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There are so many amazing things about being single, especially in 2025.

I’m financially, emotionally, spiritually, physically, and mentally independent. And I am endlessly grateful for the privileges that give me this freedom.

I work from home, which means I can literally pick up and go anywhere in the world while continuing to earn my living. I’ve built a strong, extended family, and a network of friends spread across countries and cities. In the place I now call home for good, I’m slowly building a social circle that feels steady and warm.

And I don’t take a single bit of this for granted.

Not the financial independence, not the emotional or spiritual grounding, not the privilege of being able to work and travel freely. I know how rare it is and how lucky I am.

Gratitude for my freedom and autonomy has always gone hand in hand with the life I chose for myself, and probably explains why I’ve always been gloriously, unapologetically single.

Being single has always been the right choice for me. I didn’t want children. I came from a modest household, but I wanted to travel and see the world (I’m now at 57 countries and counting). I had career ambitions that I knew marriage would not allow me to pursue fully. And given that my longest relationship ever has been with my Toshiba laptop, being married just wasn’t my jam. Ever.

And I have never doubted or questioned my decision.

Why would I?

Except…a strange feeling enveloped me for the first time last month. I flew down to Portugal for a month, and something struck me in a way it never had before. I boarded my flight from Chennai to Dubai to Lisbon, and when the stewardess asked us to put our phones on airplane mode, I looked down at my phone and thought, “Wow! There’s no one waiting for me to check in.”

A few years ago, I would have sent a flurry of messages before and after every flight:

“At the airport.”

“Checked in.”

“Security done.”

“Boarding now, switching off.”

“Landed.”

“Immigration done.”

“In the cab.”

And finally, a selfie from my hotel room so they knew I was safe.

That rhythm was as much a part of my travels as packing my suitcase. But in December 2020, within six days, I lost both my parents. And with them, I lost that daily thread of care.

I’ve traveled plenty since then, but for some reason in Portugal, it hit differently. No one was waiting for my “landed safe” text. No one was on the other side of the phone tracking my every step, worrying if I’d eaten, if my visa was fine, if I was being careful.

These days, I have friends and extended family who love me, yes. They care, they check in sometimes, they’d be sad if something happened to me. But no one person in my life feels tethered to me in that visceral way, where my safety and existence are at the center of their world.

I realized at that moment that I no longer have “my person.”

And that’s what relationships often give you, even the messy ones. A spouse, a partner, a child, a parent—they’re the “someone” who becomes “your person.” Being single means I don’t have that. I have soulmates in my girlfriends. I have support and love in my extended family. I have joy in my independence.

But I don’t have that one person who will truly mourn me when I’m gone.

I don’t say this with regret, because I still know with every fiber of my being that choosing a single life was the right decision for me. But sitting on that plane to Portugal, I felt it. A strange mix of sadness, reflection, and deep awareness. Not regret. Not longing. Just the clear-eyed recognition of what it means to be alone in the world in this particular way.

And maybe that’s all this is. An acknowledgment. That even in a life as full, independent, and free as mine, there are moments when the absence of your person lands with surprising weight.

What about you?

If you’ve chosen a single life, or if life has chosen it for you, have you ever felt the weight of not having “your person”? How do you hold that feeling when it shows up?

I’d love to hear your reflections. Please share them in the comments below.

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