Growing up, I was constantly reminded that 25 was the "right" age for marriage, and if you were lucky, maybe even 24. They said the man should be at least six years older, stable, and able to provide. For women, the job was simpler: keep the home, respect your husband, and be his peace. By 30, they warned, you’d be too old for any man to want you, in your 20s, many men would want you that's the best time to choose.

So, at 23, without a boyfriend, I felt as if life was slipping away. I started signing up on dating sites, smiling at men in church, even eyeing co-workers, hoping someone would come along. Then I met Joy—a man in his early 30s, employed, seemingly the perfect match. By the time I was 24, he proposed. It felt too fast, but my mother assured me this was a sign of his good intentions. I said yes, and we began preparing for marriage.

In the beginning, it was magical—gifts, trips, all the things you dream of. I was convinced this was love. But after the wedding, things changed. Joy came home late, decisions were made without me, and I dared not question him. One night, I found him on the phone with another woman. I waited until he was asleep to check his messages and saw pictures of him and her on trips, sharing moments that used to be ours.

Curious, I called the woman the next day. “Am I speaking with Naa?” I asked. “Yes, who’s this?” she replied. “I’m Joy’s wife,” I said, “but I’m not calling to fight. I just want to understand him better.” She laughed softly but encouraged me to ask my questions, "How long have you two been together?" I asked. 

 “For the year, we even have a daughter," she replied.

"So why didn't you marry him?" I asked again.

"Marriage? Joy isn’t the kind of man you marry. He’s charming, sure, but only when he’s not committed. I almost married him, but I chose myself. Good luck, though—you’ll need it.” she said to me.

Her words stung, but they made sense. The urgency in his proposal was him trying to hide his flaws. That evening, he confronted me as I came home from work. This was the first time he was getting home before me. "Why did you go through my phone?" he yelled. 

 “You’re sneaking around, treating me like I don’t matter, and I’m exhausted,” I said. He was angry, accusing me of disrespecting him by going through his phone. He refused to leave money for bills or upkeep. I didn't care; I just paid for the things I could pay for. When he realized that I wasn't bothered by his actions, he demanded I quit my job to stay home; I refused, so he continued to punish me with silence and resentment.

It hurt, but eventually, I stopped paying the bills, too, hoping he’d see how ridiculous this was. He didn't see the ridiculousness; I was married but alone, and the loneliness was unbearable. While he was out there with his friends, I had no real friends left to hang out with; I’d been too focused on finding a husband to nurture genuine connections. I was alone and trapped.

I dreaded being single at 30, but I realized something: 30 is not a deadline—it’s a milestone. I was too young to be this unhappy and too valuable to waste my life. I told my mother about the divorce, but she dismissed it, saying, “Marriage is hard; just endure and pray.” But after six years of praying, I knew I couldn’t keep sacrificing my happiness.

Read Also: When a Woman Can't Have Her Own Children, She's Still a Woman

When I filed for divorce, Joy laughed, thinking I’d change my mind. When he realized I wouldn’t, he tried to guilt me with our son. But I moved out, marking my 30th birthday as a single woman. Whoever said 30 is old lied. In reality, a bad marriage ages you far more than 30 ever could. I felt young, free, and full of hope.

At 30, I didn't have a line of men chasing me, but at 30, I didn’t need a line of men chasing me. I’d gained the wisdom to value myself and understand who was truly worth my time. For any woman who is afraid of turning 30, know that it’s not a nightmare; it’s a dream you don't want to wake up from.