just stop

an open letter to those who ask about marriage and babies

Drinks poured, food devoured — the family gathering melts into that post-meal lull. Cue Aunt Margaret, wearing that expression I know all too well: eyes bright with purpose, smile loaded like a spring trap. Uncle Bob’s fork freezes mid-air because he knows what’s coming too. Front-row seats to his favorite show.

And me? I’m already mentally rehearsing my lines, the same script I’ve performed at every holiday, birthday, and random Tuesday dinner for the past ten years.

“So, aren’t you about due for a wedding?” she asks as if an engagement ring might magically appear if she asks enough times. “Or thinking of having kids?”

And just like that, our cozy family dinner transforms into an impromptu evaluation. The warmth evaporates, replaced by that familiar pressure.

via the beau studio

I’m tired. Not just “big sigh and eye roll” tired, but throw my hands up and laugh at the absurdity tired. But being worn out by it won’t make it disappear, so let’s dive in.

Why do these questions feel so necessary? Is it tradition running on autopilot? Generational expectations casting long shadows? Or just that deliciously human urge to peek into someone else’s life timeline, comparing notes as if there’s only one plot worth following?

Honestly, I suspect Aunt Margaret’s questions might have very little to do with me and everything to do with this shared fiction — this “universal” roadmap suggesting that, by a certain age, we should all be ticking off “marriage” and “kids” like items on a grocery list. Maybe she’s simply run out of weather updates and is hoping my answer might spice up her evening. But really, when did my relationship status become the night’s entertainment?

And that’s the frustrating part: there’s so much more we could be talking about. Interesting, actual stuff! Ask me what it’s like juggling projects that fuel me, how I brush off rejection (and, occasionally, people like Aunt Margaret), or why I have an entirely unjustified aversion to feet. If we’re diving into “life choices,” let’s discuss the ones that shape my days — like my obsession with antique brass or my tragic track record as a plant parent, where greenery comes to, well, struggle.

See? We have options! Want more? Let’s debate the Oxford comma, be cliche and trade hot takes on pineapple pizza, or test my ability to quote 1940s noir films on command. I contain multitudes of conversation starters, each one more interesting than my relationship status.

The irony is that these questions often come from people who genuinely want to connect. But they’re reaching for connection through a template, missing the real person sitting right in front of them — missing the stories that make my eyes wide with wonder, the passions that keep me awake at night, the small victories and fascinating failures that make a life worth talking about.

I’m not just craving a new kind of conversation — I’m practically begging for it. The kind sparked by real curiosity, that celebrates each person, our unique paths and unplanned joys. The kind that breaks us free from scripted stories and lets us see each other, instead of the boxes we’re supposed to check.

///

Most people don’t mean to step on landmines. But these questions aren’t just awkward small talk — for many, they’re paper cuts sprinkled with lemon juice. Behind that polite smile might be someone drowning in dating app despair, a private struggle with infertility, a sense of uncertainty, or the simple truth that life isn’t a one-size-fits-all deal. And despite what the scripts say, it never has been.

And can we talk about the assumption that we’re all racing toward the same finish line? But many of us are creating our own way. When you ask, it’s like you’re holding someone to a standard that doesn’t fit them — a social measuring stick that only serves to make them feel smaller when they should be lauded for who they are, right here, right now.

And while we’re calling out the classics, let’s not forget the perennial favorite: “You’re such a catch! How are you single?” Or its companion line, “I can’t believe men aren’t lined up around the block for you.” The first time you hear it, it feels like a compliment — a hint of mystery, a touch of intrigue. By the tenth time, it’s an insult masquerading as flattery.

I can see the gears turning: there must be some explanation, right? Some hidden variable in this equation of singlehood? I half expect to find myself on a PowerPoint slide: “The Curious Case of the Unclaimed Catch.” But I’m not an experiment in need of a hypothesis. There’s no hidden reason, no secret flaw waiting in the wings to explain it all.

And if I’m really such a “catch,” stop wasting time, and let’s dive into what makes me one! Ask about what makes me feel alive, the ambitions and intentions that keep me up at night, or the quiet delights I’ve found along the way. Let’s celebrate the person I am now — single or otherwise. Because if “catch” is the word, then here I am, in living color, worthy of appreciation for everything that makes me, me.

///

If you’re asking these questions with love — and I know many of you are — I’m gently asking you to take a different path.

But if you’re one of those who tosses out these questions with that knowing smirk, maybe even a hint of a dare — I’m throwing down a reverse card. I dare you to dig deeper. There are a million oddities about me that are ripe for roasting! I’ve got a mind full of offbeat fascinations. I’m wonderfully weird, honestly, so the punchlines practically write themselves. Please, get creative! Go for the jugular! Let’s make this worth both of our time.

Because these tired milestones? They miss the whole story. They miss the laughter that flows into tears, the unexpected late-night adventures, the dreams that drive me forward in ways a timeline can’t define.

Mostly, they miss me.

There’s a whole person here, raw and achy, heart wide open to possibility. And I want to feel safe and loved, not like the latest act in some family freakshow lineup. Trust me, my life isn’t a spectacle; it’s simply a work in progress. Just like yours. But a little different.

And I’m giving it everything I’ve got.

I may not fit your timeline, but I don’t need to — I’m here, building a life that’s mine, and it’s more than enough.