A couple of years ago, I started a new career as a lecturer in my hometown in East Nusa Tenggara. On the first day of class, I like to introduce myself and invite students to ask me anything about my studies, my journey, or what they expect from the course. And without fail, someone always asks, “Miss, what’s your status? Are you single or not?”
That question usually comes with a few chuckles and awkward smiles. The student who asks tends to do it half-jokingly, while the rest wait, eyes gleaming with curiosity. I smile and respond, “I’m not going to answer that. And not answering is already an answer.” Then I gently explain that it’s a personal question, and I prefer not to discuss my private life. I tell them there are so many more interesting things they could ask, like how I got my scholarship or what it was like studying abroad. The room goes quiet for a beat. Some students nod in understanding. Eventually, someone raises a hand, and we move on.
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I’m pretty sure I’m not the first woman to be asked that kind of question. And I don’t even blame them. It’s so deeply embedded in our culture that people often don’t realize it’s inappropriate. I may have asked something similar myself when I was younger, without thinking twice. But it hits differently when you’re the one being asked. When it feels like people are more interested in whether you’ve been chosen by someone than in who you’ve chosen to become.
As I’ve gotten older, especially after finishing my Master’s, I’ve noticed a shift. More and more, people feel entitled to ask about my marital status. Back when I only had my bachelor’s, the response was different: “You’re still young! Focus on your career. You want to study abroad? Go for it!” There was energy, encouragement, and freedom. There was room for ambition.
But after checking a few of those boxes—securing a job, earning a postgraduate degree, speaking at international forums—the narrative changed. “So what are you waiting for now?” they’d ask. The implication was clear: if you’ve accomplished these things, then surely the only thing left is marriage. If you’re not married, something must be missing.
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Lying about my age is easier
To avoid these conversations, sometimes I lie about my age. I knock off a year, maybe two, sometimes even three. My brain quickly calculates when I “should’ve” been born, or when I would’ve finished high school, just to keep the story consistent.
And you know what? People relax. “Oh, you’re still young,” they say, as if that makes my single status more acceptable. It’s funny. It’s also sad. Maybe even a little heartbreaking. That by simply appearing younger, I get to avoid the subtle judgment. That people become kinder, more patient, more forgiving, because they believe I still have time to catch up on some invisible timeline.
I’m not saying I don’t want the whole package—love, family, companionship. I do, when they’re right, when they’re real. But I want those things because I want them, not because I’m afraid of falling behind. I want to be appreciated for who I am now, not for how well I fit into someone else’s checklist. Ask me about my passions, my work, the goals I’m still chasing. Don’t just measure me by what I supposedly lack.
Sometimes, I admit, I do want to fit in. I want to be the version of myself that makes people comfortable: accomplished and married, of course. I want to blend into conversations instead of being the odd one out. But then I remind myself: most of the people making those comments don’t even know me. They’ve met me once, maybe twice. Their image of what I should be has nothing to do with who I am.
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I’ve done things I’m proud of. I’ve earned degrees, worked internationally, spoken about things I care deeply about. Isn’t that worth asking about? Lately, I’ve been trying to unlearn the idea that I need other people’s approval to validate my worth. I’ve done a lot. And I still have so much I want to do. So why let strangers define what success or fulfillment looks like for me?
I’m not rejecting love, family, or tradition. But I reject the idea that I’m incomplete without them. And honestly? If I have to lie, I’d rather lie about my age than lie about who I am.
Martha is a lecturer and writer who explores law, gender and culture. She lives in Eastern Indonesia and likes melted ice cream.
