Just to be clear: Today is, in many ways, the best time in American history to be single.
In the 18th century, bachelors paid higher taxes and faced harsher punishments for crimes than their betrothed counterparts. (“A Man without a Wife,” Benjamin Franklin said, “is but half a Man.”) Single women—more likely, naturally, to be seduced by the devil—were disproportionately executed for witchcraft. Through the 19th century and into the 20th, women had limited options for employment—and banks could refuse to let them open accounts until 1974, so the choice, for many of them, was marriage or poverty.
Forgive me, then, if I sound ungrateful when I say this: Americans are still extremely weird about single people. But now the problem isn’t just that singlehood is disparaged; sometimes, it’s that singlehood is celebrated. Relentlessly, annoyingly celebrated. Let me explain.
The assumption that partnership is a priority has not disappeared in this country. In 2019, when the Pew Research Center asked participants how necessary a committed romantic relationship is for a fulfilling life, nearly 60 percent said it’s important, and roughly 30 percent said it’s essential. Of course they did: Couples are the ones who get plus-one invites to weddings or office parties or family gatherings; they’re the ones who might be able to share health insurance, or sponsor each other for visas, or get tax benefits. Routine life—paying rent, getting groceries, reserving hotel rooms—is often far more expensive for single people (and especially single parents), who can’t as easily split costs or buy in bulk. We’re still living in a partnered person’s world.
At the same time, I’ve noticed a counter-impulse, perhaps a reaction to all that injustice: a kind of public cheerleading for singlehood. Single celebrities seem pressed to make statements about how much they love solo life (and then promptly enter a relationship). People use terms like sologamy (“self-marriage”) or self-partnered (thank you, Emma Watson) or—you cannot make this stuff up—“QuirkyAlone.” Therapists advise embracing one’s single status with phrases such as “I’m focused on myself right now,” as if not having a partner automatically means you must be growing. And of course, much of this singlehood PR campaign targets women specifically. Single men have never faced quite as much scrutiny; they’ve had the luxury, more often, of being seen as full people in their own right. The 21st-century single woman is the one who has to prove her complete humanity by performing her contentment. She is empowered; she’s badass; she slays. She might also grieve—but no one really wants to talk about that.
I’ve spoken with a lot of single people, in my reporting and just in the course of life, who enjoy full, happy lives, complete with friends, family, meaningful work, and creative outlets—and who also yearn for partnership. These things are not mutually exclusive. I struggle sometimes to convey this in my own writing: Describing the absence of romantic love as a lack feels regressive. But then, so many people are telling me they feel they’re lacking something—something they want very badly. Who am I to deny that sense of loss? I’ve been single most of my adult life. I know that when you want a relationship, not having one can feel lonely; feeling like you shouldn’t want one just makes you lonelier. And all the polite cheeriness about singlehood—especially from partnered people, in a society still designed for couples—can feel disingenuous and patronizing.
Now would be a great time for some nuance. In recent years, the number of single people has been growing, in the United States as well as many other countries. Some have cast that shift as a victory, a sign that people are throwing off the shackles of compulsory coupledom and bad relationships; others have declared it an emergency, arguing that frustrated singles are giving up on romance—and that they’re going to miss out. I think both of these theories are a little bit true. Some people love being single, and some people hate it. Plenty fall somewhere in the middle. They’re happy with their life, and they won’t settle for anyone less than amazing—and they’re disappointed that someone amazing hasn’t come along.
Singlehood isn’t really unique in this sense. No one has a perfect life. Some people don’t have the career they’d like or the means to pursue their passion; others long for children, or find themselves tied to a city while they’re dreaming of living in the country. None of that, obviously, defines them as people or reduces them to objects of pity. And yet we tiptoe around the wish for love, as if recognizing it would imply that single people are all regrettably unfulfilled.
For the pursuit of romance to carry any shame is especially odd in 2025, when online dating, now the primary way partners meet, requires that you cop to having some desire. (Your profile isn’t going to create itself.) Instead of just acknowledging that totally commonplace aspiration, though, we romanticize serendipity: People hope that love will fall into their lap so they never need to debase themselves by seeking it, or they say they’re just poking around on the apps out of casual curiosity. The culture tells us, simultaneously, that we should be in a couple and that we should feel whole all by ourselves. We should have a partner, but we shouldn’t want one.
For a long time, I realize now, I internalized this. My friends, experiencing extended strings of bad dates and rejections and false starts, talked candidly about their sadness; all the while, I was sunny. Sure, I’ll date someone if they turn up, I insisted. But look how good our lives are! We have each other. I felt some pride being so self-actualized—such a good, friendship-loving feminist. I also felt, I’m sorry to say, a twinge of embarrassment for my friends. They wanted so openly.
I had it backwards, though: I was the one who was uncomfortable with singlehood. The idea of desiring a partner yet not having one made me itch—but trying to run away from it only put me on an optimism hamster wheel. If I could go back, I wouldn’t tell my friends that it’s all going to work out, or that they don’t need anyone. You’re perfect, I would say instead. And this is hard.
The post The False Cheer of ‘Single Positivity’ appeared first on The Atlantic.
