Do you judge single women in their late thirties?
38 & 11 Months. Miss Independent, but …
Not desperate. Desiring. Not settling — settled in faith. Still believing.
I’m 38 and 11 months. Months — that’s how you measure new babies, not grown women who still want babies of their own. But here I am, 13 months shy of 40, wanting what I want. Not freezing my eggs. Not freezing myself. I trust God’s timing more than my timeline. His plan has always been better than mine.
I arrived in Colorado — my happy place — this Tuesday. My sanctuary. Where the mountains say: “Double down on God.” Where the magpies landed at my feet last summer, whispering: “Trust.” Where the trails and rivers keep me close to God — freer than I’ve never felt in Austin or New York or any place I ran to lose me and find me. Here, My highest self arrives. I’m me.
I felt the tears at the airport before I even boarded—dopamine peaks when the excitement begins. Austin is a dead zone for me — a place that served purpose, a cocoon to heal, hide, and now somewhere I simply feel empty. Home, not a place, a feeling, but the mountains have long felt home to me. On the plane ride, little feet kicked the window shade in front of me. Little hands pushed my red booties off the rail. I scooted past families at baggage claim heading west to make memories. I’ve been making memories solo for a while. Last year my family was here for the Fourth — fireworks over the mountains, my brothers, nieces and parents beside me. This year, it’s just me. And sure, that feels like freedom too — my own kind of independence. I can walk into any restaurant and always find a seat, but I’d trade waiting for a table any day for someone I loved joining me.
Just last week in Austin, I got “ma’am,” seven times. Do I look like a ma’am, sir? I wondered. What does a ma’am even look like? Maybe it’s my late thirties smile lines. So I got my face micro-needled for the first time. Was each “ma’am” a polite reminder: tick-tock? What we focus on expands. I’d prefer focusing on something more interesting.
My first night in town. Dinner. Same seat. Same summer rolls. Extra peanut sauce, mountain tap water on ice, lemon slice. A prayer before eating: Thank you, God, for this food. Thank you, body, for receiving. The rolls weren’t as good as I remembered — maybe because I took it upon myself to make my own at home with air fried ruby red trout or miso glazed sea bass. Fresh watercress. Basil. Wrapped in rice paper and dipped in seed oil–free peanut sauce. Homemade always tastes better.
Behind me sat the forever bachelor I’d known decades ago. Flowing locks, now grey. Two babies strapped to him with proof that life moves on and even the fast moving Porsched, “Art World,” MIA/NYC, bachelor evolves—I didn’t say hi. We didn’t date. I dated his friend. I shed a tear or two waiting for my food, which quickly turned to giggles in texts to girlfriends. And a text to my parents: I’m ready to meet my husband. A ready I hadn’t felt before. Not needing, but knowing. The tears weren’t sadness — just reality. Longing. Seeing art--car bachelor felt like confirmation, a God wink: There is someone for everyone. Keep the faith. Trust the timing. Before I got up to leave, I closed my eyes, and felt his hand in mine, the guy I’ve not yet met—who’s ready for me too. I know he’ll find me.
Day two, after an eight-mile run, Clark’s for lunch. I sat down to a fresh crudo plate, and crusty bread smeared with whipped butter, sea salt—swiped through plate vinaigrette of capers, olive oil, and chopped red onions. Washed down with just cloudy enough iced tea. I was pushed to the communal table: A solo diner in summer’s busiest week. I didn’t mind, was grateful for a seat, and overheard the couple next to me: “Wanna split a burger?” Some people want the proposal, wedding, the ring. Me? I want my best friend, my hubby, my future baby daddy biking with a baby cart behind him down the Rio Grande trail, while I run beside him and our future mini-me. A burger to split. A hand to hold when the hotel feels foreign. A body next to mine when I can’t sleep. Not the big things — the moments in between.
There have been prospects. Sorta. Maybe. Nothing I took seriously — so nothing serious. There was the guy of the Budweiser family — a messy make out after I spoke on a panel at Soho House before some dancing at White Horse Tavern. Then the Armenian lawyer — funny but too dark to date God loving, magic believing, “me.” We went out three times and mutually ghosted after Christmas Eve. His Hinge profile said, “I’m not a good candidate for therapy.” Not the guy for me. And then the Labor Day setup by a friend who knew his sister, not him personally— the guy I’d Facebook chatted with eight years prior. After one phone call last summer, he sent me a photo of his plane ticket to Aspen to meet me — Oof. I should’ve known better, and I did, as soon as he arrived. A quick hello and a quicker goodbye. One year later, my boundaries are stronger. My knowing steadier. No desperation. If he’d texted me this time around, I wouldn’t have replied.
The few sprinkled prospects came sporadically, over nearly two years and eight months of self-imposed celibacy, following the ex I left prior on the blood moon eclipse 11/11/22. That was a doozy. We moved in together 5 months after meeting —strangers playing house, chasing the dream of marriage and babies. Destination, not journey. When we met, I’d known he was the one before the one and still I went through the motions, good practice, (albeit painful) maybe? I broke it off and ran to Aspen, came back, tried to make it work, even jumped into MDMA assisted couples therapy — as he traced his hand over my heart and my womb, in the most intense intimacy with other I’ve experienced, I asked him to repeat audibly, “Your heart is safe in my hands. Your womb is safe in my hands.” He said it. It wasn’t true. My body always knew he cheated, emotionally and physically. I carried it for months, and the grief accompanying. My self imposed celibacy was necessary: a reclamation of life force energy after breakup and years of dating and externally sourced seeking. And now integrated, aligned, alive, reconnected to me, I’m ready for love — because I took time and space to fall in love with me.
The other night I dreamed of a little boy named Hiro — which means generous in Japanese. In the dream, he said: “Don’t swallow your faith.” The mountains echo the same to me: Double down on God. The magpies last summer whispered: Trust. Same message, different messengers. And so I do, 13 months shy of 40, I will never lose hope of the dreams God put on my heart for me: a movement with impact, a partnership that expands time, home in the mountains, family. Or the pride of the triumphs taken to bring me, here. Not settling — but honest in my desire.
Faith is funny like that. It asks you to believe in what you can’t see. So does fear — but what fear silences, faith expands. This year, I’m choosing soft girl summer — a thought I’ve never had, which came to me as I climbed upon arrival. Soft that means, open to receive. Softly believing, in everlasting love, at 38 and 11 months and thereafter…
Yesterday, on that run, a girlfriend texted: “I think he’s the one.” My body lit up like a Christmas tree. Pure celebration, no envy. “Love is real,” I wrote back. It’s July Fourth again. Independence Day. Maybe that’s what this is really about — the freedom to want what I want. The freedom to not swallow my faith or my truth. The freedom to trust that God’s plan is better than mine. The freedom to keep believing.
Where do you freeze your desires so you don’t look “too much?”
Where does your judgment of others reflect your lack within?
Where does your anxiety or anticipation force you out of alignment?
Where can you dig into a little softness — more faith, unattached to timelines, just trusting?
This is your invitation: Trust. Believe. Receive. The dreams on your heart are there for a reason. The hopes you desire are yours. And the gifts that you have — the you that you are — is already whole, entirely.
One of my favorite prayers: “God, show me how good it can get.”
Save this, share it. Love to you, Happy 4th. Olivia x
**if you’re ready to do the work — dig in: reach out, here.