When you reach your late twenties or early thirties — I am 29, dear reader — it begins to feel unnecessarily embarrassing to announce your single status. It shouldn’t be this way. Being single is glorious, and I’ve had many a good year revelling in my solo era: pouring my energy into work and friendships, and happily prioritising my own pleasure (with help from a very reliable clit vibrator).
But then one morning you wake up and your Instagram feed is suddenly awash with engagements and pregnancies. It happens overnight, like one of those films where someone wakes up trapped in a surreal alternate reality — Groundhog Day, but with wedding hashtags. It’s 17 Again, except you’re somehow almost 30 again. And again.
The truth is, I want to find my person. I’ve embraced singledom; I know I can be on my own. I’ve done the therapy. I’ve listened to half a dozen audiobooks on attachment styles while walking the length of London clutching a vanilla latte. I have a job I love and a solid, supportive group of friends. I’m not waiting to be “completed,” I simply want someone to share my life with. Why does that feel so embarrassing to admit?
Dating apps aren’t doing it. My friends insist they don’t have anyone to set me up with (selfish). I don’t naturally find myself in settings that encourage organic meet-cutes. I’m trying IRL events. I’m trying, full stop.
So when I saw a TikTok about a woman wearing a hat that read "I’m single," and promptly being flooded with attention, I felt inspired. I decided I would buy the hat, wear it for three weeks around London, and report back. In the name of journalism, of course.
Here’s why I wore an “I’m single” hat around London for three weeks, and why it felt, at times, painfully embarrassing.
The shame in singledom
At some point, everyone finds someone worth splurging on a House of CB dress or mixing genes with — everyone, except you. Suddenly, your girlies can’t make your annual trip because they’re in Bali with their boyfriend. Birthday invites come with a cheerful “We’re coming!” even though you’re fairly sure you didn’t extend the plus-one. Stories are told in the first-person plural, plans revolve around when their partner’s away, and you somehow always end up in an Airbnb bunk bed on family holidays.
Somewhere along the line, being single became embarrassing, like being a child among grown-up friends, even though married people aren’t actually any more mature than I am.
And now, I was about to wear a hat branded with my own scarlet letter: I’m single. I’d walk around London advertising myself like a personal ad — do those even exist anymore? It felt like the end of a club night, when the lights come on, and everyone scrambles for someone, anyone, to go home with. Except I was choosing this. Willingly. Because being single shouldn’t be embarrassing. It shouldn’t feel any different than wearing a T-shirt that says, I love my boyfriend!
Taking things offline
Find me a single person in their late twenties who is genuinely enjoying dating apps. No, really. Someone who doesn’t sigh wistfully about how much easier things were in the good old days. We all secretly dream of recreating those Friends scenes where a cute stranger asks you out in a coffee shop. These days, that rarely happens, likely thanks to a collective fear of rejection. We’re simply not used to it anymore.
A friend of mine gets most of her dates on nights out and regularly laments how useless the free dating apps are in comparison. I, however, am sober and no longer much of a nightlife person, which made that solution slightly trickier for me.
So what if people could tell I was single just by looking at me? What if I could put myself out there without having to say a word? By literally announcing I’m single, anyone interested could choose whether to act on it with all the information upfront. No second-guessing whether I was taken — an easy assumption, given my glowing personality and dashing good looks — just a clear opportunity to be seized or missed.
And if this didn’t work? Well, perhaps I’d be forced into a bit of good old-fashioned introspection instead.
TikTok's latest trend hit a little too close to home.
Here's how it went
I ordered my hat from an Etsy shop and immediately felt embarrassed about the seller seeing my request for the lettering “I’m single.” They didn’t mention it, of course, simply thanked me for my order and promptly dispatched it.
Day one felt like that classic nightmare where you leave the house in your underwear. The world could see my high-waisted granny pants — I’ll wear the matching lingerie once I’ve secured the date, alright? But, as always, the truth quickly revealed itself: no one cares. You are not the main character. I got a few looks, a few people squinting at the text. One person nudged her partner to look — three-way? One woman around my age grinned at me.
With each passing day, I thought about the hat less and less. It simply became a cute hat. One morning, feeling particularly cute in my outfit, vanilla latte in hand, walking to the office, I realised I was wearing my “I’m single” hat with genuine pride. Yes, I am single. And yes, I look really cute today.
A woman with a pram complimented it. A cute waitress in Soho asked where I bought it. A guy in a pub gave me a nod but, tragically, didn’t come over. People on the Tube smiled at me.
And then it happened, about two weeks into the experiment. I was meeting a friend in Hyde Park for a coffee and a walk when she texted to say she was running late due to Tube delays. Obviously. I bought a coffee and stood waiting in the sunshine when a cute guy with a moustache — always a moustache — complimented my hat as he waited for his flat white — always a flat white.
“So… are you?” he asked.
“Am I what?” I replied. “Oh, single? Yes."
He seemed nervous, like perhaps he didn’t do this sober very often. “Maybe we could grab a coffee sometime?” he asked, just as his drink was handed over. Instagram handles were exchanged, and we have a date scheduled for next week.
But I don’t want you — or myself — to look at this “I’m single” hat experiment and think the outcome was one date. The real result was how much more confident I became wearing it. It was the way women smiled at me in solidarity. It was the compliments. It was being able to speak out loud about something so many of us are quietly experiencing, and doing my small part to chip away at the ridiculous shame surrounding being single. It can feel like we're the only people single, but if we all wore it loud and proud, we'd realise we're far from alone.
I wasn’t advertising myself like a slab of meat at the butcher’s, or parading around like a Bridgerton character with a hefty dowry. I was simply embracing my current relationship status, because that’s all it is: current. I am single now. Others are partnered now. Both things may change. Or neither may.
My singledom is not a reflection of something being wrong with me, nor a lack of eligible suitors. It’s a result of choices: mine, my exes’, and circumstances. I’ll turn up to parties alone, tick “no plus one” on wedding RSVPs, and plan solo trips when my best friends can’t come. But I’ll also wear my “I’m single” hat out and about, because it’s super cute, and because I am single. So what?
We promise they’re totally non-vom.
