I have a confession. Or maybe three or four.
I absolutely love my life and the joys and freedom that not being married right now brings.
But sometimes I don’t like being single. I know I should be content, should count the gifts. And I do. But then I come home to an empty house, or wrestle my way through a tough financial decision, or google how to fix a leaky sink. I kill a ginormous spider with an entire can of Raid and think how nice it would be to have someone walk with me through those things—to be strong when I’m not, to care for me, and to challenge and teach me.
And sometimes, if I’m honest, the ache isn’t just for marriage. It’s the quiet whisper underneath it all that wonders if I’m missing something essential. If I’m less equipped for this life. Less anchored. Less… enough.
Sometimes I’ve felt like I slipped into the wrong life somehow. Like everyone else got a map for how their story would unfold, and I’m over here improvising. Like I’m playing a role I’m not entirely sure I was meant for.
When I was living overseas, this tension followed me more often than I wanted to admit. My heart would burst when I thought about how much I longed for the people around me to know Jesus. I wanted so desperately to see the harvest the Lord had in store, for His glory to break forth like water overflowing. I wanted to be obedient, to keep saying yes to cultures and languages and places that were not my own.
But alongside that calling lived another longing: the desire to be known and chosen in marriage. And somewhere along the way, those two dreams began to feel like they were at odds. As if choosing one meant letting go of the other.
What would I choose? Could I somehow have both?
And maybe even deeper than that—what if wanting both meant I wasn’t wholehearted enough? What if it meant I had misunderstood God somewhere along the way?
Even now, in a different season of life, those questions haven’t entirely disappeared. The locations may have changed, but the ache—and the wondering—can still echo.
I have a wedding board on Pinterest. I love weddings, I really do. But sometimes I realize the dreaming becomes a way of trying to do something, anything, with a future that feels out of my hands.
As if I can quietly take control of a story that hasn’t unfolded yet.
As if I need to help God get it right.
Sometimes that dream of marriage shifts from a hope into something I grip too tightly—something I measure God’s goodness by. And when I see that happening, I step back. I close the app. I turn my attention again to my first Love, letting Him remind me of the depth of His love for me.
And yet, I still hope. I believe God is the author of the love stories I see around me. I don’t think it’s wrong to keep bringing that desire to Him. To surrender it, yes, but also to name it. To trust Him to shape my heart, even as I ask Him to fulfill it.
There have been moments—more than I’d like to admit—when I’ve felt like the outlier. The only one. The one whose life doesn’t quite follow the expected arc. And in those moments, it’s easy for the questions to creep in:
Am I behind?
Did I miss something?
Am I somehow off course?
It can feel like I don’t fully belong in the life I’ve been given.
But I’m learning that feeling like an imposter doesn’t mean I am one.
There are parts of this single life that have been painful—the things people have said, the lies I’ve believed, the quiet grief of buried dreams. Those things are real, and they deserve to be named. But they do not define me.
And they do not define you either.
My hope for you is that you would make space for both the grief and the goodness. That you would be honest about the hard and messy parts of your life, while still allowing yourself to notice the gifts tucked into the ordinary.
Because they are there.
Both singleness and marriage can be a gift, but there are also gifts hidden within the everyday rhythms of this life. It might be the gift of independence. In the friendships. In the ways God meets us in quiet spaces that might otherwise be filled.
And underneath it all—beneath the questions, the longings, the wondering if you somehow ended up in the wrong story—there is a deeper truth holding you steady:
You are not behind or disqualified.
You are not accidentally living the wrong life.
The God who called you is not confused about your story—even when you are.
His love for you is beyond comprehension. God’s kindness in sending Jesus to secure your freedom is a gift you didn’t earn and cannot lose. His power is at work within you, even here, even now—to do far more than you can ask or imagine.
This life, and every version of it we try to measure ourselves against, is temporary.
But His love?
It is everlasting.
And you, dear sister, are not an imposter here.
Is there a part of your story that feels confusing right now? How is Jesus meeting you there?
