Always the Bridesmaid, Never the Bride

I won’t lie to you, there was a time I couldn’t walk past a couple in matching gym outfits without muttering “may the odds be ever in your favour” under my breath. It wasn’t bitterness. Okay, maybe a little. But mostly, it was longing dressed in sarcasm. The kind of longing that curls up beside you at night, not to keep you warm, but to remind you your mum’s already hinted (twice) that you’re “not getting any younger”.

There’s a unique ache in being the one who always buys the engagement gifts but never receives them. It’s like hosting a party you never get invited to. And when you’re a kind, loving, emotionally-intelligent woman who’d genuinely be the best girlfriend, bringer of snacks, defender of hearts, giver of forehead kisses, you can’t help but wonder: God, did You misplace my file?

I remember a bottomless brunch (Champagne-free, calm down) where I sat surrounded by soft glances and interlocked fingers. I was the only single woman at the table, which meant my waffles came with a side of “we just get each other, you know?” and longwinded stories about how he finally proposed. I smiled. I laughed. I even helped someone find a baby name. (I suggested Elizabeth. You’re welcome.) But later, in the car, I cried. Not because I wasn’t happy for them, I was. I truly, tender heartedly was. But because joy can be contagious and crushing when you’re not quite sure when your turn is coming. And there’s only so many times you can say “God’s timing” before you start checking the celestial watch.

I wasn’t always this peaceful about it. There was a time I viewed couples like moving targets of everything I didn’t have. Every engagement felt like rejection. Every new relationship felt like a divine oversight. But that changed one evening when I was walking through Hyde Park, classic main character behaviour, obviously, and I saw an elderly couple holding hands. They weren’t flashy. No matching outfits or elaborate gestures. Just walking. Just together. And I remember thinking: I want that. But more than that, I want the right version of that. The kind built on patience, prayer, and something deeper than algorithmic compatibility. The kind God hand-crafts, not the one I force out of loneliness.

Since then, I’ve stopped resenting couples. Now, I see love like a lingering presence in my life, not mocking me, but promising me. A whisper, not a taunt. “He’s coming. But not rushed, not reheated, not recycled.” The kind of love that doesn’t arrive late, but arrives ready.

Still, trusting God for something He hasn’t yet given you is one of the most vulnerable things you’ll ever do. It’s not passive waiting, it’s active believing. It’s choosing to keep your heart open even when nothing’s showing up to fill it. It’s watching your friends settle into lives you’re still praying for and celebrating them without shrinking yourself. It’s praying, crying, deleting old selfies you once thought would be “cute for him one day”. It’s having faith big enough to say, “Even if He doesn’t, I’ll still trust Him”, and then reminding yourself of that when you hear yet another “how are you still single?!”

(Side note: what do people expect us to say to that? “Oh, I forgot. Let me just go find a husband in aisle 6 at Waitrose”?)

Here’s what I know now: I’m not late. I’m just not there yet. I’m not missing something. God’s just still building someone worthy of me. My love life isn’t a punishment. It’s a promise still being prepared. And I would rather be single with hope than hitched with regret. I’d rather wait with God than rush without Him.

So if you’re the last one single, like me, don’t settle. Don’t shrink. Don’t twist yourself into compatibility with someone who only matches your loneliness, not your calling. Wait well. Cry when you need to. Laugh when it’s funny. Get your nails done. Book the holiday. Bake the cookies. Be the woman he’ll thank God for. Because he’s coming, and you want to be ready when he does.

Until then, I’ll be here. Waiting. Trusting. Occasionally dramatic. But always held.