All the Single Ladies

We’ve all heard the anthems — All the Single Ladies, Miss Independent, I Will Survive.
I used to think singleness was something you had to wear —
like armor,
like proof that you could stand alone.
And though I haven’t had many seasons of it,
I can see now how, in the times I did,
it was more about protection than peace.

There were seasons — however brief — when independence became my survival mechanism.
I stood tall in my heels, chin lifted, pretending I didn’t need anyone.
And maybe I really believed that for a while.
Because when your heart’s been broken, independence feels like safety.

But this season of singleness — this sacred solitude — feels different.
It isn’t a middle finger to love or a defiance against men.
It’s a softening.
A surrender.
A quiet coming home.

I’ve realized I no longer need to tell the same old stories —
the ones that paint men as villains
and me as the one who must forever rise from their ashes.
Because in each mirror they held up to me,
I now see it was never really about them.

The avoidant. The anxious. The one who couldn’t stay.
The one who stayed too long.
Each of them was a teacher —
a reflection of a part of me still waiting to be seen, loved, or healed.

And when I began to see that clearly,
something miraculous happened:
the bitterness dissolved,
and what remained was gratitude.

This is what I’m discovering about true singleness:
it isn’t a rejection of love,
but a season of preparation for the love that mirrors peace, not pain.
It’s the school of the soul —
where you rediscover your likes, your dislikes, your desires,
where you fall back in love with your own company.

You stop rehearsing the old story of heartbreak
and begin whispering the new story —
one of wholeness, reciprocity, and ease.
You start praying for love not from lack, but from overflow.

And maybe that’s what the real anthem should be.
Not All the Single Ladies, put your hands up!
but All the Single Ladies, put your hearts down.
Let them rest. Let them heal.
Let them remember that wholeness is never waiting at the altar —
it’s already here,
in you.