Code of Two

The Quiet Joy of Choosing Myself

For much of my life, I have stayed somewhat at the fringes of the LGBTQ+ community, mostly as an ally, sometimes as a so-called “fag hag” or even as a “beard” for some of my close friends. As a heterosexual woman, I often felt that my role was to listen, to support, and to create safe spaces for those navigating identities that were far more scrutinized than my own. I rarely questioned my own sexuality deeply, perhaps that kept me on the outskirts, never fully stepping into these conversations beyond allyship.

Recently, however, I came across Michael Paramo’s Ending the Pursuit, which explores the asexuality spectrum. For the first time, I found myself resonating with something I had never had the language for before. Throughout my life, I’ve struggled to find meaning in the conventional expectations of relationships, marriage, and parenthood. These social constructs always felt somewhat alien to me. But growing up in post-Soviet Lithuania, a fairly conservative environment, I watched my friends hide or battle with their identities, often facing harsh social judgment for simply being who they were. In contrast, I felt I had little choice but to follow the heteronormative script.

When I eventually moved to the UK, some of the external pressures softened. I was fortunate to have supportive parents, yet the familiar questions persisted: When will you get married? Do you have a boyfriend? When will you have children? These inquiries always felt more like obligations than possibilities. I sensed that I was supposed to want these things, even if I didn’t feel that desire myself.

In recent years, hearing more voices from individuals on the asexual and demisexual spectrum has been incredibly validating. While these conversations are still not as prominent as they should be, I finally feel seen. Platforms like TikTok have offered spaces where millennial women openly share that they’ve never had a partner or simply do not seek one and the outpouring of support in the comment sections reminds me that I am not alone. Seeing others embrace a life that doesn’t revolve around romantic relationships helps me to accept and even celebrate my own choices.

I may not fully fit within the asexuality spectrum, and I’m aware that identity is deeply personal and often fluid. One book, or one community, may not offer all the answers, but encountering these narratives has sparked important reflections for me.

When I was younger, I remember a neighbor, an art teacher in her 40s, who lived alone. People often called her a spinster, but she seemed perfectly content: dressed in flowery dresses and sun hats, calm, collected, and entirely herself. I admired her quiet confidence and the life she had built for herself. Even as a child, I knew I wanted something similar — a life curated on my own terms, not centered around a spouse or children, but filled with joy, creativity, and solitude that never felt lonely.

The most difficult part even now is navigating the well-meaning reassurances: You’ll meet someone. It’ll happen when you least expect it. But what if I don’t need that to feel complete? What if my life, as it is, is enough? I’m open to human connection, romance, and intimacy — but they are not priorities for me, and the absence of them does not feel like a void.

Reading Paramo’s book has made me reflect on how much of our cultural narrative is built around the expectation of partnership — the unwritten code of two. We are taught to believe that everyone must find their “other half,” that we are somehow incomplete without one. But perhaps some of us are already whole. Perhaps fulfillment can be found outside of this binary framework. And perhaps that should be just as acceptable.

I grew up in the era of 90s romantic comedies, which idealized a particular version of love, beauty, and success — an unattainable standard that many of us internalized. Don’t get me wrong: I am not opposed to meaningful relationships or intimacy. But for me, these things have never been the central organizing principle of my life. I often feel like an outsider for not sharing that drive, but discovering the stories of others who feel similarly has offered a sense of belonging that I didn’t know I was missing.

Maybe one day my views will change, none of us can predict the future, but after 20 years of hearing that someone will come along, I have built a rich, meaningful life for myself. I have surrounded myself with what brings me joy, and I feel complete. The narrative that we must all be “paired” feels increasingly outdated. I hope that as conversations around asexuality, aromanticism, and alternative ways of living gain visibility, more people will feel empowered to honor their own paths — whatever they may be.

There is still so much living to do, and not all of it requires a partner.