanted love.
As the years went on I was going on fewer dates and focusing on what I had in my life already. By the time I turned 40, I had found so much fulfilment by dedicating time to my family and friends, developing my career and travelling to places I had always wanted to see.
Still, I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that something was missing. Though I told myself to trust in God and kept myself busier than ever, there were moments when I felt deeply anxious about a future without a family of my own. The painful wish to be with someone and to have children was made worse whenever I faced the question asked of so many single folk: “Why aren’t you married yet?” I’d try not to roll my eyes, knowing I could never explain it all, so I’d just reply: “It’s in Allah’s hands.”
I have often wondered why being married is so important among Asian Muslim communities, that if you’re not married you’re regarded as a failure. I realise now there is no simple answer. The pressures I’d placed on myself stemmed both from cultural and religious expectations, and from my own need to find companionship.
After all these years, I barely feel the pressure from myself or from others to find a husband any more. Those two decades in the dating world — the pain but also the fun — have led to an openness, perseverance and a growth of character that I never imagined I could have.
The passage of time and my own resolve have removed the need to have children. Dating apps are now in the background rather than something I chase. I am more attuned to embracing what I have, more invested in exploring new experiences and possibilities, and finding a new direction in life — whatever form that takes.
I told my most recent date that while I still believe it would be a beautiful thing to find a partner and that I would never close myself off to that possibility, I now know that marriage is not the be-all and end-all of my existence. I explained to him that I have been given so much already. I have lived and loved, and I hold more hope and excitement for the life that lies ahead of me than I ever had before. It felt like a declaration to myself and, for the first time, I finally meant it.
Topics
Get the Hyphen weekly
Subscribe to Hyphen’s weekly round-up for insightful reportage, commentary and the latest arts and lifestyle coverage, from across the UK and Europe
This form may not be visible due to adblockers, or JavaScript not being enabled.