Is being single at 35 a failure?

I remember it being another late night a few days ago; I was struggling to decide whether to call it a night, as I had an early morning class at the university, or to get back to the unfinished conference paper that was due in 47 hours. After a bit of dilly-dallying, I decided to do what many others would do in my situation, which was to find my phone and watch reels on Instagram until my eyes hurt. A few minutes into a mindless scroll, my feed pulled up a reel of a Chinese woman (let’s call her Lee), a clip that made me return to my desk and start writing this paper.

The reel starts with Lee asking an extremely important question: “Is 35 really too old?” Visibly distressed, she then goes on to explain how she, a 35-year-old Chinese woman, was being forcibly set up with a man in his fifties by her mother, who herself was 55 years old. Lee mentions how, despite being a smart, independent, hardworking and career-oriented woman who has built a life she truly enjoys, Chinese society humiliates women like her by labelling them as shèngnǚ, or a ‘leftover woman’. In an anguished voice, she goes on: “Is being single at 35 some kind of failure? ... I am still open to love, but I don’t want to choose someone because I am scared of being alone. The world already gives women enough reasons to be anxious about being older. And sadly, my parents are part of this. I just wanted them to look at me and think, ‘This is my daughter, she has value, and she deserves someone who is actually right for her.’ I don’t know if or when I will find love, but I would rather be single than let fear choose my life for me.”

Interestingly, society never asks us single women, Tumi ekhono biye koro ni? (Have you not married yet?). Rather, we are asked, Tomar ekhono biye hoy ni? (Has your marriage not happened yet?).

I watched the reel, saved it to my profile, and then watched it again. Lee’s words, the agony in her voice, and her frustration with the world ricocheted through me because they hit so close to home. It also made me wonder, linguistically, what specific set of derogatory labels and passive-aggressive slang Bangladeshi society uses to describe women like Lee. Or women like me.

The clock is ticking away

For context, I am a single woman who has already crossed the traditional marriageable-age threshold established by our society. While my parents have (sort of, I believe) given up on convincing me to find a lifelong partner, society at large has yet to do the same. I am a teacher by profession, and beyond my home-university-home loop, I barely have an active social life (I do have two feline companions, though). So, it hardly reaches my ears (or even bothers me) when random neighbourhood aunties whom I have never met secretly gossip within their circles, or when some distant relatives whom I will never meet loudly complain to my mother about why I am still unmarried (or, more precisely, why my parents have not married me off yet).

Single women in Bangladesh, particularly those who are highly educated and financially independent, are regularly subjected to institutionalised policing by family, relatives, neighbours and society.

However, occasionally, during one of our relaxed conversations between classes, perhaps one of my female colleagues will casually mention how crucial it is for a woman like me to get married because our biological clock is ticking, and delaying marriage will only complicate other crucial things such as childbirth and child-rearing. Indeed, I admit, their intentions might be good; however, the questions, the comments, and the assumptions that all women want the same things in life are nothing but unwarranted.

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Questions, comments and marrying off

The most unfortunate fact is that I am not an exception.

I have this distant aunt, Shama, unmarried and in her 40s, who has been put through an endless barrage of questions, comments and suggestions for more than twenty years now. I particularly remember one occasion when my family arranged a small get-together at our house that was attended by Shama aunt and her family. After lunch, a group of 8–10 women gathered in my parents’ room and engaged in a serious discussion about why Shama aunt’s parents had not been able to marry her off yet. A few commented that her being overweight could be one of the reasons she was not finding a decent guy. A few others then suggested she start skipping dinner, as that might help her shed some of those stubborn pounds. Others recommended that she start dating, since arranging a marriage for her was looking like a distant possibility. I vividly remember my poor aunt sitting quietly at the farthest corner of the bed, looking down at the floor, twisting the threads of her dupatta, and silently taking in all the humiliating words thrown at her, as if being unmarried were the biggest sin of her life.

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Caption The world already gives women enough reasons to be anxious about being older. Single women, particularly those who are highly educated and financially independent, are regularly subjected to institutionalised policing from family, relatives, neighbours, and society.

And then I have hundreds of female students in their early twenties who now hate attending weddings because every time they attend one, they face the same question from literally everyone: “When will it be your turn?”

Single women in Bangladesh, particularly those who are highly educated and financially independent, are regularly subjected to institutionalised policing by family, relatives, neighbours and society. Much of this policing is embodied in derogatory labels such as buri/dhyangra buri (old woman); linguistic microaggressions such as Tomar to boyosh bere jacche (Your age is running out) or Chele paoa jacche na? (Are you failing to find a husband?); and character judgements such as Beshi poralekha jana meye (The girl is highly educated), Meye khutkhute (The girl is overly picky), or Meyer shomossha ache (Something is wrong with the girl).

The irony is that while society keeps pointing fingers at unmarried women, many women in Bangladesh marry late or remain single throughout their lives precisely because of the unrealistic expectations society places upon them. In the local marriage market, demand is higher for women who meet Eurocentric beauty standards (fair, slim and tall), belong to bhadra (reputable) families with stable social positions, are educated but willing to prioritise domestic responsibilities, are shushil (modest) and religious, and have excellent home-management skills. Naturally, it becomes difficult for a woman who fails to meet these expectations to find a decent groom before passing the socially prescribed marriageable age. And once she does pass that age, her age itself becomes the primary obstacle to finding a suitable partner.

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But why is getting married or finding a suitable partner considered the only goal in a woman’s life? Why can’t a woman decide to pursue higher education, seek professional growth, be a leader, travel the world, or do whatever she wants to do with her life? In the year 2026, how fair or progressive is it that society still looks at women like us through a primitive lens that measures our worth solely by our marital status?

Marriage: a personal choice or a social achievement?

Also, why does it never occur to anybody that staying single or marrying late might very well be a woman’s personal choice? There are a lot of women who are now making the conscious decision to pursue higher education both inside and outside the country. They fear that if they get married before graduation, they might not get to complete their education. Women in greater numbers are also joining the workforce to establish their professional careers, make financial contributions to their families, and support the growth of the national economy. These women are aware that marrying into a desi household may come with the expectation that they will leave their careers and commit fully to their roles as wives. Because many of these modern women are reluctant to do so, they decide to marry after completing their education and/or achieving financial independence. In some cases, women have to look after their elderly parents and younger siblings, and despite their desire to find a partner for themselves, they choose to prioritise their family obligations over personal happiness.

Single women in Bangladesh, particularly those who are highly educated and financially independent, are regularly subjected to institutionalised policing by family, relatives, neighbours and society.

And then there are some women like me who just know that marriage is not their cup of tea.

Interestingly, society never asks us single women, Tumi ekhono biye koro ni? (Have you not married yet?). Rather, we are asked, Tomar ekhono biye hoy ni? (Has your marriage not happened yet?). This question is explicitly framed in a way that positions marriage as a mandatory personal or social achievement that a woman must attain before a specific age in order to earn respect from the community. This is largely why many Bangladeshi women believe that getting married is the biggest achievement in their lives and then choose to marry at an early age, often even before reaching the legal age of 18.

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But why is getting married or finding a suitable partner considered the only goal in a woman’s life? Why can’t a woman decide to pursue higher education, seek professional growth, be a leader, travel the world, or do whatever she wants to do with her life? In the year 2026, how fair or progressive is it that society still looks at women like us through a primitive lens that measures our worth solely by our marital status?

I open my saved list on Instagram and watch Lee’s reel again. I think about Shama aunt, my students, and thousands of women like me who have been questioned, shamed and humiliated by society solely because of our single status for decades upon decades. I wonder what society has gained by labelling us as shèngnǚ, buri and leftovers. I wonder if society will ever measure our worth not by our marital status but by who we are as individuals.

Food for thought, maybe?

Nadia Afroze Disha is a lecturer at BRAC Business School, BRAC University.

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