People love to ask me why I’m not married yet.
They ask with curiosity. Sometimes with concern.
And often, with a quiet assumption that something must be wrong.

But here’s the truth:
I’ve been pursued. I’ve had options. I’ve had attention.
But I’ve also had something far more important: clarity.

Clarity about what I want.
Clarity about what I deserve.
And above all, clarity about what my faith and upbringing taught me about who I am—and what kind of partnership I should never settle for.

I’m 25.
I’ve never been married, never been engaged, and never been in a serious relationship.

Not because I haven’t had the opportunity—but because I’ve never found someone I would feel good about bringing in front of my parents.

In our community, the fact that I am unmarried at the age of 25 raises eyebrows.
People wonder what’s wrong with me.
Some even act like I’m expired.

Meanwhile, my mom was married and had three children by the time she was my age.
She was doing school pickups and making dinners when she was barely older than I am now.
That was her life—and I love her for everything she gave and sacrificed.
But I also feel sadness when I think about how little time she had for herself.

She never got the chance to explore who she was outside of being a wife or a mother.
Those roles became her entire identity.
And I just… want something different.
Not because I think I’m better—but because she gave me the freedom to choose.

Thanks to her sacrifices, my faith, and my own healing journey, I’ve been able to discover who I am before attaching myself to someone else.

Still, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t try.

I tried to meet men through Islamic means. I spoke to friends of friends, trusted family connections, and even tried Muslim matchmaking platforms.
I approached it sincerely. I made du’a. I kept my values at the center.

But even with all of that effort, I knew in my heart: none of them were someone I’d ever introduce to my parents.

They didn’t match me in emotional depth, values, or spiritual maturity.
They weren’t what I was looking for—and not in a superficial way, but in the core way that matters most in a life partner.

I spent a few years searching—honestly, mostly out of pressure.
Because people made it seem like if I wasn’t actively “trying,” I was failing. Like marriage was something you had to chase or you’d be left behind.

Eventually, I realized: I wasn’t being difficult. I was being honest.
And I didn’t believe in forcing something that was never meant to be rushed.

So I stopped chasing—and I surrendered.
I returned to the only timeline that’s ever truly mattered to me: Allah’s.

And if I’m being completely honest, during the years I spent trying to force something to work, I made mistakes.
I found myself ignoring my own dealbreakers.
I silenced my gut. I downplayed red flags. I softened my standards just to keep the possibility alive.

But the truth is—my religion and my faith were always what protected me.
When my intuition was foggy, when I didn’t feel strong enough to walk away, when I questioned myself—Allah intervened.

People may have had harmful intentions. But they didn’t succeed.
Because my Lord never left me.
My faith re-centered me.
My salah held me.
My du’as realigned me.
And my values—rooted in Islam—saved me.
It was divine love.
And it’s the reason I’m standing here today, more whole, more faithful, and more certain of who I am.

The more I let go of what others expected of me, the more I started to see clearly.

And the more I spoke to people from my culture about marriage, the more I realized how transactional it had become for so many.

“You do this for me, and I’ll do that for you.”
“You need to give me this much money if you want to marry me.”
“Spend this much on gold, this much on the wedding.”
“I want a wife who will stay home, cook, clean, raise the kids, and never complain.”

It felt less like a spiritual partnership—and more like a business agreement between families.

I don’t want to be chosen for how well I perform a role.
I want to be seen for who I am: a woman of faith, depth, ambition, softness, and strength.
Someone who wants to build a life with her partner—not be absorbed by him.

Marriage should be a mutual act of worship. Not a transaction.
And if I have to wait for that kind of love, I will.
Because I know what I’m waiting for—and I know Who I’m trusting to bring it.

I don’t know where people learned that Allah expects us to get married just for the sake of getting married.
Marriage is not a checkbox on a to-do list.
It’s not a cure for loneliness.
And it’s definitely not something to enter lightly just to avoid judgment.

Marriage is one of the biggest commitments of your life.
It’s a contract. A trust. A spiritual bond that can either elevate you—or break you.
It affects your heart, your faith, your children, and your akhirah.

Why would I enter that lightly?

I believe Allah wants us to choose wisely, intentionally, and from a place of truth—not fear.

So no, I won’t rush.
And I won’t let community timelines rush me either.
Because love, to me, is too sacred for that.
And I trust the One who writes my story.

I still believe in marriage.
I believe in companionship, in shared dreams, in building something sacred with the right person.

But I don’t believe in settling.
I don’t believe in silencing parts of myself to fit into someone else’s version of “acceptable.”
And I definitely don’t believe in rushing into something just to make others more comfortable.

So no—I’m not married yet.
And I’ve never felt more aligned.

I know who I am.
I know what I bring.
And I know that this season of my life—this single, clear-minded, faith-filled chapter—is not an in-between.
It’s a gift.

And a big part of why I’m able to see it that way is because of how I was raised.

My dad protected me in a way that was deeply rooted in Islam. He always said, “Any man who wants to marry you has to go through me first.”
Not in a controlling or intimidating way, but with love, with honor, and with the kind of firmness that taught me:
You are worth guarding. Your heart is not something I’ll hand over lightly.

That kind of love raised my standards.
It showed me that being loved is not about being chosen by someone—it’s about being valued, respected, and protected.

My mom raised me to be prepared.
From a young age, she drilled it into my head:
“Get your education. Build your career. Always have something of your own—just in case.”

But it wasn’t just guidance—it was non-negotiable.
Education wasn’t optional in my house. I was expected to succeed, to stay focused, and to always have a way to stand on my own.
At the time, I resented it.
I didn’t understand why I had to work so hard while others coasted.
But now, I’m deeply grateful.

Because that pressure shaped me. That structure gave me freedom.
And in hindsight, I can see that my parents were raising me with the very values Islam has always given women:
To be strong. To be capable. To be educated. To be independent—not so I’d reject love, but so I’d never stay in a love that made me lose myself.

And when I started studying the lives of the Prophet Muhammad’s ﷺ wives, it all began to click.

These women weren’t silent or sidelined.
They were leaders, scholars, healers, intellectuals, businesswomen—fully themselves and fully respected.

Khadijah (RA) was a wealthy entrepreneur who proposed to the Prophet ﷺ.
Aisha (RA) was a fierce intellect, a teacher, and a narrator of hadith.
Umm Salamah (RA) was deeply wise and helped guide the ummah in moments of crisis.

Their power didn’t threaten the Prophet ﷺ—it was cherished by him.
Their knowledge wasn’t overlooked—it was passed down as part of our deen.
They didn’t shrink to become marriageable—they were chosen as they were.

Learning about them changed me.
It reminded me that Islam doesn’t ask me to dim my light.
It asks me to be sincere. Faithful. Intentional. Strong in character.

If you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt “behind” or “not enough”—you’re not alone.
You’re not broken.
You’re not expired.

You’re just becoming.
And when the right person comes, it won’t feel like a compromise.
It’ll feel like alignment.

Until then, I’m choosing myself.
With faith. With softness. With strength.
And with the same love that my father modeled for me, that my religion taught me, and that I’ve finally learned to give myself.

With love and faith,
Z