But a no-sex relationship

‘You’re almost 30 and have not found anyone to marry or settle down with’.

Standing outside my house, I looked over at my neighbour and frowned after she randomly decided to say this to me.

At first I was confused – we weren’t talking about marriage, we were arguing about a parking space.

‘I am glad I was able to get my son engaged’, she continued, clearly assuming it was a ‘gotcha’ moment.

It felt like she looked at me – a woman close to her son’s age, financially, socially and happily independent – and believed I had failed in life because I lacked a life partner .

When the confusion faded, I wasn’t upset by what she said but taken aback by the realisation of how unseen and unheard of my identity is within people of my culture.

I’m not unmarried because I’m a failure: I’m panromantic asexual – this means that I don’t experience sexual attraction but still crave romantic connections across the gender spectrum.

My neighbour’s statement is rooted in the assumption that I’ve failed to achieve marriage, rather than it being a path I’ve intentionally chosen.

It’s exhausting.

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And because of this, I’ve chosen to prioritise my own needs over others.

I grew up in India and my culture revolves around settling down – especially through arranged marriages .

My father passed away when I was four months old, so love and marriage didn’t quite have a place in my life.

As I grew older and came into my teen years, I began to notice that most people around me would discuss crushes or their first relationship.

I, however, could not relate.

I never experienced attraction.

It never struck me as odd, it was simply a choice I was making.

It wasn’t until I turned 18, when some of my closest friends, who started exploring relationships, began questioning my lack of interest.

That really was the beginning of my journey into understanding my sexuality.

Initially, I put my lack of romantic connection down to never really being exposed to the domesticity of marriage.

But when I researched different terminology, I came across ‘aromantic asexual’ – someone who doesn’t experience sexual or romantic feelings – and given that I had not experienced any feelings of romantic love since then, it was the labeI chose.

Then, when I turned 20, I fell in love.

We dated for a year and though he initially seemed accepting, he eventually made it clear that he thought my lack of interest in sexual intimacy was just a phase.

So, a distance grew between us and the love faded away.

This, I realised, was the hardest part of my sexuality I had to contend with.

I then realised I was panromantic asexual , as I fell into different relationships, with people of different genders.

I’ve only been in three relationships through the past decade, and they’ve been few and far apart, and each time I have made it a point to be open about my sexuality right away.

After all, them not being able to accept my sexuality is a dealbreaker for me.

While ending a relationship because of my asexuality can be heartbreaking, I am not willing to hide away a part of who I am just to avoid being labelled as a ‘lonely single woman’.

Don’t get me wrong, I do want to be in a relationship – but settling down means something very different to me.

As a panromantic asexual person, I yearn for companionship from a romantic partner, regardless of their gender – but my love excludes physical and sexual intimacy.

But my relationships tend to break down when the realisation sets in that I will never quite fit into the box of someone who will be their wife with kids.

It’s a relationship society would dub as ‘unconventional’.

People have their judgments, and I’ve heard it all before.

My achievements were ignored and my relationship status always brought to the forefront.

My mother has often given me worried, well-intentioned advice, saying things like I should compromise for my partner, which I brush away.

Being constantly told by those around me to stick to ‘normal expectations’ in love or to lie about my sexuality chips away at my self-esteem.

What I want and deserve is to be accepted – as a 29 year old woman, who is panromantic asexual I choose to celebrate my own identity rather than wallow in any perceived misery of loneliness.

So when my neighbour made that thoughtless comment to me, I simply responded with ‘I am choosing to be single and I am happy to be this way,’ and walked away from the exchange.

Explaining myself to her didn’t seem like it would serve a purpose, because her intention was to hurt me.

I packed a tennis ball in my carry-on – it changed how I fly
Instead, I kept my well-being in mind, and moved on with my life.

I have pride at knowing what I want and choosing what’s right for me, even when those around me – like my neighbour – judge me.

I would rather be alone than be afraid of judgment.

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For now, I’m focusing on my expectations, happiness, and confidence in my identity, rather than bending to the expectations of others.

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