When You Realize You’re No One’s Person
I’ve realized that the hardest part of being single isn’t always the loneliness.
Sometimes it’s realizing that you’re no one’s person.
People often assume that because I’m single, I’m independent.
That because I manage my life well, I must be okay.
But those are not the same thing.
Yes, I pay my own bills.
I carry every financial responsibility on my own.
Every rent payment.
Every grocery trip.
Every doctor’s appointment.
Every unexpected expense.
Every decision.
Every burden.
Alone.
And because I keep going, people assume I don’t need anyone.
But surviving is not the same as not needing to be cared for.
I love celebrating my friends.
I love their weddings.
I love meeting their children.
I love watching them build the lives they once prayed for.
And I truly mean that.
But somewhere along the way…
I slowly became the one who always travels.
The one who always visits.
The one who always understands.
Of course I understand that traveling with children isn’t easy.
Of course I understand that life changes after marriage and becoming parents.
But sometimes…
I miss the friendship that existed before all of that.
Sometimes I wish someone would come to me.
Sometimes I wish someone would say,
“I know you’ve had a long week. I made dinner for you.”
Or,
“Can I come over tonight? I just want to spend time with you.”
Not because I’m falling apart.
Not because there’s an emergency.
But simply because I matter.
And then there are the moments no one really talks about.
The moments when something wonderful happens.
When you get the job.
When your prayer is answered.
When something makes your heart so happy that you can’t wait to tell someone.
Married people often have someone waiting at home.
Someone who is the first to know.
Someone who celebrates with them before anyone else does.
Someone who says,
“I’m so proud of you.”
But when you’re single…
you pick up your phone and wonder,
“Who has time right now?”
Maybe they’re putting the kids to bed.
Maybe they’re having dinner together.
Maybe they’re busy.
And suddenly you realize…
it’s not that there is no one to tell.
It’s that there is no one waiting to hear it.
No one who was always going to be the first person you told.
No one whose day naturally includes yours.
No one who celebrates every little victory with you because your lives are intertwined.
And that hurts more than people realize.
Then it hits you.
It’s not just that you’re alone.
It’s that you’re no one’s person.
You’re no one’s first call.
No one is waiting at home to ask how your day was.
No one notices you’ve had a hard day unless you say something.
No one sees the small victories, the little heartbreaks, or the ordinary moments that make up your life.
That kind of loneliness is so quiet…
that almost nobody notices it.
And sometimes I wonder…
Why do churches organize meal trains for new parents…
but rarely think about the single person who has worked ten or twelve hours, comes home exhausted, and doesn’t have the energy to cook anything more than toast?
Why do we celebrate engagements, weddings, pregnancies, and growing families…
but rarely stop to ask the single person,
“How are you really doing?”
Why don’t we pray for singles the way we pray for newlyweds or new parents?
Not because being single is a problem that needs fixing.
But because singleness has its own burdens.
Its own grief.
Its own loneliness.
Its own silent battles.
Sometimes we don’t need advice.
Sometimes we don’t need to hear,
“You’re still young.”
Or,
“Marriage isn’t easy either.”
We know that.
We simply want someone to remember that our lives matter too.
That our struggles are real.
That our joys deserve to be celebrated.
That our pain deserves to be noticed.
God,
I don’t believe single people need pity.
I believe they need community.
People who remember them.
People who check in without a reason.
People who show up without waiting for a crisis.
People who remind them that they don’t have to earn the right to be cared for.
And if I’m honest…
sometimes I don’t even pray for a husband first.
Sometimes I simply pray to be someone’s person.
To have someone who knows how my day was without me having to explain.
Someone who notices when I’m quiet.
Someone who celebrates my victories as if they were their own.
Someone who sits across from me on an ordinary Tuesday and asks,
“Tell me about your day.”
So tonight, God…
if there is anyone reading this who feels invisible…
who feels like they’re carrying life on their own…
who secretly wonders if anyone would notice if they stopped reaching out…
please remind them that You see them.
And if there is someone in my life carrying this kind of quiet loneliness,
don’t let me overlook them.
Help me invite them.
Help me call them.
Help me show up for them.
The way You have always shown up for me.
Amen.