I Can Be Single or Broke — Not Both.
It all started with a meme.
"My age no longer allows me to suffer for love," it said "if you see me sad it is because of money."
I was relieved to see the sentiment I'd been lamenting on calls with friends whose sadness stemmed from their latest situationships being blown to pieces. I hadn't cried over a man in years. But like clockwork, while my bank account dwindled between the 1st and 15th of every month, I watched the colour drain from my life. It was the roaring 2020s in New York City, and I lived alone in a brownstone in an affluent Brooklyn neighbourhood. I'd left my office job just before COVID and was working remotely for a creative startup that (just barely) paid my rent, the cheapest health insurance on the market, and for a few martinis on a Friday night.
From the outside, I was a thriving young creative, but somewhere deep down, I knew that bubble was about to burst. My life was crowded with indulgence. I racked up mountains of debt, swiping my credit card at restaurants and Reformation, all while ignoring the deepening disillusionment with a job that didn't allow for mental or financial expansion. I wanted to do my own thing but didn't see how it was possible.
One summer afternoon, the year before I turned 30, a friend called looking for an apartment to sublet in Brooklyn, and, on a whim, I offered her mine. Call it intuition or utter exhaustion from city life, but I left my apartment and moved into my parent's house in the suburbs. A few months later, I lost my job. I didn't feel angry or sad; I felt like I'd been set free like there were possibilities again. I'd spent my twenties supporting other people's creative aspirations, and here I was, unemployed and alone. I envied the people who prioritized themselves in a practical way, whether that meant finding partners with stable jobs to support their unpredictable creative careers or being their own stability: paying taxes on time, pitching their work tirelessly from their 9-5 jobs until something stuck, taking out loans to pay for MFA programs or portfolio school. All the ways I'd let myself down became painfully clear.
I wanted to spend this period of my life looking inward, slowly building my freelance portfolio, and figuring out how to get my stories out into the world, but instead, I went to bed most nights plagued by comparisons to a deluge of two kinds of women: single, rich, and fabulous, or glowing while pregnant with baby number two. I couldn't fathom having children; even having a partner seemed like a dream so distant it was barely visible. But I was also in career limbo. And more than that, I felt behind. All the women whose lives I watched play out on social media had at least one thing figured out. If they weren't partnered, they'd at least channelled their energy into their careers and lived in clean, sun-drenched apartments, which they used like hotels between solo trips to Europe. In my darkest moments, I fantasized that a life like Willa's from Succession wouldn't be all that bad. Maybe I'd have time to write a book if I wasn't constantly taking proofreading gigs that rotted my brain. I wished on every star for a trust fund to materialize that would pay my debts and back taxes. I longed to be plucked from obscurity by a wealthy benefactor who believed I should be the face of their multi-million dollar business.
Ironically, one night, after crying my way through a Tracy Anderson mat class in my sister's basement, a clip of podcaster Ali Weiss made its way into my algorithm. She talked candidly about not being where she thought she would be at 30 and hit home in a way nothing I'd ever seen had (other than maybe Fleabag). Ali talked about how being single and on the brink of going broke technically made her a failure by societal standards. She laughed and cried and ultimately explained that she was not ashamed of where she was at, even if the girl bosses and trad wives wanted her to be. She was happy, fulfilled, and grateful that she had the kind of life that could surprise her. I let out a breath I'd been holding for a year–– it was comforting to see someone publicly taking pride in a life that didn't involve partnership or wealth.
I felt like a failure for leaving the city, like a loser for moving back in with my parents, and often like an idiot for not pouring my soul into finding another full-time job. But seeing Ali reflect back to me what my life had instead of what it lacked changed everything.
I couldn't ignore the obvious call: I had to own where I was in order to show up for myself and my work meaningfully. At the risk of sounding like an insufferable self-help book, you really do make your own luck. I delete Instagram during my work hours now, for good measure. I miss the buzz of the city sometimes, but the peace has allowed for real growth, not the kind that can be packaged and filtered into a pretty grid post. Life is unimaginably quieter, but I am finally supporting my own dreams. I'm not looking for a boyfriend or a full-time job. I'm looking for a life. I'm not trying to meet anyone except for myself.