Thirty, Five Men, and the Art of Not Settling

My name is Chen Xiaohe, and I just turned thirty. You might not believe it, but in the six years between twenty-four and thirty, I lived with five different men. These weren’t messy flings; they were "proper" relationships—dating, moving in, breaking up—repeated five times over.

Today, I suddenly felt like writing it all down. Not for sympathy or to show off, but just to speak some personal truths. Now that I’m thirty, looking back at those years spent squeezed under the same roof with others, I’m left with a real "five flavors mixed in the heart"—a complex bittersweetness.

The First: First Love, Deepest Wound

At twenty-four, I met Ajie. I’d been out of school for two years, working as a copywriter for 3,500 yuan a month, renting a partitioned room in a "village in the city." Ajie was a friend of a colleague, a salesman—not tall, but humorous, with eyes that curved into little crescents when he laughed.

We moved in after just three months. To be honest, I didn't understand what cohabitation really meant then. I just thought if you’re in love, you live together to save money and stay "glued" to each other every day.

At first, it was sweet. He’d cook instant noodles with a poached egg when I came home late from overtime, and I thought life was perfect. But over time, the cracks appeared.

As a salesman, Ajie had constant social "engagements," often coming home drunk in the middle of the night. Once, he threw up in the bathroom; I had to crawl out of bed to clean it up while he snored away. When I brought it up the next day, he just said, "You’re my girlfriend, isn't it your job to take care of me?"

The logic sounded okay on the surface, but it sat heavy in my gut. Why? I worked all day too.

It got worse. He never cleaned. Socks were strewn everywhere; dirty laundry piled up like a small mountain on the chair. When I nagged, he’d give a cheeky "I’ll do better next time," but next time was always the same.

The breaking point was when I had a fever of 38.7°C. I called him, exhausted, from bed. He said he was with a client and couldn't leave, telling me to just "drink some hot water." I dragged my sick body to the ER alone, waited two hours in line, and came home to a cold, dark kitchen. He hadn't even called to check in.

In that moment, I realized: in his heart, my feelings would always come last.

We lived together for a year and a half before splitting. He didn't try to keep me; he just asked, "What am I going to do if you leave?" The subtext was: Who’s going to do my laundry and cook my meals?

That first partner taught me a simple truth: Never choose someone who treats you like a live-in maid.

The Second: When Values Don't Align

After Ajie, I stayed single for six months in a shared three-bedroom apartment with two girls. It was a happy time—cooking, binge-watching shows, and gossiping. I felt like living alone was actually fine.

But humans have a habit of forgetting the pain once the scar heals. At twenty-five, I met "Old Li." He wasn't actually old, just three years my senior—a programmer at an internet company with a good income. He pursued me earnestly: picking me up from work, taking me to nice dinners, bringing an umbrella when it rained.

He told me, "Xiaohe, stay with me, and I promise you’ll never suffer."

It was a moving promise. I moved into his two-bedroom apartment after three months of dating.

Old Li was different from Ajie. He was clean, organized, and could cook. In the beginning, he’d make elaborate meals—braised ribs, poached fish, tomato beef brisket. My friends on WeChat were jealous.

But eventually, a bigger problem surfaced: our Sanguan—our fundamental values and worldviews—were poles apart.

Old Li was pragmatic to the point of being utilitarian. He believed life was for earning money, buying property, and getting promoted. Everything else was a waste of time. When I wrote, read, or listened to folk music, he saw it as "useless."

Once, he glanced at the book I was reading and asked, "What’s the use of reading this? Can it make you money?"

I said, "I don't read to make money. I read to be happy."

He shook his head, looking at me like a lost cause. "You’re twenty-five. How can you still be so naive? You should be thinking about upskilling and job-hopping for a raise, not wasting time on this."

This happened constantly. I liked strolling through parks or visiting exhibitions on weekends; he thought leaving the house was just an excuse to spend money. I’d buy flowers for the living room; he’d say, "Why waste money on something that will wither in a few days?"

Our biggest fight happened when I wanted to go to the suburbs for a trip. He refused, saying, "A day out costs hundreds of yuan. Wouldn't it be better to save it?" I argued that life isn't just about saving, it's about joy. He countered, "With your spending habits, how are we supposed to build a life together?"

I cried that day. Not because of the trip, but because I realized we were on completely different frequencies. He wanted a "capable" wife who was frugal and obedient; I wanted a partner to experience the beauty of life with.

We lasted ten months. When we broke up, he said, "You’re just too idealistic." I replied, "And you’re too much of a realist."

Neither of us was wrong; we were just incompatible.

The Third: I Thought I Found "The One"

After Old Li, I spiraled. I started doubting myself—was I too high-maintenance? Too demanding?

At twenty-six, I took a job at a media company and met A-Tao. He was a photographer, a year younger than me, tall and thin with black-rimmed glasses—very "scholarly" and refined.

He was different. He understood life. He played guitar, shot film, and his social media was full of beautiful aesthetics. He spoke gently and never raised his voice.

We clicked instantly. We talked about movies, music, and philosophy. During overtime, he’d send me a song saying, "This reminds me of you." On rainy days, he’d bring an umbrella to meet me so we could walk home together. It was romantic, and I loved it.

We moved in after four months. The first month was heaven. He’d wake up early to brew coffee and wake me up by playing guitar. At night, we’d snuggle on the sofa for movies.

I thought I’d finally found him.

But the "good days" were short-lived. A-Tao was too "free-spirited"—to the point of being unreliable.

His work was unstable; he often went long stretches without gigs. My salary wasn't high, so the rent and bills fell mostly on me. Initially, I didn't mind—we’re young, everyone has low points.

But I realized it wasn't a "low point"; he just had no plan.

He’d sleep until noon, take a few photos in the afternoon, and spend the night playing guitar or gaming. When I asked about finding a stable job, he’d say, "I don't want that 9-to-5 life; it’s too suffocating."

"But what about rent? What about food?" I’d ask.

"The boat will straighten itself when it reaches the bridge," he’d say. "Don't be so anxious."

But how could I not be? Rent was over 3,000, plus utilities and daily expenses—my salary couldn't cover it all. When I finally hit a wall and asked him to contribute, he went silent for a long time before saying something that chilled me to the bone:

"I thought you said you didn't care about material things?"

Yes, I had said that. But that was based on the assumption that he could at least carry his own weight. It wasn't that I was materialistic; it was that I wanted us to work hard together.

He started complaining that I’d changed, that I’d become "realistic" and "impure." I felt so wronged—I hadn't changed; I was just the one carrying two people's lives while he refused to even carry his own.

After a year and two months, we broke up. He sold his guitar and transferred 3,000 yuan to me, saying "I'm sorry." I sobbed over that money. Not for the cash, but because I finally understood: you can't eat love, and you can't eat romance.

The Fourth: "Suitable" on Paper, No Spark

After A-Tao, I took a long break. I quit my job and went back to my hometown for two months. My mom didn't say much, she just cooked my favorite meals every day. One night, she sat by my bed and whispered, "Xiaohe, no rush. Take it slow."

I broke down. I felt so guilty—she was over fifty and still worrying about me.

Returning to the city, I found a job as a lead editor at a New Media company. My salary doubled. I moved into a studio apartment alone. The rent was 4,000, but it was worth it. It was my space—quiet, with no one telling me I was too idealistic or asking me to carry their financial weight.

I stayed single for over a year. It was the happiest time of my life. I learned to eat alone, watch movies alone, and go to the hospital alone. I took painting classes and hit the gym. I realized being alone wasn't scary.

At twenty-eight, a friend introduced me to Da Jun. He was five years older, a civil engineer with his own apartment, a car, and a stable income. My friend insisted he was "reliable," a man built for a stable life.

I didn't want to date, but the pressure was there: "You're twenty-eight, you need to think about the future." So, I agreed to meet.

Da Jun liked me, and I thought he was a good "catch." He wasn't the type to give me butterflies, but he wasn't unpleasant either. I figured maybe this is what love looks like when you're mature—peaceful and "suitable."

We moved into his place after two months. Da Jun was a good man. He didn't smoke or drink, worked regular hours, helped with chores, and was generous. He gave me his salary card and told me to buy whatever I wanted.

The strange thing was, I just wasn't happy.

We had nothing to talk about. He’d come home, watch the news, and go to sleep. When I talked about work, he’d give non-committal grunts. If I mentioned a book, he’d say, "What’s the use of reading?" On weekends, he just wanted to stay home because "it’s crowded outside."

We lived like two parallel lines under one roof. He treated me well, but it felt "transactional"—like he was checking off boxes. He remembered my birthday and bought gifts, but it was always lipstick because "girls like lipstick." He didn't know I rarely wore it, nor did he know what I actually liked.

Once when I was sick, he bought medicine, poured me water, and then went to the living room to watch TV. Lying there, listening to the TV through the door, I felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness. Having someone there was lonelier than being truly alone.

After eight months, I broke it off. He was baffled: "Am I not good to you? I give you whatever you want. What more do you want?"

I couldn't explain it. I couldn't say, "You're too good to me, but I don't love you." It sounded too "dramatic."

But I eventually realized: being "suitable" is important, but without a spark, you're just roommates, not a couple.

The Fifth: I Thought He Was Different

At twenty-nine, I moved back to my studio. My friends were all getting married and having kids, and my mom’s nagging intensified: "Xiaohe, you're not young anymore. Stop being so picky."

I told her I wasn't being picky; I just hadn't found the right fit.

That autumn, I met Xiao Kai. He was three years younger, an illustrator with a clean look and a sunny smile. We met at a birthday party, and he asked for my WeChat, inviting me for coffee the very next day.

His pursuit was sincere—no games, just a genuine effort to know me. He read my articles, listened to my music recommendations, and remembered everything I said. Once, I offhandedly mentioned wanting roasted chestnuts, and he delivered a giant bag to my office the next day.

I hesitated because of the age gap and my "complex" history. But he didn't care: "I like who you are now; your past doesn't matter."

My heart fluttered again. Maybe this time it was different? Maybe I’d finally found someone who got me?

We moved in after three months. At first, it was lovely. He’d leave me little hand-drawn notes saying, "Have a happy day!" We’d go to the market together, he’d cook while I helped, and we’d spend evenings drawing and reading.

But eventually, the age gap showed.

Xiao Kai was twenty-six—in his "prime" for playing. He loved staying up until 3:00 AM gaming and sleeping until noon. I had to be up at 8:00 AM for work. Our rhythms were totally out of sync. He wanted to go clubbing and drinking on weekends; I tried a few times but couldn't take it—it was too loud, and I’d be a zombie the next day.

He didn't understand why I didn't want to stay up late or why I just wanted to rest. He said, "You’re not even thirty, why do you live like you’re forty?"

I didn't understand him either. I didn't get how he could game all night, or how he could be so "moonlight clan"—spending his whole paycheck every month with zero planning for the future.

During one fight, he said something that really hurt: "You’re just old. Your mindset is old."

I froze. He was right. I was thirty; I wasn't a girl in her early twenties anymore. I didn't need "passionate" love; I needed peace and stability. He couldn't give me that—not because he didn't want to, but because he wasn't at that stage of life yet.

After ten months, we split. He didn't try to stop me, and I didn't cry. We hugged, and he said, "Thanks, Jie (Older Sister)." I said, "Take care of yourself."

That word—Jie—stung. In his eyes, I was always just the "older sister."

Final Thoughts

This is my honest experience living with five men.

Six years, five men. Each time I started with sincerity, and each time it ended with sincerity. Some think I’m too restless, some think I’m too picky, and some think I deserve to be single.

But I don't regret it. Each relationship taught me more about myself. I know what I want and what I don't; I know who fits me and what kind of relationship can last.

The first taught me: Don't find someone who treats you like a maid.

The second taught me: If your Sanguan (values) don't align, you can't survive.

The third taught me: Romance doesn't put food on the table.

The fourth taught me: Suitability without a spark is just "getting by" (assembling a life).

The fifth taught me: If you aren't walking at the same pace, you won't go far, no matter how much you like each other.

Now I’m thirty, living in a 40-square-meter apartment with a cat. I paint, read, and see friends on weekends. My mom still nags, but I’m not anxious anymore.

People say thirty is a "threshold" and that it’s hard to get married after that. But I think thirty is great. I’m finally no longer dating just for the sake of dating, or marrying for the sake of marrying. I’m not settling just because I’m afraid of being alone.

When it comes to relationships, "Better to go without than to take something of poor quality" (Ning que wu lan). If I don't meet the right person, living alone is perfectly fine. At least I don't have to be a maid, carry two people’s lives, or feel lonely listening to the TV on the sofa.

As for the future, who knows? Maybe there will be a sixth, maybe not. But either way, I will never compromise myself for anyone again.

At thirty, I finally learned how to be good to myself.

That might be the greatest harvest of all.