Loneliness, it would seem, has silently ripened into an affliction of epidemic proportions in our modernised aera. Not that solitude was unknown to those who came before us, but they bore it with a kind of dignity—fortified by convictions that tethered them to individuals somewhat than possessions, to collective significance relatively than milestones. They busied themselves not solely with the accumulation of awards, but with the cultivation of endearments. We, on the contrary, reside in a world increasingly unmoored from such anchorage—a world wherein deeds are too often done not for the still voice within, but for the clamour of applause without. We pursue illusions, chasing shimmering mirages across the desert of present-day existence, rarely pausing to examine whether the oasis we long for lies not without, but within.
In like manner, when the fundamental turns to marriage, I am bound to question—what might the world resemble if we approached this most consecrated of unions with vaster astuteness? What if we chose our mates not purely with our passions, but also with our prudence? Could we not imagine a civilisation wherein the attentions and natures of our progenies are nurtured in the fruitful loam of concord and reciprocal attachment? Might not our communities sprout more harmonious, our efforts more rewarding, and our homes more secure?
For the gospel, while often enshrouded underneath the noise of contemporary cynicism, is that a wholesome marriage possesses the taciturn competence to make us not only happier, but also, in many cases, healthier in physique as well as in psyche. Offspring raised in the shelter of parental protection—where kindness is exchanged like quotidian bread—are spared many of the perils that plague the young: the lesions of isolation, the bewilderment of internal neglect, the stumbles of educational struggle, and even the ailments that afflict the anatomy when the vitality is wearied.
Conversely, when a marriage sours—when bitterness replaces tenderness and reserve fills the place once occupied by laughter—it wrests a grievous knell. It damages the partners first, but not them alone; the children, those mum witnesses to adult anguish, schlep the ache long into their own becoming.
To stay continually in an atmosphere of discord—to engross in or even essentially endure chronic conflict—is to submit the soul and body alike to a sluggish undoing. Such discord does not exclusively steal our order; it diminishes the very quality of our days and the virility of our endeavours. Indeed, the toll it exacts is not wholly impassioned or intangible, but biological. Novel studies have revealed that telomeres—those mysterious guardians capping the ends of our chromosomes, entrusted with the stewardship of our cellular youth—show signs of premature erosion when the human heart is subjected ceaselessly to the tempests of relational wrangling.
Thus, the picking of one’s spouse is no minor matter of sentiment or fleeting fancy; it is a decision that reverberates across the breadth of one’s existence. It shapes not only the tenor of one’s circadian hours but casts long glooms into the future—affecting the rational, emotive, and even physical well-being of one’s broods, whether born or yet to be fantasised of. To marry sagely is to lay a foundation not only for one’s own jubilation, but for the flourishing of generations.
Here, then, are a few ways by which one might begin to take the cherished covenant of commitment with the seriousness it truly solicits—by exploring a liaison that elevates the imagination and fortifies the soul, rather than endlessly pursuing the sudden solace of mere carnal companionship. Let the aim be not naturally to marry, but to marry up—in character, in emotional resonance, and in the muted metier of joint psychological well-being.
(Don’t marry) to substantiate something.
Rightly or wrongly, our culture has adorned the utterance of “I do” and the signing of a civil document with a host of symbolic laurels—success, prosperity, happiness, maturity, and the longed-for stability of a life well-ordered. Thus it is that many enter the pact of marriage not as a divine joining of hearts, but as a ritual of performance—an emblem to be displayed before the world or held up to the mirror of self.
Some wed in haste to declare to their parents their independence and newfound adulthood. Others do so to convince an erstwhile sweetheart that they have not only survived heartache but transcended it with an element of treasure. There are those who marry as a means of flight—from the confines of their family of origin, desperate to demonstrate they are adept of individuality. And many, perhaps more than we realise, marry in the hope of convincing themselves that they are on the correct track—that their lives are promising, respectable, and, above all, “normal.”
But marriage, in the definitive reckoning, attests nothing.
If there is something to prove, let it not be found in the pageantry of vows or the rite of legality, but in the still, daily sweat of ardour. Prove instead that you can sustain a relationship of integrity in the present tense—that you can communicate with candour, give with gladness, and hold dear another not for who they might become, but for who they already are.
(Don’t marry) to take care of someone or to be taken care of.
The longing to care for another—and to be cared for in return—is no mere mawkish whim; it is a yearning etched into the very fibres of our nervous system, a design written unfathomably within our being. To desire affection, to wish to love and be loved—this is wholly natural, even virtuous. But there is a line, often subtle, yet crucial: it is one thing to chase comradeship, and quite another to hunt for someone to mend the broken places in us that we ourselves are unwilling to tend. And equally, it is no virtue to take upon ourselves the burdens that fittingly belong to another, imagining we can live their life for them.
A sturdy symbiosis insists that each soul stand first on its own feet—that both man and woman be whole and distinct persons before they attempt to become one. Without such inner sovereignty, the lines blur: the load of another’s unfinished business becomes confused with our own, and what once appeared the tender act of carting another’s burden quietly becomes the crushing yoke of co-dependence.
In time, the self—the singular, God-breathed self—begins to fade. You are no longer you, but a vague echo of the other, no longer a participant in love but an outline within its fortitude.
A happy marriage, then, is not built upon interactive neediness, but complementary solidity. It is a true partnership, forged by two souls capable of holding fort independently and yet choosing, with joy, to walk together. And to arrive at such a partnership, one must first learn the art not plainly of cerebral retreat, but of delighting in it. For until you have learned to be content in your own company, you are ill-prepared to offer that company as an offering to another.
(Don’t marry) to feel self-worth.
At last, you meet the one who implies to inhabit your every reverie. They are everything you are not, and in their presence you feel—for perhaps the first time—whole, worthy, complete. But if such feelings surge upon you like a revelation, take heed; raise the signal of caution—for here lies not the treasure of true love, but the glittering deceit of fool’s gold.
What you have encountered is not the unobtrusive, steady devotion that forges lasting bonds, but a figment conjured by inner emptiness. For if you have never known what it is to feel sound and sufficient within yourself—apart from the embrace of romance—then this combining, however intoxicating it may sound, will ultimately betray your expectation. No other soul can confer upon us a sense of merit we have not first recognised and nurtured within ourselves.
Before you pledge your heart in earnest allegiance, learn to dwell peacefully in your own company. Learn to delight in your own being—not in arrogance, but in the quiet assurance that you are already a person of value. Only then will you be ready to enter into a confederation not of dependence, but of requited offering—a love that strengthens, comparatively than substitutes, the self.
(Don’t marry) because you think you are running out of time.
It sometimes happens that a man or woman, having reached a certain season of life, sighs inwardly and says, “Very well, I suppose I ought to marry—what else is there left to do?” They look about and see friends, peers, and colleagues stepping into the hearth-warmed rhythms of domestic life, and a quiet dread begins to stir—the fear of being the last one unpaired, the friendless figure at the edge of the gathering.
Pride murmurs that to wait any longer would be to fall behind; fear suggests that one must settle before the final curtain falls. And so, driven by a mixture of vanity and trepidation, they take the plunge—often before their heart and spirit are truly prepared.
But I say: let yourself be the last one standing. Stand you must—and stand with courage. For nonetheless the waiting may be wearisome, and the hush daunting, a few years of patience may spare you a lifetime of disappointment. To rush headlong into a merger with the erroneous aide is to invite dissention, disillusionment, and raw regret. But to wait, to cherry-pick astutely and not barely promptly, may yield a marriage that brings not only comfort but true well-being—a collaboration that withstands not only the passage of time, but sanctifies it.
Better to walk alone in truth than to lie beside another in quiet despair.
(Don’t marry) to have the family you never had.
The scars of childhood are not easily mended. They lie buried beneath the surface, cavernous and tender, and one of the most seductive illusions the heart can entertain is that marriage will serve as a liniment—that in binding oneself to another, one might at last receive the family that was never truly given, but always deserved.
It is a beautiful dream, and a dangerous one.
Many enter matrimony with a bashful oath: I shall not repeat what was done to me. They believe, earnestly and with optimism, that love will redeem the past—that all the distress, negligence, or even cruelty of their early years can be alchemised into something exceptional: a new home, a new lineage, untainted by old grief.
But alas, the mortal soul is not so neatly rewired by ceremony. The pain we have not faced—have not named and brought into the light—follows us like a shadow. No spouse, however devoted, can carry what we ourselves have refused to touch. Until those inner wounds are tended—whether in isolation, in the quiet counsel of a friend, or under the gentle probing of a knowledgeable therapist—they shall continue to haunt the halls of your heart, rustling their old scripts into every new beginning.
Do not, therefore, look to marriage as a substitute for healing. Take this pensive time before the promise to turn inward. Aspire to know yourself as you truly are—your history, your pain, your patterns—and begin the slow and holy work of mending. Only then will you be ready not merely to marry, but to love—and to be loved in return—freely, wholly, and well.
(Don’t marry) because people think otherwise about your sexuality.
If one remains unmarried beyond a certain stage, the world—ever restless for answers it has no right to demand—tends to murmur its suspicions. Idle gossip begins to circle, casting veiled questions upon one’s inclinations and personality, as if a soul’s inmost truths might be discerned by something so outward as a marital status.
But take heart, and hold fast to what you know to be true of yourself. That knowledge—stoic, steadfast, and unshaken by the chatter of the crowd—is testimony enough. Let not the fear of false labels compel you to contort your life to satisfy the trivial mentalities of those who cannot recognise what it means to wait for something real.
To enter into an alliance utterly to gag wagging tongues is no remedy—it is, in truth, a self-inflicted torment of the cruellest kind. Love must never be forged in fear. Wait, slightly, for the one who makes the very ground under your feet tremble—the woman whose presence awakens something exemplary and stirring within you. And if the same bell bongs within her heart at the thought of you, then nothing—neither time, nor slander, nor doubt—can stand in the way of that intimacy.
Until such a thing blossoms in its own good season, pay no heed to the gossip-mongers. Trust instead in the loyal fraternity of friends who have stood beside you—not for appearances, but out of love unmarred by question or condition. Remain with them; they are your true kin. What matters, in the end, is not the configuration of gender, but the firmness of the support and the constancy of the love it offers. Happiness, after all, is not measured by public approval, but by the quiet assurance that you have lived in accordance with your truest self.
(In) conclusion.
Loneliness, I am convinced, is among the chief reasons why so many rush—often unwisely—into the bonds of marriage. The distinction between loneliness and the serene ebullience of seclusion is one that many find elusive, their temperaments trembling before the prospect of being truly comfortable in their own company. Society, with its many voices, has long ingrained in us the fear that to be alone is to be somehow incomplete or abnormal.
It is precisely here that I wish to share some musings—not as a philosopher or sage, but just as a brother—offered to me not long ago by Imran Abbas. To the world, he is architect, athlete, poet, singer, and actor; but to me, he is simply my brother, a man who, like myself, navigates life without pretence or regret.
These thoughts of his, combined with my own, may serve as a lantern in the dim walkways of your inner self—offering clarity where confusion reigns, and inviting you to discover a graver, truer apperception of yourself.
The stereotypes that often come with leading a single life are generally categorised into one group: loneliness. It is so often assumed that those who have not yet found that special person who makes the world a little perkier are experiencing those god-awful waves of loneliness. In reality, there is a magnificent difference between being lonely and being alone.
Being lonely is that kind of aching that resonates in your chest. That dull, constant feeling that follows you around all day long. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing or whom you’re with, it’s impossible to shake that feeling. Typically, these feelings are most prominent after recently losing that person who made your world a little sunnier.
Loneliness arrives accompanied by a host of unwelcome confidants: the relentless tide of memories, the unyielding grip of sleepless nights, and a bewildering fog that clouds the brain. It lays bare the finest treasures of one’s life, only to cast them into stark relief through their throbbing absence.
Loneliness provokes the most troubling questions—Why? Why me? Why does fortune’s favour come across as so cruelly withheld? Why does providence deny even the simplest stroke of luck? It is a yawning chasm within the soul, a void that stubbornly refuses to be filled, regardless of how fervently we attempt to fill it.
Loneliness is the restless spectre that visits at the witching hour, when the world is still and thoughts roam free. It is the mournful melody that drifts from the radio—so potent in its resonance that one must swiftly silence it, lest the sorrow overwhelm.
Yet to be alone is an entirely different circumstance. Being alone is a condition of one’s very existence; loneliness, by contrast, is a torment of the intellect. When you find yourself alone, you are undeniably confronted with all that you lack, but more importantly, you are obliged to confront the honesties within yourself—those honesties obscured when your days were spent in the service of another’s shade.
To be alone is to grant oneself the sacred knack of rumination—to ponder genuinely what you truly yearn in another, so that when love next calls, you may wield all your faculties to guard against ever succumbing again to that desolate malady called loneliness.
Being alone is to sit below the canopy of a tree, lost in the pages of a book, savouring every second with a gratitude born not of necessity but of choice. It is to engage in solitary undertakings not altogether by oneself, but for oneself; to cultivate one’s own closeness as a laudable and treasured ally.
Of course, there are flashes when the path of exultation crosses with the silhouette of loneliness. It is in such times—perhaps while browsing unaccompanied for a new garment—that your eye is drawn to a couple, laughing inaudibly in some distant corner. Their elation resembles to spark like a flame against the dullness of your own heart, and for a brief instant, that old sting stirs anew, a whisper of what once was.
Yet this pang, though sharp, does not linger.
To be alone can, in truth, be one of life’s most profound and empowering gifts. Should you allow loneliness to take root and grow, you risk forfeiting that precious, rare opportunity to discover and come to terms with your own self—your firmest crony, ever at hand. Loneliness will aim to coerce you to seek that sustenance in another, but every soul has its lawful place in the world, and yours was never meant to be wholly subsumed within the life of another.
To be alone is an art—a delicate, righteous craft to be learned and embraced with audacity and grace.
(Foot) note.
Remain free of needless anxiety as you journey along the path that life, in its inscrutable wisdom, has laid before you. Do not fret over what lies ahead, for none among us truly knows what the morrow shall bring. Live fully in the present moment—embrace it with all your heart and mind—because what unfolds today will inevitably shape the contours of your tomorrow. The events of this very day, like seeds sown in fertile soil, determine whether they shall bloom again in the days to come.
While we nourish the illusion of control, the truth remains that we hold none. Never have we possessed it, nor shall we ever. The lever that governs the course of our lives rests in hands beyond the grasp of our common understanding—whether divine or cosmic, this authority eludes our mortal comprehension.
Therefore, I urge you: breathe deeply, release your cares, live with intention, love without reservation, and know that this—this very striving and being—is enough.
In the learning of anthropological psychology, through the lenses of reading, reflection, and the rich tapestry of personal and relayed experience, I often find shape and form for my thoughts and hypotheses. These musings are, in truth, an intricate weave of many influences and insights.
I am grateful to you for your time and attention.
