'The year' for me was the year I was 29. I was living in London and finishing a master's part-time while working for a national newspaper in the evenings and on weekends. My single dad had recently been diagnosed with a degenerative disease that would almost certainly kill him and I lived in the flatshare from hell. Normally, I’d make a disclaimer here that I was happy for all my friends getting engaged and married and that I wasn’t bitter at all. But that’s not entirely true. I felt left out, left behind, neglected, jealous and sad. I spent the year celebrating my friends' romantic accomplishments, feeling like nothing I achieved mattered at all. When I got my master's degree, against the odds, I got some social media likes and 'well done!' messages, but no celebration. And when I tried to organize a big 30th birthday party for myself, some of the same people whose hen dos and weddings I’d spent time and money attending begged off with excuses, while those who did attend insisted on bringing their husbands.