I woke up earlier than usual today. And when I did, it was to check my WhatsApp messages to see if an acquaintance I’d met at another acquaintance’s birthday party had finally responded to my message asking if he’d enjoyed a concert he’d attended recently. No, he’d not responded, and frankly I don’t think he ever will.

On the heels of a courtship that had ended because “I just didn’t feel any attraction” to my suitor, I’d allowed myself to become swept up in a possibility of a real attraction with a man I barely knew. I mean, there was an exchange of glances across the room– like how they do in the movies. And then there was what felt like a fortuitous train ride Uptown on the 2, where we talked about how we like to spend time in the city. He laughed when I told him that in my 14 years of living in the city, I hadn’t known the MET was free until I got a corporate benefit that allowed me to go for free some 3 years ago. There was him asking for my contact info when we got to 72nd, and then the thing about how my name suits me perfectly, which was the last thing I remember him saying before he got off at 96th. After an agonizing and heady weekend where I pretended I wasn’t hoping for him to text me, he did.

We talked, and then we stopped. The last thing I sent him was a link to an exhibit at the MET I’d missed.

There’s something childishly embarrassing about being ignored, and then there’s something deeply chastising about repeating the same mistakes and getting the same unfulfilling outcomes. I have 2 weeks until I turn 30. I started this blog when I was 23, and I remember one of the first stories I wrote being very similar to this one. I talked about deferred hope and disappointment and walked away with a very clear lesson that I told myself I would never repeat. So I ask myself, why do I find myself in the same position some 7 years later?

As I get older, I realize that the battles that were once internally fought are now also being waged without. Guarding my heart is no longer just about protecting my own thoughts, it’s also about being careful to keep other people’s expectations and fears from becoming my own. All the guardrails that I carefully constructed in order to protect myself from heartache have, over time, crumbled under the burdens of age, and fear, and the endless inquiries of well intentioned elders. I’m experiencing what it feels like to be given permission by society to “let my guard down”. I’m having conversations about “positioning yourself strategically to be seen” and “putting yourself out there” with people I never thought I’d have that conversation with. But all this “putting myself out there” has left me in a vulnerable state and rendered me susceptible to pain that I thought I was too wise to experience again at the age of 30.

Being older doesn’t necessarily mean that things will hurt less, that’s something I’ve been reminding myself. Being older, and hopefully wiser, just means that Satan gets craftier and wilier and uses the things and people you least expect, to lead you astray.

I’m trying to be more intentional about what I let into my heart, what advice I take, and whose concerns I entertain. What does that look like? It looks like when my pastor corners me after church and tells me “We’ve been praying for you”, pity shrouding his features as if my singleness is a disease, or when I’m tempted to linger too long on a thought about how my name will sound rearranged with someone else’s last name when all they did was give an unconvincing compliment, I’ll deal with it with the wisdom of the Holy Spirit and not submerge myself head first before figuring out if they’re the right person for me.

I wrote this one Saturday morning about five months ago and never got around to publishing it. In the months since, I’ve found myself facing the same problem with different people—each time convinced that this was finally the right person for me, only to realize I was wrong. I’ve gotten really good at picking apart what some of these young men say, finding all the holes, and sometimes even reveling in the satisfaction of having caught them in a lie.

After one young man told me that Adam’s first wife’s name was Lilith, I promptly wrapped up the phone call, cackled like a lunatic in the kitchen by myself, and thanked God for making it easy on me. At 30, this is the cross I bear, and it’s heavy. I pray daily for the grace to submit my desires to Him and take on His yoke instead.