How old do you want to be before you get married?

Have you ever felt a quiet longing that no one else seems to notice? A desire so persistent it lingers in the corners of your heart, even on your brightest days? Have you ever been asked a simple question that feels far from simple, one that makes you pause, reflect, and confront your own expectations?

Do you know the weight of unspoken questions, the ones people ask with a smile, with curiosity, or with judgment hidden in their tone? How does it feel when those questions echo long after the conversation ends, quietly reminding you of what you do not yet have?

Have you ever looked around and wondered why life seems to move differently for you? Why some things that appear effortless for others take longer for you? Do you know what it is like to celebrate the successes of others while quietly wrestling with your own unmet desires?

Do you know the ache of longing that shows no mercy? The kind that sits quietly beneath laughter, beneath work, beneath your efforts to appear content? Do you know how it feels to wake up with purpose and go through the motions of life, yet carry a part of yourself that feels incomplete?

Have you ever prayed without ceasing and still wondered if your prayers are too small, too late, or unanswered? Have you asked for what your heart longs for and felt the weight of waiting stretch longer than your patience feels able to hold?

Do you know what it feels like to face the assumptions of others, the whispers, the questions, the raised eyebrows, while keeping your own journey private? How does it feel when society measures your life by timelines, by milestones, by choices you have not yet made?

Have you ever given your best effort, your sincerity, your hope, only to see doors close, messages unanswered, relationships end, or expectations unmet? How do you carry hope again after disappointment? How do you continue believing in what you cannot yet see?

Have you wondered if waiting makes you weak or if it quietly builds strength? If patience is a burden or a lesson? If your longing is a flaw or a sign that you are human, fully alive, and deeply aware of what you desire?

Do you know what it is like to hope in silence, to trust without proof, to pray without cease, and to keep your heart open even when the world suggests you should stop? Have you ever considered that your story, with all its waiting, uncertainty, and persistence, might one day inspire someone else to hold on, to believe, and to trust their own journey?

Someone asked me, “How old do you want to be when you get married?” At first, it sounded simple, the kind of question people ask casually, sometimes with a smile, sometimes with curiosity, and sometimes with a tone that already carries judgment. I have heard it so many times that I no longer flinch. Still, each time, it finds its way to a quiet place inside me.

Growing up like most of us, marriage was part of the picture. Not as pressure, but as hope. To marry a loving partner, build a peaceful home, raise kind and grounded children, share laughter and disagreements, grow together, and return each day to a place that feels safe. Nothing excessive. Just love, effort, and faith holding things together.

I never imagined that I would be here now. Single. Unmarried. Without a child. Not at this stage of my life. If I am honest, it feels like a lump in my throat that refuses to clear. Some days it is small. Other days it is heavy and loud.

Each day, I show up. I smile. I laugh. I work. I give my best where I can. But when the noise fades and night arrives, this is the thought I often retire to bed with. It does not shout. It whispers. Constantly.

Do you know how it feels to do everything right and still feel that a part of you is missing? To wake up full of purpose, yet carry a longing that refuses to leave?

I do not measure success by marriage or by the number of children one has. I never have. A person can be married and still feel alone. A person can have children and still feel empty. I know this. Still, pretending it does not affect me would be dishonest. The concern I carry runs deeper than the comments people make. I worry more than anyone worries for me.

Some say I am too selective, as if choosing carefully is a fault. Some think I am not serious because they do not see the private conversations, the emotional investment, the prayers, and the hopes that never made it into public view. Others quietly decide that I am not marriage material, without knowing my heart, my intentions, or the weight of responsibility I carry. Everyone seems to have a ready explanation.

What many do not see about being single is the amount of effort that has gone into trying. I did not sit back waiting. I looked in places I never imagined I would. Conversations that began on social media. Introductions through friends. Talking stages that stretched for months. Late night conversations filled with hope. Phone calls where the future was spoken about with confidence.

And then there were the harder moments, the moments of being ghosted. Messages going days without response. Phone calls left unanswered. When a simple check-in or “how are you?” was treated as a problem. Experiencing interest from someone only to realize they were not honest or kind. The things one is put through when they develop an interest, without realizing the impact, are heavy and often painful. Each experience leaves you questioning your own judgment, yet you rise again, hoping the next effort will be different.

When searching on my own gave no successful results, there were times I would swallow my pride and ask for help. I humbled myself and told people close to me that I was open, that if they knew someone genuine, they should let me know. I followed suggestions. I met people I was introduced to with sincerity. All of it led nowhere. Each attempt ended the same way. Quietly. Painfully. In vain.

There were moments when I grew tired of trying to get it right. Moments when I told myself that maybe I was overthinking things. Moments when I felt that if any woman said yes, I would go with it. Not out of love, but out of exhaustion. That choice turned out worse than I imagined. Compromising peace just to avoid being alone only brought confusion and regret. It taught me that desperation costs more than patience.

Some connections faded slowly, like a candle burning at both ends, warmth dwindling until only the shadow remained. Others ended without warning, leaving a silence so sudden it felt like the ground had shifted beneath my feet. Some were never honest from the start, carrying hidden intentions or unspoken doubts that only became clear too late. Some disappeared the moment commitment was mentioned, retreating as if responsibility itself was unbearable.

Each time after a failed attempt at having a decent relationship, I gathered myself, stitched together the pieces of my hope, prayed for guidance and strength, questioned my choices and my heart, and tried again. I reminded myself that persistence is not the same as stubbornness, and that hope often requires patience, even when patience feels impossible. Each attempt left its mark, sometimes in quiet pain, sometimes in lingering doubt, but it also taught me resilience, humility, and the quiet courage to continue believing in what I cannot yet see.

Do you know how it feels to pray constantly and still wait? To ask God for what your heart longs for and wonder if your prayers are too small, too late, or simply unanswered?

Life, in my experience, has given freely in some areas and withheld in others. Opportunities, joys, and successes have come when least expected, yet in the areas that matter most to the heart, the waiting has been long and heavy. Things that appear effortless for many have taken longer for me. Sometimes what should come early arrives late, forcing you to wrestle with hope, doubt, and the creeping fear that perhaps it may never come at all.

I enter spaces and once people recognize me, the question comes. Are you married? When will you marry? My response has always been the same. Then come reminders of my age. Advice about having children early so I do not end up with what they call pension babies. They are not entirely wrong. These are the same questions I ask myself, often in harsher words.

My story is not special. Many of us live this quietly.

What people rarely see are the hidden attempts that failed. Relationships that ended because someone said their parents did not want their daughter to marry a Northerner. Or because reasons kept changing. Each experience takes something from you. Confidence does not disappear suddenly. It fades slowly.

Unlike others, some of us cannot juggle emotions. One relationship already feels like a heavy responsibility. So we enter it with sincerity, place all our hope there, and when it breaks, rebuilding takes time. It is messy. It is tiring. It is human.

There are moments of self doubt. Moments of exhaustion. Moments of faith followed by silence.

Do you know how it feels when people look at you with suggestive stares or comments implying that your delay must be spiritual? Some say I should pray more, but no one knows the kind of prayers I have been saying quietly for years. They do not know that prayer is part of me, woven into my mornings, my nights, my hope, and my fear.

Each delayed answer is not a denial. Each delay represents God shaping my life and preparing a woman who pleases Him and is right for me. Do you know how it feels to trust what you cannot yet see? To surrender timing to someone who understands better than you ever could? I hold onto this truth. I believe that when the time comes, it will be right. You will not be left out. God is El Shaddai.

I know some will see me sharing this as desperation. Others will say no one needs to hear my side of the story and that I should simply do the needful. Some will see weakness. Others may call it embarrassing. Some may say I have a problem. Many will judge without understanding.

I share this to document my journey. I share it for those who cannot speak, for those in similar situations who feel alone. I share it as a voice for the voiceless, to show that waiting does not mean failure and that hope still has a place here. I share it so people can see how this story unfolds. Whether it ends in marriage or lifelong singleness, it will be a story told honestly. Some may one day call it a miracle. Others may find strength in it. Some may simply feel less alone.

Marriage is of God. It is not determined by age, by the expectations of others, or by the ticking of a clock that society imposes. It does not bend to pressure, public opinion, or hurried timelines. When God permits, even if it is today, I will marry, and it will be in alignment with His plan, not my impatience or anyone else’s standards. Until then, I choose to live honestly with myself and others. I grow through each experience, learning patience, resilience, and deeper understanding of what it truly means to love and to be loved. I nurture hope as a daily practice, holding onto faith that what is meant for me will arrive in its fullness, and that the waiting itself is part of the preparation for a joy that is enduring and real.

Do you know how it feels to hope daily without losing faith? To wake up each morning telling yourself to believe again, even when yesterday ended in silence? To carry trust in your heart while time keeps moving, birthdays pass, and expectations grow louder?

Do you know how it feels to hold onto a promise you cannot yet see, to protect it from doubt, from tired questions, from well-meaning advice that still cuts deep? To choose belief over bitterness, patience over anger, and quiet trust over despair, even when your strength feels thin?

It is choosing faith when waiting becomes heavy. It is deciding not to harden your heart, not to give up on love, not to lose yourself in comparison. It is standing in hope, not because it is easy, but because letting go would cost you more.

And so, I continue. Not in despair, not in bitterness, not in surrender. I continue in faith, in honesty, in hope. I continue with the quiet certainty that life does not move in straight lines and that God’s timing is perfect, even when it feels delayed. My story is still being written, and each chapter, each lesson, each longing, is part of the narrative that shapes me, strengthens me, and prepares me.

If marriage comes, it will be a gift of God’s design. If it does not, I will still carry a life rich in purpose, in learning, in love of other kinds, in self-discovery, and in resilience. Either way, this journey is mine, and I will walk it with courage and dignity, holding my hope close, knowing that every moment, every tear, every prayer, every quiet night, is part of a story worth telling.

Because life, in all its waiting, all its unanswered questions, and all its unexpected turns, is never meaningless. And neither am I.

This is not a request for sympathy. It is my truth. Open. Frank. Human.

If this sounds like your story, know that you are not alone. If it does not, remember that everyone is carrying a story you may never hear.

By Victor Raul Puobabangna Plance from Eggu in the upper West Region of Ghana

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