Growing up, I always thought I was going to have a love story.

It was something I was taught as a little girl: I was going to fall in love with some dashing young man who would walk into my life and sweep me off my feet. It would be romantic and dramatic and love at first sight. At 12, I even wrote a lipstick-kissed letter to my ‘future husband’ informing him I was waiting. I obsessed over the love stories I read about in library books and saw on screen. I cried so hard into my pillow after watching Titanic that my eyelids were swollen. I hate horror but endured nine seasons of The X-Files simply to see if the two leads got together.

Love seemed an inevitable conclusion for me.

My Muslim family were traditional and most of the boys I met were through family introductions, where I chatted with the boy in one room of my house while his family chatted with mine in another. Some of the boys were lovely, but there was never any attraction so I always declined further dates. As time went by, the pressure to marry became intense, and my mother told me to hurry up or I would ‘end up on the shelf’. Finally, at 23, I met a man at university who I felt a spark with and could imagine a future with. He, however, refused to commit to a relationship and, after years of uncertainty, married someone else. I was in my late 20s, and in addition to feeling heartbroken, I felt stupid for getting love so wrong. After the sting of heartbreak subsided, I tried to pursue other relationships but I doubted myself and my ability to know what was right for me.

“At 38, I’ve never been in a relationship – this is what I’ve learned”