Although I am not a wife, I often feel that being an author holds more power.

Not in a loud, dominant way—but in a quiet, sovereign one. The kind of power that comes from deciding who I am, what I believe, and how my story unfolds without needing permission or approval.

For a long time, I’ve observed how the “wife role” is often framed in society. It’s presented as beautiful, noble, and selfless—but also, many times, as limiting. I’ve heard wives openly say that being a wife means putting someone else’s needs and wants above your own. It means choosing silence over conflict. Harmony over honesty. Peace over personal truth.

And while that model may work for some, it doesn’t feel like freedom to me.

Being an author—both literally and metaphorically—means I belong to myself first. I decide what gets written, what gets erased, and what gets rewritten. I don’t have to soften my voice to be palatable. I don’t have to shrink my dreams to make them fit into someone else’s vision of a life.

There is something deeply powerful about being self-directed.

I think what I resist isn’t marriage itself—it’s the script that often comes with it. The idea that partnership must mean self-erasure. That love must mean losing pieces of yourself in the process of building a “we.”

To me, authorship represents agency. It represents voice. It represents the freedom to explore, to question, to evolve, and to be complex without having to justify it.

Some people are called to build shared lives. Others are called to build inner worlds, stories, movements, or ideas. Neither path is superior—but they are profoundly different.

For now, I choose to be the one holding the pen.

If I ever choose partnership, it would have to be one where I don’t stop being the author of my own life—where love isn’t about being edited down, but about being read fully and still chosen.

Until then, I remain committed to my greatest role:
Not a character in someone else’s story—but the writer of my own.