Forever Alone | Chapter 5: Highlands & High Expectations (Part 1)
In which I encounter a hot Scottish man on a train, zero in on a future mother-in-law, break up with the Universe, and finally drag myself to therapy.
I published Forever Alone: One Introverted Millennial’s Half-Agonizing, Half-Hopeful Journey Through Singledom in 2021 as a 7-part podcast miniseries. I’m re-publishing it here on Substack for the first time in written form! Start reading from the beginning here.
The weather was exactly what you’d expect when Kristen, my mom, and I stepped outside the airport in Scotland—a little cold, a little windy, and very wet. And the drive into Edinburgh didn’t disappoint, either. The magnificence of Edinburgh Castle atop its imposing volcanic rock was enough to leave me a bit dumbstruck for a few minutes. Ancient castles perched above a city don’t exist in America. There was something about a sight like that that made it easier to believe that something magical may indeed be afoot for me.
Within a couple days I’d easily ensconced my future self and her future Scottish husband in the city. Here is the neighborhood where we’d live. Here is the restaurant we’d frequent. Here is the thousand-year-old tiny chapel where we’d get married.
After traipsing around Edinburgh we took a train to Inverness. The journey was around four hours, and I entertained myself the whole time with nothing more than gleefully staring out the windows at the expanse of blue lochs and misty moors. Well, that and nearly squealing when a real woman rolled up and asked us if we’d like anything from the trolley, just like in Harry Potter. I bought myself a tea and went back to staring out the window.
As we were a party of three and the seats were arranged in groups of four, we had a bonus Scottish traveling companion—an adorable 11-year-old boy headed to the Highlands to visit his cousin. He was unlike any American child I’d ever encountered on a train, plane, or automobile. That is to say, quiet, patient, and exceedingly polite. Hearing him ask my mom, in his little Scottish burr, whether it would trouble her to allow him to pass so that he could go to the toilets?, and that he was sorry for being a bother, rendered my heart to mush.
Before I’d left the train, this little boy with his dark wavy hair, hazel eyes, crisp white shirt, and impeccable manners had decided the matter: I wanted one. Not just a kid; I always knew I’d wanted to have kids. But particularly a Scottish kid. I wanted the chance to give birth to a couple of these exemplary specimens and spend my life exploring the countryside with them, making them afternoon tea, and reminding them to take off their muddy boots before coming inside.
My decision was confirmed a few hours later, when, as we were walking along a trail that runs beside the River Ness, a group of preteen girls riding past us on their bikes made a point to stop to allow one of them to say, “Pardon me, but did you know that the path is closed a little ways’ ahead? You may want to take a different route!”
On our first evening in Inverness we took a walking tour with a friendly local named Cath, who had already found me and Kristen on Instagram before we showed up, and was excited to talk about coaching because, lo and behold, she was in the business, too. Within a few minutes I’d glommed on to her as potential mother-in-law material. A feisty Scottish woman who was into coaching, entrepreneurship, and female empowerment? Who lived in Inverness and whose black lab (a friend for Scarlett!) quite literally swam in Loch Ness every day? Please let her have an age-appropriate, unmarried son!
At some point in our hike up to Inverness Castle (yet another one perched on a hill) Cath mentioned her grown daughter and son, which sealed the deal. Obviously this is why I’d been guided to Scotland—to meet Cath, who would follow me on Instagram and insist that her son take a look at the lovely American girl she’d met that day. He’d DM me and the rest would be history. Cath would soon find herself the proud grandmother of a couple of very polite Scottish children.
With that synchronicity in my back pocket, I spent two days in Inverness falling more in love with Scotland. I loved how friendly and direct the people were. I loved that the weather couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be sunny, cloudy, or rainy, and often did all three within 20 minutes. I loved that it was always slightly cool, which meant that I could dress for my favorite season (fall), almost year-round.
But the trip was only five days, which meant the clock was ticking. The morning of my 30th birthday we boarded the train bound from Inverness back to Edinburgh—we had tickets for a special Harry Potter themed tour of Edinburgh later that afternoon, and our flight home was the next day. As I scanned the passengers on the train, I noticed a very handsome businessman. He was probably late 30s—decently tall, athletic, suit that fit him to perfection, with red hair (of course) and slight scruff. Happy birthday to me, right?
I made a point of looking in his direction a few times, hoping to lock eyes, and I succeeded occasionally. I even made a couple trips to the bathroom so that I was forced to pass him, and provide an easy opening to strike up conversation. As the hours passed I actually grew anxious—like, “Come on, man! Now’s your chance, don’t blow it! If everything I’ve been through up until now is so that I could meet my hot Scottish husband on a train, on my birthday, this will all have been worth it!”
Except my would-be future husband packed up his laptop, got up, and exited the train before we even reached Edinburgh. I sat back in my seat and sighed, but didn’t allow my temporary disappointment to derail my birthday. Later that day in Edinburgh we went on our Harry Potter tour, and I accidentally got an extra free slice of the best vegan, gluten free carrot cake I’ve ever had at a little café called Hula in the Grass Market. It was far from a bad day.
That night Kristen and I lounged on my hotel bed, reading—me Outlander, for the third time, she Harry Potter for the umpteenth time—content, mostly. The past ten days in Austria, then Scotland, had been a resounding success. I saw some gorgeous places, took in new culture and art, and ate meal after delicious meal.
But from far away, slowly creeping in around me, was a disquiet and foreboding that was just starting to tickle at the corners of my consciousness.
The weekend after we got home, I was laid up on the couch with a nasty G.I. bug that I must have picked up on the plane. Between naps and sipping a green juice I’d forced myself to make, I binged chick flicks on Netflix, including a couple new ones—To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before and The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. As I watched these two very different love stories play out—with happy endings, of course—the unease I’d felt in the hotel room in Scotland grew.
A few weeks later, my laptop—the same one I’d bought in 2011 when I was trying to make myself look like a professional blogger—started to die, and I decided that it was time for a new one. As I set up my new MacBook at the Genius Bar, I got one of those alert emails that monitors suspicious activity. Dropbox wanted to let me know that my account had been logged into just now from a new device. I moved to delete it, until I glanced at the details. It said, “Is this you?,” then listed where and when the sign-on had happened. The “where” was “Near Glasgow, Scotland, United Kingdom,” and the “when” was “September 8, 2018, at 4:26pm British Summer Time.”
I stared blankly at my screen for long moment. The time stamp was right, to the minute—other than it being in UK time, of course. There was no doubt this was me, except Dropbox thought, for some inexplicable reason, that I was in Scotland. Near Glasgow, to be specific. And do you know what else is “near Glasgow;” just a few miles away, in fact?—Johnstone, the town of the phone number I woke up saying, and the tartan that matched the one Heidi had described. Of all the places to think I was … it was unbelievable. It felt almost like my future self was sending me a wave, or a wink. Like, “This laptop will one day be living near Glasgow.”
The high of that synchronicity fueled me, and pushed down the growing unrest I’d been starting to feel. It even gave me a brilliant idea—why not try signing up for online dating in Scotland? Sure, I didn’t actually live there, but I’d just been and could confirm I’d be more than willing to move. And all of these signs couldn’t be for nothing—maybe I was supposed to give myself a proper chance (more than 5 days as a tourist, at least) to meet a Scottish man!
And as it turns out, another perfect synchronicity convinced me this was a golden idea. A few weeks after the Dropbox incident, one of my former clients-turned-friends moved to Glasgow to live with her boyfriend, who’d been relocated there for work. Since it was impossible for me to sign up for UK Match with an American credit card, I had her pay for it, and I paid her back. Then Kristen and I got one of those VPN services that lets you change your country, and boom, we were in business—me dating in the UK, and Kristen taking another stab at being my online dating secretary, this time with a few more years of experience and better parameters under her belt. Everything was finally coming together and making sense.
Except the weeks and months ticked by, and nothing happened. I don’t think Kristen ever showed me a single guy—they were all such obvious “no’s,” she didn’t bother me with any of them. The hope I’d harbored after what felt like such a blatant sign faded away. And the disquiet I’d been pushing down since August was set free—like some insidious, inky monster unfurling from the depths, it saw me at the surface, kicking and struggling to stay afloat, wrapped its tentacles around my legs and pulled me down.
I’d been depressed before, of course. Though I never knew, and still didn’t know, that’s what it was. But in my earlier experiences—after I left home and went to college, after I moved out on my own and got my first job—I always had a light at the end of the tunnel. Whether or not it was right, which it wasn’t, but still—I believed that my feelings could be solved. If I transferred schools, and was closer to my boyfriend, I’d be happy. If I found a career that was fulfilling, I’d be happy. In blaming my depression on something external, it gave me something to work toward; some reason to keep going.
This time was different.
I’ve heard it said that, of all the absolutely insane things they put Navy SEALS through during training, the worst part is that they don’t know when it’s going to end. The human body can withstand any number of grueling physical challenges—but the real torture is not knowing how long you have to keep enduring. Knowledge of when something will end—the light at the end of the tunnel—is what makes the unbearable, bearable.
All of those signs and synchronicities over the past few years—they were like little lights strung out at random intervals, down a very long, dark tunnel. Sometimes I’d walk for what felt like miles without a light, and right before collapsing there one would be, glowing in the distance, encouraging me on. They fortified me; made me feel like there would prove to be a grand point to the years of loneliness and uncertainty, if only I could keep going.
This was Chapter 5: Part 1 of Forever Alone. Read on for Chapter 5: Part 2!