At 34-and-a-half, I appeared to have an enviable life. I was the founder of a hot Sydney start-up, and I regularly appeared in the media and at business conferences, where I encouraged other women to strive for their goals. But on the inside, I was miserable. Because when I arrived home from work and looked at the four walls of my nice apartment, I was alone. I cooked alone, ate alone, watched TV alone and fell asleep clinging to a pillow.
All I wanted was love and a family of my own. But I hadn’t been on a date in 10 years following the tragic death of my first boyfriend in a car accident. The first years after the accident were filled with grief. But as I clocked into my 30s, I realised that I’d become stuck. I’d been single so long, it was as if a hard shell had formed around me.
On Christmas Day 2011, I woke on a fold-out child’s bed in the garage of some friends of my parents. ‘I can’t live like this forever,’ I thought. And I calculated: ‘If I meet a man by next Christmas, it’ll take at least a year to move in, another two before he’d agree to start trying for kids.’ By then I’d be approaching 38. Yikes!
I sat on a bench and pulled out my plan for 2012. Could I take the same approach I’d used in business and apply it to find a man? I set myself a goal: one date every week for an entire year.
With trembling hands, I signed up to eharmony. I imagined men I knew through business spotting me and laughing. “Rebekah Campbell is looking for a date … She must be desperate.” But I persevered.
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