By Katie Utting

When I was little, my first thought about relationships was something along the lines of ‘the first person I am ever in a relationship with is going to be the person I stay with forever’. Little did I know that might be something I would actually stick to; I am now a twenty-five-year-old woman who has never had a relationship.

I don’t really care that I’ve always been single. I’m used to it. It’s my normal. My attitude is, ‘it might be nice to find my person, but I’m an introvert who is socially awkward, not the biggest fan of people and has a chronic fear of intimacy. So, logically, it kind of makes sense’. What does make me feel abnormal is the way other people view me when they find out this information.

Often, people find it strange that I’ve always been on my own. Either that or they try way too hard to make it not weird – which does exactly that. Sometimes, the conversation turns into an interrogation to discover why.

I once had someone (a man, no surprise there) congratulate me on being a virgin (even though virginity doesn’t actually exist) like it’s something I had accomplished. I’ve also had someone comment, ‘but Katie, you’re so great. Why don’t you have a boyfriend? Anyone would be lucky to have you’. Yes, Daniel, I know, but that doesn’t make someone else more entitled to have me just because I’d be an asset to their life.

It never occurs to people that a relationship might be something I don’t want. Maybe it’s not weird that I’ve never been in a relationship, but it’s weird that I don’t actively seek one. Women seeking a man seems to be a trend that never goes out of fashion. I’ve never tried dating, nor do I want to. I much prefer deep and meaningful conversation, and dating is just a whole load of small talk. I hate small talk; it feels like everyone’s been given a script to the conversation, and no one printed me a copy.

I’ve also been told that I don’t understand people or the way the world works, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I am a massive empath. That’s probably actually why I don’t like being around people; most people are too much for me. It has also been assumed that my single-ness is down to religious reasons. Unless it’s as fun as the cast of Sister Act or The Sound of Music, I’m not interested, thank you.

I’ve also had the comment, ‘there’s no rush; the right person will come along’. It’s been twenty-five years. Does it seem like I’m in a rush? I understand the sentiment, but why do people need to reassure me? I merely make a statement, and people rush to comfort me like it’s something that upsets me. I was just answering your question, Susan. I know I’m okay. Why is it something to be insecure about? I don’t really get it. Maybe these people presume I’m worried that nobody wants me, hence the comforting.

Maybe there was a time when I thought I believed that. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned that I’m not scared of people not liking me; I’m scared of not liking them. I don’t like a lot of people, and I am a chronic people pleaser, so having to let someone down when they confess their love for me sounds like an absolute nightmare. And I’ve had this happen a few times with people I care about – it is one of the worst feelings ever.

I remember hanging out with this girl I didn’t really like one rainy summer evening. Somehow, we ended up talking to one of her guy friends through his bedroom window on the second floor of a three-story building. Unsurprisingly, the topic of boyfriends and dating comes up, and of course, I say I have no experience with that. ‘You haven’t been with anyone?’ he says. ‘Have you ever even fancied a guy?’

Then he asks, ‘are you a lesbian?’ This is such a heavy question to answer when you’re only fourteen, maybe even still now that I’m twenty-five. I remember this moment vividly. ‘No,’ I say, probably a bit too defensively considering I didn’t actually feel like I was at the time. I did question it for a while, though. If I were to answer that question now, I’d probably say, ‘Maybe? Sort of.’

I struggle to answer questions about my sexuality because I’m not sure I know what attraction feels like. I have been fond of people before, but it doesn’t burn in the way people say it does, and it doesn’t happen often. For a while, I questioned whether I was on the asexual/aromantic spectrum, but I do experience sexual desire. Scandalous, I know. I feel I have the capacity to love greatly, and … this is hard to admit … I am a big romantic at heart. I’m just not sure who I imagine being with.

When I think about what my ‘type’ is, it’s rarely physical characteristics but rather mental ones. It’s just a feeling; it’s not something you can see or touch. I’m attracted to who people are at the core of their being. Sure, I can tell what a conventionally attractive person looks like, but that can quickly melt away if they turn out to be a bit of an arse.

I have the potential to fall in love with someone regardless of their gender, appearance or background. Technically, you might call me a demiromantic – pansexual – but that’s a mouthful and a lot of faff to explain, and I’m not a fan of labels. People are far more beautifully complex than that. Life is full of grey space and I believe we should learn to live in it. So, for now, I’m just Katie. (Side Note: I’m not against people who need and use labels to validate and better communicate their lived experience, it’s just not for me.)

Though I do have that human yearning to find someone, it’s not urgent. Or it hadn’t been until the past year-ish, but I don’t know whether that’s down to more external factors. By external factors, I mean that literally every woman I am close to is either in a long-term relationship, engaged, married and/or pregnant, with the exception of one friend. It makes being twenty-five feel a lot older than it is. Especially adding in the fact that we are just coming out of a pandemic. It feels like I’ve time travelled. My life paused at twenty-three, I lost two years, and then someone pressed play. It’s a lot to process.

I am genuinely happy for my friends and where they’re at in life, but it does reinforce this narrative in my head that I’m a late bloomer – not that I want to follow the path that they are on. I’m not sure if I’m someone who wants kids (don’t get me started on how people react to women who don’t want kids!), but with everyone in my life having these massive, life-changing events happening, I worry about how our relationships are going to change.

My close friends are my soulmates. I worry that we are not going to be able to relate to each other’s lives anymore, and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t cried about it. I know it’s silly, but slowly my soulmates feel like they are becoming increasingly distant from me. I’m twenty-five and am yet to experience a lot of my firsts; they are twenty-five and have experienced all their firsts and then some. This brings on a new sense of urgency for a relationship that I’ve never had before and pushes me towards a place I feel I ‘should’ be. Alas, comparison is indeed the thief of joy.  

I don’t care that I’ve always been single, but I’m starting to worry that I always will be. I don’t think that makes me weird or odd, though. I may just have to accept that it’s a popular topic of conversation and embrace all the small talk and awkward questions, learn to navigate the reactions I get, and practice my response in the mirror like it’s a daily affirmation: ‘being with someone isn’t a requirement for a good life; it’s a bonus, not a necessity. I am more than happy being on my own’.

So, why am I writing this? I guess I want to be understood, as humans do. I found the process to be rather cathartic; it’s intimate and vulnerable, if a tad terrifying – states of being I’m trying to be more comfortable with. I guess I also hope that it provides comfort for someone who may feel the same.

I know if I were to read something like this from someone older than me, I’d feel reassured that I’m okay. I’ve never met anyone who shares my experience, or at least no one has ever spoken to me about it, but I know I’m not the only one. If anyone relates, you can take this as proof of that. You are not alone in being alone.