In the wise words of Rachel Green - "Everyone I know is either getting married or getting pregnant or getting promoted and I'm getting coffee!"

A note on being single in your late 20s

Coming from a girl who just had her second coffee of the day…

There’s a strange kind of loneliness that comes from standing at the edge of a life everyone else seems to be stepping into. I’m just a few weeks away from hitting twenty-nine, I find myself having a cup of coffee, scrolling through social media, watching my friends get engaged, get married, or buy homes. In those moments, it’s hard not to hear Rachel Green’s voice in my head. "Everyone I know is getting married or getting pregnant or getting promoted and I'm getting coffee."

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It’s not that I’m unhappy, not at all. In fact, I’ve built a life I love. I live abroad, in a city that shines brightly every morning and glows with history and energy every night. I’ve explored cobbled streets alone, learned a new language (more on this struggle another time), tasted new foods, and grown into a version of myself that a younger me would be proud of. But fulfillment doesn’t always erase loneliness. There’s a small, stubborn part of me that wonders if I’m somehow being left behind.

Back home, everything feels like it’s happening all at once. One by one, my friends are reaching those milestones that once felt so far away and so near at the same time - moving in with partners, getting engaged and married, finding career stability. When I Facetime them, I see the glowing excitement in their eyes as they tell me about their engagement to the man they love or the steps they are taking to start planning for babies. I celebrate with them, genuinely and fully. But the moment we hang up, I’m left with a heavy silence. Sometimes, I wish I could be there with them, experiencing these moments in real life, not through the blur of a phone screen.

Living abroad adds a layer of distance that’s not just physical. When you’re far away, time zones and miles stretch out between you and the people you love. They gather for Sunday brunch, and you’re having dinner alone in a different country. They talk about the challenges of wedding planning, while you laugh about the challenges of having yet another first date with a guy you can’t fully understand. It’s not that one experience is more valuable than the other - it’s just that sometimes, it feels like you’re speaking different languages, each on your own path, when at one point your paths were exactly the same, side by side.

There’s also a beautiful side to being alone in your late twenties. You get to be selfish in the best possible way. I’ve learned how to rely on myself, how to embrace solitude without it feeling like emptiness. I’ve made impulsive decisions, last-minute trips, new friends and hobbies - because I had the freedom to do so. There’s a fulfillment that comes from knowing that you’re truly capable of building a life for yourself, without the safety net of a partner or the construct of someone else’s expectations. But there’s also the undeniable ache that comes with wishing you had someone beside you, to share and experience life with.

Being single in your late twenties can feel like straddling two worlds - one where you’re proud of your independence, and one where you long for the companionship that seems to be coming so easily for everyone else. It’s the feeling of scrolling past engagement photos while lying in bed alone on a Saturday night, or trying to explain to your friends back home why you’re not ready to move back, even though you miss them more than words can say. It’s feeling deeply fulfilled by the choices you’ve made, but also deeply aware of the moments you’re missing out on.

I think of Rachel Green, sitting in her local cafe with her coffee, as I sit in mine, watching the world move on without her, and I find comfort in her words. Maybe I’m not alone in feeling alone. Maybe there’s a beauty in the in-between -  in getting coffee, in figuring things out, in taking the long way around. It’s a strange, bittersweet kind of freedom, but it’s mine. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now.