Sara E. Braca - When the Church Burns Down, Cancel the Wedding: Adventures from the Other Half of Single

I have always hated writing.

I am not entirely sure why, but I imagine its some combination of my excessive perfectionism and need for a clear final answer that has made writing my lifes nemesis. I wrote my entire college application essay about this deep and abiding writing aversion, quoting my own bad high school essays and critiquing them. Somehow, I guess this raw honesty was appealing, and I was accepted into Dartmouth. I later learned that this ridiculous essay turned an otherwise solid maybe application into a compelling yes.

From the first moment I set foot on Dartmouths campus, I knew I was going to be a math major. I had done my research; this was the only degree I could earn that would not require me to write a thesis. After college, I became a banker (no writing). When that got too soul-crushing, I got an MBA, where I was a finance TA for fun, and a marketing and operations double major (still no writing!). This ultimately led to my current career in brand management. While this is a marginally more creative career than banking, still almost no real writing is involved; thats what advertising agencies are for. In my everyday life, writing consists of writing emails in which I use business phrases to evaluate the work of actual copywriters. Its pretty glorious.

So, imagine my surprise when, in the months before my fortieth birthday, I suddenly decided I wanted to write a book to share my unintentionally counterculture perspective with the world. Specifically, I am happily single, a solo adventurer with a talent for finding joy in unexpected places. And it seems that living my life this way causes a strange mixture of surprise, inspiration, and disdain from others.

Although singles are one of the fastest growing groups in the United Statesaccording to the US Census Bureau, 28 percent of all US households are single, up from 13 percent in 1960society doesnt seem to know what to make of us. Whenever I travel alone, nice couples in restaurants call me brave for eating by myself. Women of all ages tell me they wish they could travel solo and are inspired to see me doing it. A harried mom once stopped me in an amusement park to say that shed never seen anyone alone look as happy as I did. Im still not sure if that was a compliment or not.

Certainly, not everyone is supportive. Im regularly asked why I am still single, as if single is such a miserable state that I should be on a constant quest to exit it. My equal-parts healthy and dramatic Italian American mother tells me often, with a lingering sigh, that she doesnt want to die knowing I am still alone.

While more people are choosing to stay single, the social norms that demonize single-hood are holding strong. It often feels like everyone around the world expects a single person like me to be home alone crying into my cat, and they are collectively shocked to see another way of living standing enthusiastically in front of them.

To be honest, navigating singledom hasnt always been sunshine and rainbows. After my divorce, it was pretty terrifying figuring everything out alone after nearly a decade of living partnered. With time, lots of trial and error, and many embarrassing learning moments (just ask Michael Bubl), I realized I was so much stronger than I had ever imagined and theres no one-size-fits-all model for a happy life.

The net result of the mixed reactions of others and my own life experiences prompted a questnot to end my single status (sorry, Mom), but to celebrate it. My life proves that I dont need to be partnered to be happy, and I started thinking that writing a book would be a way to share my hard-fought perspective with more people than the few I ran into on my adventures. Imagine the positive impact on the world if more of this growing population of singletons could feel empowered to live fully now and not feel like they had to wait for a partner for their lives to begin!

So, I found myself with a rather baffling internal conflict. I had something to say and part of me wanted to write a book to say it. The rest of me considered my thirty-nine-year history of writing misery and subsequent writing-avoidant behavior and concluded that the aspiring-writer part had gone completely bat-shit crazy. Convinced that my midlife crisis was about to become a psychotic break, I took a trip to my favorite place in the world, Santorini, the Greek island, to clear my head. Obviously, I couldnt write a book. The mere thought of writing anything more than an email on purpose sent cold shivers of dread down my spine, kind of like that feeling when you stupidly watch Dateline at home alone on a Friday night during a thunderstorm while even your cat has enough sense to hide under the sofa.

I went to my favorite bookstore, the only one on the island, in search of a distraction from these persistent book-writing thoughts, which, in retrospect, was rather ironicto seek books in an attempt to avoid writing one. They have this funky table of books that the staff recommends. For the record, both the table itself and the books on it are funky; everything about this shop is funky. Entry requires passage down a violently steep and winding flight of stairs. The shop is full to bursting of people, books, cats, and weird dangling signs that hit you in the head as you try to shop. I love it.

On the funky table was a book titled The Opposite of Loneliness by Marina Keegan. The cover art showed this brazen-looking young woman, who seemed tough and smart and on a mission. She looked like a badass, the title sounded interesting, and it was recommended by the staff, so I picked it up. Its kind of funny how a little decision like picking up a book in a funky bookstore can change the course of your life. Marina was a Yale student and a promising writer on staff at the Yale Daily News. She was about to start her career as a professional writer when she was tragically killed in a car accident a week after her college graduation. She was twenty-two years old.

Here I was, thirty-nine years old, lamenting my old age and the passage of time, trying to convince myself that I had no stories to tell and that I couldnt write them if I did. And here was this woman, full of stories, who had all that potential taken from her. She never made it to twenty-three. I felt as if the entire Universe shook me violently and shouted, Pay attention! This woman couldnt tell her stories anymore, but I could still tell mine. Given my history of ignoring signs from the Universemost notably, the fire that burned down the church one week before my ill-fated weddingI knew in that moment I needed to listen to this one. That night, I went back to my hotel and wrote my first ever non-graded, on-purpose, not-an-email story.