On Not Being Settled - An unpublished post from 2021
I’ve begun exploring my archives from Zero Waste Generations and Petrafied, two blogs and businesses I owned a few years ago. Now, I’d like to breathe new life into some of the content from these blogs by sharing them here instead. This post was written on Petrafied on 9th May 2021 in London.
In my teenage years, my grandma’s gal pals from the village would regularly corner me with the ever-anticipated question: “What’s happening with the boys?”—their salt-and-pepper eyebrows wiggling with cheeky curiosity. They hoped for juicy gossip about modern romance, but I always disappointed them. I was either heartbroken or entirely uninterested in love.
Twenty years on, it seems I’ve officially broken the family tradition. The UK government granted me Settled Status last year—which, ironically, may be the closest I’ll ever come to being “settled” in the traditional sense. Never say never, of course. But the more men I meet, the more I want to adopt a dog. Or a koala. Or an owl (because owls are just objectively awesome).
And while Carrie Bradshaw lied about a lot of things, Sex and the City did shift the narrative on singlehood. It gave generations of single women cultural permission to wait patiently for Mr. Big—even if he marries two other women before finally realising, “Carrie, you’re the one.” You're either waiting for your well-earned fairytale ending, rushing into a sensible engagement with a kind, handsome, baggage-free man who adores you, or settling down simply because society says it’s time.
A couple of weeks ago, a late-night DM lit up my phone:
“How are you not married yet? You're pretty, cool, easy to talk to, and you make a good living.”
Sent from my home country and written in my mother tongue, the message had that direct, unfiltered tone only a Hungarian could get away with. And honestly, I didn’t mind. It felt like home. Like those good old family gatherings where someone would casually announce how fat I’d gotten or how awful my haircut looked—regardless of the number of strangers, friends, or priests in the room. As a teen, those comments often brought tears. But now? That DM made me grin so wide it hurt my cheekbones.
And not because someone thinks I’m pretty or approachable. Trust me—see me on day one of my period, and that message would be recalled faster than you can say hormonal rage. It would likely be edited down to: “How are you not married yet? You make a good living.” Now that would spark an entirely different internal monologue.
That Saturday night, I was at my desk, sipping a glass of quirky red and flipping through the latest New Yorker articles. When the message popped up, I burst out laughing. Then I started thinking—about my freshly microbladed eyebrows, about the 14 years I’ve poured into my career, about the tiny Hungarian village where I was raised. I thought about the poverty I was born into, the many years spent mastering English, and the friendships I’ve built across continents.
Glass in hand, I stood up and wandered around my apartment. I took in every piece of furniture I’d chosen and paid for. I opened the balcony door and glanced at the City of London. It was still there, basked in orange sunset, steady on my doorstep—making me feel alive, every single time.
As I leaned on the glass banister to catch the day’s last golden light, I smiled.
I smiled because, despite everything I’ve achieved, the most socially acceptable form of validation still seems to be a ring on my finger.
I smiled because that idea now feels quaint, even comical.
And I smiled because, thankfully, I’m no longer under any pressure—internal or external—to settle for anything that doesn’t feel right.
