A month or so before my 35th birthday, I was looking at myself in the mirror and it dawned on me that as a Black woman I had entered that pool. I would soon be officially past something. Past my childhood crushes of yesteryear, when I hoped the stringy-haired Tom Perkins with the mushroom cut would notice me in the hallway. Little did I know that at such a young age, I already was a pickmeisha, pining after some silly kid who didn’t deserve my love.

Tinder and OkCupid dates defined my late 20s. I soldiered through countless outings, though it would always leave me ghosted, gaslit and left with a finger cramp from all the swiping. And then there was that time I was trying to get married, so I had a fiance. Four years into the relationship I decided to leave for New Jersey because it hit me I had no idea what I was doing. My early 30s were about learning the power of no — nah, next, nein. Perhaps it was discernment or hyper-vigilance, but I felt that no company was better than mediocre company.

As I was standing in front of the mirror (something I had begun obsessively doing as I was counting down to 35), I noticed that not much had changed. The only difference was the frown lines forming between my nose and chin. It was then I realized I was officially out of the kiddie pool. At first, I panicked, thinking of how I’d increase my water intake and drink copious amounts of green juice to reverse the etched lines on my face. For 10 minutes I was relieved at my empower-thyself attitude, but then I felt helpless again.

I texted a friend about my problem and she immediately sent me a to-the-point message: “You’re not a child anymore, but you don’t look old.” So I looked at myself again, this time a bit more solid in accepting that sometimes, it is what it is.

There stood a single Black woman, no longer a baby with undefined features, but someone chiseled with definition. I had been admitted into the pool with the more seasoned swimmers now, and what was staring me in my face was the truth. For most of my adult life, I had chosen to be alone, mostly because I had chosen myself.

Every time I had fallen short of someone’s expectations of who I should be or felt suffocated, I eventually walked away. It’s not that I didn’t have love for those I was with, but as Samantha said in Sex and the City when she broke up with that blonde-haired guy, “I love me more.”

Dr. Sarah L. Webb, a scholar and colorism activist, has done substantial work on healing among the Black women collective. She talks about the dilemma of being single and not the beauty norm while recognizing that being in one’s own solitude may be the best course of action until something of substance comes along. In one of her videos, she says, “I am now beginning to gain intimacy with every crease, every freckle, every scar, every vein, every mole, shadow, every pore of my skin…”

In a world where being a Black woman with love for herself is not always appreciated, having the courage to choose myself might very well be a success.

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Itoro Bassey

Writing since April 2022 · 1 story contributed