Yahoo Lifestyle At 40, I Still Wasn't Married. Here’s Why I’m Glad I Waited.
Recently, during a routine attempt at becoming more organized, I found myself sitting in my pajamas sifting through old letters and photos — piles of memorabilia I hadn’t touched in years. I keep everything from wedding place cards to photo booth strips, and I even have a special box just for invitations. At 42, the box is overflowing with memories of celebrations that mark the lives of friends, family, and my journey alongside them.
In my 20s, friends’ wedding invitations began to trickle in slowly, but romance wasn’t a priority for me then. I’d moved to New York City at 21 to pursue a career as an actress, and those years were a blur of auditions and waitressing shifts. I dated a few guys along the way, but nothing serious. I was too focused on memorizing lines and making sure my rent checks didn’t bounce.
However by the time I was approaching 30, it was clear I wasn’t destined to become the next Meryl Streep. Without a college degree, a trust fund, or connections, I began clawing my way out of the artist’s grind, determined to find a stable job and build some security for myself.
At 30, I landed my first “big break” in the real world working as an assistant at a major publishing house. I was nearly a decade older than my colleagues and only making $35,000 a year, but it was a step in the right direction. I knew if I played my cards right, I had a shot at a career. Relationships still weren’t a priority for me then; I was too focused on playing catch up and proving myself.
Meanwhile, most of my friends had started to meet their future spouses. Throughout that first decade, they’d all been working steadily and dating seriously. Through walks in parks and over drinks at bars, I’d listen to stories of relationships blossoming and of ones beginning to last.
As nice as it all sounded, I was laser-focused on moving up, not settling down. My early 30s were a time of struggle and growth, professionally and emotionally. I was in debt, living with roommates, and felt like I couldn’t put my best foot forward in dating when I was so many steps behind.
Still, I went on dates just to see what was possible. I met people online, in person and through friends who set me up. A few relationships lasted for a while, but whenever things started to feel serious, I panicked. I met some men who potentially offered the possibility of marriage, but accepting that kind of rescue felt like it came at too high a cost. I couldn’t imagine committing to marriage without first untangling my career, my finances and my inner struggles. It didn’t feel right to promise my future to someone else until I was absolutely certain of myself.
Meanwhile, nearly all of my girlfriends seemed to have it all figured out. The steady stream of wedding invitations arriving in my mailbox served as a constant reminder that I was a sideline observer as everyone else moved on with their lives. Attending weddings with dates sent waves of anxiety washing over me. At receptions, we’d be seated with married couples as I’d brace myself for the inevitable questions about our future plans. I knew this was the stage of life where answers were expected, but I just didn’t have them yet.
Over time, I made peace with the possibility that I might not be a young bride, or perhaps even a bride at all. I began to accept that this wasn’t a random circumstance I’d happened upon, but rather a choice I was actively making. It wasn’t that I hadn’t been invited to the club — I was the one repeatedly declining to join. As I started to view my path as intentional, the uneasiness that once accompanied weddings gradually faded until it disappeared entirely.
I felt strong in my choice until wedding bells were replaced with storks. As friends welcomed their first and second children, my anxiety resurfaced when I was surrounded by moms-to-be and women swapping stories about pregnancy cravings. I’d sip my mimosa and find myself subtly tucking away my bare ring finger. The inevitable, well-meaning small talk —“Do you have kids?” — felt like a gentle jab that I had done something wrong. On any other day, my decisions felt steady and certain. However, at baby showers, I always felt a little fragile.
But thankfully, back in my own world, I’d always feel like I was exactly where I needed to be. Just when I would start to second-guess myself and compare, things would come along to affirm my path. Mentors at work inspired me and opened doors at just the right moments, and I stumbled into a job in public relations that changed my life through my hard-earned connections and hustle. I started crossing paths with people I had long admired in television and publishing, and working alongside them felt like confirmation that I hadn’t missed the mark. Colleagues became best friends and waking up in the morning felt good.
A major turning point came at 35, when I landed a significant job at a major magazine publisher and celebrated by taking myself on a solo trip to Paris. I booked an adorable Airbnb and wandered the streets without a plan, feeling like the heroine in my own Nancy Meyers movie. I took cooking classes, strolled through the Louvre, walked along the River Seine and ate my weight in croissants. I felt incredibly grateful to give myself an experience I’d once only dreamed of. Traveling alone was a crucial symbol of independence and adulthood to me — two things I saw as essential before building a life with a partner.
That same year and in the years that followed, I paid off debts that had once felt impossible. I watched myself grow into a more confident and secure version of who I’d always envisioned I would be when I finally stood at an altar. It wasn’t about becoming a career woman; it was about becoming someone who could stand on her own before standing beside someone else.
From then on, solo trips became a regular way for me to explore and reconnect with myself. On one of those trips, I visited Colorado and fell in love with it. The mountains offered a peaceful contrast to the taxis and skyscrapers that had defined my 20s and 30s. With financial freedom and nothing tying me down, I found the quiet space I needed to envision a new chapter.
At 38, after 17 years in New York City, I headed to Denver. Once I arrived, I launched my own business, which took off quickly, and started dating in earnest. I met a man I connected with almost instantly.
Our relationship felt easy, but after a year of dating, we broke up when he revealed he wasn’t interested in marriage, something that was now important to me. At 40, with my window for having children beginning to close, I understood that I might not become a mother. But for me, having a trusted and loving partner was always a prerequisite for having children. I also knew that if either of those things had been my priority, I would have pursued them earlier. The truth was, I wasn’t ready to be a wife or a parent until moving out west.
The end of that relationship marked a pivotal moment of maturity for me — not just in how I viewed my own choices, but in how I understood the choices of the friends who had settled down before me. As I confided in close friends about my life out west, they shared more intimate details about their marriages and offered advice based on their experiences.
I discovered that marriages I once revered had layers of complexity and hardship I had never known about. One friend confided that, after a decade of marriage, their love had become more akin to a friendship. Another reflected that even after two children, she still wondered if she had made the right choice. Even my friends with the happiest marriages had moments of doubt and intense compromise. The illusion of perfection I held in my youth faded, replaced by the reality of their challenges with marriage, raising children and navigating family dynamics.
At the same time, the dating pool consisted of divorced men who reflected on the lessons they had learned. What resonated most for me was the universality of their experiences. It was clear that everyone was always working through lessons in life and love, regardless of their relationship status. All we can do is make the best decision for ourselves, moment by moment. Ultimately, they showed me that the true beauty of partnership wasn’t just in being married; it was in being married to the right person. I’m still glad I waited to make that decision.
Every invitation in my overflowing box holds more than just memories; each one reflects the evolving journey of love, growth and self-trust for every person and couple it represents. To me, the greatest invitation is to embrace life at our own pace, on our own terms, with curiosity and courage — trusting that the path we choose holds meaning just as profound as the one we leave behind. The only timeline we can truly follow is our own, with each decision and moment shaping the story we are meant to live.
Jillian Sanders is a writer and the founder of Jillian Sanders Public Relations, LLC, a full-service lifestyle PR firm based in Denver, Colorado, serving clients nationwide She is currently working on her first book, which explores the complexities of love, friendship, and relationships — romantic, platonic, and familial. Her writing delves into the messy, beautiful ways we connect with one another, and ourselves. Connect with her on Instagram @jilliansanderspr or visit her website at www.jilliansanderswrites.com.
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