35 & Single! Is She Scaring Men Away? The Brutal Truth About Alpha Females High Expectations & Why Good Men Keep Running
The coffee shop is called “Ground Control.”
It’s in Atlanta, which means the air conditioning is arctic, the wifi password is a Bible verse, and everybody is either pitching a business or burying a breakup.
I’m Steve.
I’ve been hosting this little talk series for three years.
I’ve heard everything.
The woman who only dates pilots because “altitude equals ambition.”
The man who brings his credit score to first dates.
The couple who met in a TikTok comments section and somehow made it last eighteen months.
But Michelle?
Michelle walks in wearing a blazer that costs more than my rent, carrying a tote bag stuffed with a laptop, a Bible, a meal prep container, and what looks like a miniature basketball jersey keychain.
She orders a lavender oat milk latte.
Extra hot.
No foam.
And then she sits down across from me like she’s about to conduct a performance review.
“Hey Steve.”
“Hey Michelle.”
She doesn’t smile.
She doesn’t small talk.
She just… begins.
Part Two: The Monologue That Changed Everything
“I’m 35,” she says.
Her voice is steady. Trained. Principal voice.
“Never been married. No kids. And I’m waiting on my person.”
I nod.
“I’ve never online dated. Hinged, Tindered, Bumbled, Mingled, and don’t plan to ‘cause I just don’t have the time.”
She says this like it’s a flex.
Like never swiping right is a medal of honor.
“I will tell you,” she continues, “I have high expectations for myself, and I will have them for that man that comes alongside me and wants to run this life race.”
I take a sip of my black coffee.
Black. Boring. Safe.
“Admittedly, I am quite independent and an alpha female. But not like the ball breaking domineering type.”
She pauses.
Waits for me to argue.
I don’t.
“I’m a woman of service. I love people. And I get spread quite thin and go all kinds of directions in my city. But I just need that man who can literally just be there right alongside me.”
She finally stops.
Looks me dead in the eye.
“So Steve, do you think my independent alpha female mentality comes off too strong?”
Hinged Sentence #1: “I have high expectations for myself, and I will have them for that man that comes alongside me.”
Part Three: The First Cut (Dialogue That Draws Blood)
I set my cup down.
Slow.
Deliberate.
“Let me ask you a couple questions. Have you been in long-term relationships?”
“I have. Three.”
“And they were?”
“All less than about a year and a half.”
“Okay.” I lean back. “And the guys were?”
She hesitates.
Just a flicker. A crack in the principal armor.
“Incredible. Just not the ones I want to spend my life with. Like life responsibility issues.”
“Really?”
“And I called off actually a wedding as well.”
The table goes quiet.
You could hear a turmeric latte curdle.
“You’re an alpha woman,” I say. “Extremely independent. But you want a man that’s more alpha male than you are. And you wanna know if he’s out there?”
Her face softens.
Just for a second.
“Well, yeah. Like the faith filled. You know, I need like a Scotty Pippen to my MJ. Like I’m MJ, you know? Like Michael Jordan. And I need that Scotty Pippen that’s gonna toss me the ball.”
I blink.
“Wait, wait, wait.”
“Like come alongside me.”
“No, no, no. Ain’t nobody, ain’t nobody finna, ain’t no man finna do that. You Michael Jordan, and I’m finna be your Scotty?”
She laughs.
The sound is bright. Embarrassed. Human.
“What strong, independent, more alpha male you done met,” I ask, “that’s finna be the Scotty and let you be the Michael Jordan?”
She shifts in her seat.
“Well, I mean, I can be the Scotty. Or the Rodman. But I mean, is the Michael Jordan out there? That’s been the question.”
“Yeah, they’re out there.”
“You think so?”
“But let me say this though.”
“Mhm.”
“I don’t think the problem is you’ve had three long-term relationships from three great guys. Most people can’t say that.”
She nods.
“I think it’s you.”
Part Four: The Mother (And The Grandkids She Wants “Yesterday”)
Michelle doesn’t flinch.
She’s been told she’s the problem before.
Probably by ex-boyfriends. Probably by friends who got tired of hearing the same rant.
But she doesn’t get defensive.
She doubles down.
“Oh, okay, okay. So when I say I have high expectations, they’re from like here to heaven. So I wake up, read devotion, read Bible. I have a masters degree.”
She holds up a finger for each accomplishment.
“Then I have a small volunteer ran nonprofit. Like strictly volunteer ran nonprofit. So I’m quite busy. And a principal of a middle school.”
She takes a breath.
“So quite busy. And I can make time for a man. I mean, I cook. I will go out, get dolled up. I can do all that. But I just need someone that can support me in all the endeavors.”
Behind her, a woman shifts in her seat.
The mother.
She’s been sitting two tables over, pretending to read a magazine, but she hasn’t turned a page in seven minutes.
Michelle follows my gaze.
“This is my incredible mother.”
The mother waves. Small. Hopeful.
“She wants grandkids,” Michelle says. “Like yesterday.”
“Yesterday,” the mother echoes.
“I keep telling her to ask my brother.”
Nobody laughs.
Hinged Sentence #2: “What man has to come along and be willing to fit into your system? That’s hard to find.”
Part Five: The Object (Scotty Pippen Appears, Round One)
I notice it again.
The keychain hanging off her tote bag.
A tiny Bulls jersey. Number 33.
Scotty Pippen.
She doesn’t know I see it.
But I do.
And I realize something.
She’s been carrying this metaphor for years. Maybe decades. This idea that she’s the star, the closer, the one who takes the last shot.
But she’s never asked the question that actually matters.
What if Scotty doesn’t want to be Scotty?
Part Six: The Second Escalation (Her Resume vs. Her Heart)
“You inadvertently said you want your Scotty to your Jordan,” I say. “Which is really what you meant. But you had to fix it after the crowd reacted. You said, ‘well, I’ll be the Rodman.’ But not really though.”
She opens her mouth.
Closes it.
“And there’s nothing wrong with you having what you have, doing what you do, and wanting what you want. I never ask a woman to dumb it down.”
Her shoulders relax.
“Preach.”
“But now understand this now. What man has to come along and be willing to fit into your system? That’s hard to find.”
She nods. Slower this time.
“Because see, we got issues. And if we can’t be the man, what makes us a man? It’s just real simple with men, ladies. You gotta stroke that ego.”
Her mother nods from two tables away.
Like she’s been trying to say this for a decade.
“And I appreciate you having high standards,” I continue. “Tell me the type of man you lookin’ for. Just tell me what that is.”
Michelle laughs.
Nervous now.
“Let’s get back to those qualities.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Tell me. I don’t wanna hear what you are. I want you to tell me what you want in a man.”
She sits up straighter.
Principal posture again.
“All right. Faith filled. God first.”
“Okay.”
“Smart and witty. So can hold a good conversation.”
“Mhm.”
“Adventurous. Likes to travel.”
“Family first. Is secure with himself. Doesn’t have to have a lot of money, just secure and willing to support their teammate.”
She looks at her mother.
“Have I missed anything, Mom?”
The mother sighs.
Long. Heavy. Tired.
“About 20 things.”
Part Seven: The Third Escalation (The Concrete Number)
I lean forward now.
Because this is where the real work happens.
“You’ve had three men. Three long-term relationships. Three great guys. Most people can’t say that.”
She nods.
“But let me tell you something. You all that and a bag of chips. Salsa, queso, guacamole.”
She smiles.
First real one.
“But you a lot though. I just found that out just talking to you. You a lot.”
She doesn’t argue.
“And you a lot, but you done had three men that were locked in on that lot. But then, what you kept wanting from them, they didn’t live up to it.”
“And I wanted to live out my dream too,” she says.
Her voice cracks.
Just a little.
“So not,” I say. “And you wanna live out your dream.”
“And I did. So now I’m 35.”
“But see, you can’t drag everybody with you on your dream that don’t wanna go.”
She pulls the keychain out of her bag.
Twirls it between her fingers.
Doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.
Hinged Sentence #3: “Instead of trying to find the person that fits this, you got to find out where you fit too.”
Part Eight: The Breakdown (What She’s Actually Afraid Of)
Here’s what Michelle doesn’t say out loud.
She’s not afraid of being alone.
She’s afraid of being ordinary.
Because if she stops running—if she stops being the principal, the nonprofit founder, the Bible-study leader, the meal-prepper, the daughter who owes her mother grandchildren—she might realize something terrifying.
The world doesn’t need her to be Michael Jordan.
The world was fine before she showed up.
And that?
That’s the real loneliness.
Not the absence of a man.
The absence of anyone who sees you when you’re not performing.
“I’m crying,” she says.
And she is.
Tears slide down her cheeks. She doesn’t wipe them.
“‘Cause I got it connected. I get it.”
“See, you’re a sweet person.” I soften my voice. “So here, let me tell you what you got going for you. I think your personality is top flight. Seem like a fun person, you seem sweet, you’re not nasty or evil, you got a beautiful personality, you’re pretty, you’re a nice looking lady, you take care of yourself, and you seem to be so far, to have made yourself happy.”
She sniffles.
“Now, all we need is for you to be willing to do for someone else, the same thing that you expect them to do for you.”
The café is silent.
Even the espresso machine seems to hold its breath.
Part Nine: The Mother’s Turn (The Unspoken Truth)
The mother stands up.
Walks over.
Slides into the booth next to Michelle.
“Can I say something?” she asks.
I nod.
The mother takes Michelle’s hand.
“You were five years old when you told me you were going to be president. Not a teacher. Not a doctor. President. And I believed you.”
Michelle laughs through tears.
“You’ve been running toward something your whole life. And I am so proud of you. But baby, you keep looking for a man who can keep up with a race you haven’t let anyone else run.”
Michelle opens her mouth.
The mother holds up a hand.
“Let me finish. Your father wasn’t perfect. But you know what he did? He let me be tired. He let me be wrong. He let me be small sometimes. And that didn’t make him less of a man. It made him mine.”
The mother looks at me.
“She gets that from me. The running. The needing to be the best. But Steve, she also gets the lonely.”
Michelle buries her face in her mother’s shoulder.
And for the first time all morning, she stops performing.
Part Ten: The Question She Has to Answer Herself
I wait.
Let the moment breathe.
Then I ask the question nobody’s asked her.
“Michelle. If you met a man who was kind, faithful, funny, secure, and he wanted to be your teammate—but he didn’t need you to be Michael Jordan. He just needed you to be Michelle. Would that be enough?”
She pulls back from her mother’s shoulder.
Her eyes are red.
“I don’t know,” she whispers.
“That’s the honest answer,” I say. “And honest is better than perfect.”
She looks down at the keychain.
Still in her hand.
Number 33.
Scotty Pippen.
“I’ve been carrying this for ten years,” she says. “My brother gave it to me after I called off the wedding. He said, ‘Find your Scotty, sis.’ And I took it literally.”
“What does it mean to you now?” I ask.
She stares at it.
Long.
Hard.
“It means I’ve been looking for a sidekick. Not a partner.”
Hinged Sentence #4: “You can’t drag everybody with you on your dream that don’t wanna go.”
Part Eleven: The Social Consequence (What Her Friends Won’t Say)
Let me tell you something about being 35 and single in America.
Your friends stop asking.
They stop setting you up.
They stop inviting you to dinner parties because they’re tired of watching you scan the room for someone worthy of your resume.
Michelle doesn’t know this.
But her friends have a group chat.
And in that group chat, they’ve stopped saying “We’ll find him.”
Now they say “She’s fine. She’s just… a lot.”
I know because I’ve been the friend.
I’ve been the one who stops texting.
Not because I don’t love you.
Because loving you is exhausting when you’ve already decided nobody measures up.
Michelle’s best friend is named Tasha.
Tasha has been married for eight years. Two kids. A husband who forgets anniversaries but remembers to buy her favorite candy on bad days.
Tasha stopped inviting Michelle to couples’ nights three years ago.
Not because Tasha is mean.
Because Michelle would spend the whole night critiquing the husbands.
“He didn’t open the door for you.”
“He let you order for yourself.”
“He didn’t ask about your promotion.”
And Tasha would smile and nod and think: But he held my hair back when I had the flu. He lets me be wrong. He loves me without a scoreboard.
Michelle doesn’t know she’s been excluded.
She thinks she’s just busy.
But the truth?
The truth is sharper than that.
Part Twelve: The Payoff (The Shift)
Michelle sets the keychain on the table.
Slides it toward me.
“Take it,” she says.
“Why?”
“Because I’ve been looking for Scotty Pippen when I should have been asking if I even know how to play on a team.”
Her mother squeezes her hand.
“I’m not saying I’m going to settle,” Michelle says. “I’m not saying I’m going to dumb myself down or stop leading. But I am saying… maybe I don’t have to be the star every single quarter.”
“That’s not settling,” I say. “That’s growing up.”
She laughs.
Real this time.
“You’re tough, Steve.”
“You could have used tough three boyfriends ago.”
“Probably four.”
She stands up.
Puts her blazer back on.
Collects her tote bag.
But she leaves the keychain on the table.
“You sure?” I ask.
“I’ll come back for it,” she says. “When I know what I actually want. Not what I think I deserve.”
Her mother stands too.
Hugs her.
Whispers something in her ear.
And then Michelle walks out of Ground Control.
Slower than she walked in.
Part Thirteen: The Dangling Thread (What Happens Next?)
I don’t know if Michelle finds love.
That’s not the point of this story.
The point is that she finally stopped asking the wrong question.
She spent ten years asking: “Am I too much?”
But the real question was: “Am I willing to be enough?”
Not enough for a man.
Enough for herself.
Without the resume.
Without the nonprofit.
Without the title.
Just Michelle.
Single. Learning.
Part Fourteen: The Letter She Writes That Night (Told in Epistolary Form)
That night, Michelle doesn’t post on Instagram.
She doesn’t text Tasha.
She doesn’t open Hinge, Bumble, or any of the other apps she’s always been too proud to join.
Instead, she writes a letter.
Not to a man.
To herself.
Dear Michelle,
You’ve been running since you were five years old.
You ran through masters degrees and principal certifications and nonprofit board meetings.
You ran past three good men who loved you wrong but loved you real.
You ran past your mother’s quiet disappointment and your brother’s jokes and Tasha’s dinner parties you stopped being invited to.
You ran because running was easier than asking: “What if I’m the problem?”
Not because you’re mean. Not because you’re broken.
Because you’ve never let anyone see you tired.
You think a man wants a woman who has it all together.
But Steve was right.
Men don’t want to fit into your system.
They want to build a system with you.
So here’s the truth.
You’re scared.
Not of being alone.
Of being known.
Because if a man really sees you—the you underneath the blazer and the Bible verses and the meal prep—he might stay. And that’s terrifying.
But he might also leave.
And that’s even worse.
So you made sure you left first.
Every time.
You called off the wedding.
You ended the relationships.
You told yourself they weren’t good enough.
But Michelle.
You weren’t protecting your standards.
You were protecting your heart.
And that’s not alpha.
That’s afraid.
So here’s what you’re going to do.
Tomorrow, you’re going to call Tasha.
You’re going to apologize for being a critic instead of a friend.
You’re going to ask about her husband. His job. His bad jokes. His candy-on-bad-days love.
And you’re going to listen.
Not judge.
Listen.
And then you’re going to go back to Ground Control.
You’re going to pick up that keychain.
And you’re going to put it in a drawer.
Not because you’re giving up on partnership.
Because you’re finally ready to stop drafting players for a game you made up alone.
You’re 35.
You’re single.
And for the first time in ten years, you’re not scaring anyone away.
You’re just… here.
And here is enough.
Love,
Michelle
(The one who’s finally learning to stop running.)
Part Fifteen: The Epilogue (Three Months Later)
I’m back at Ground Control.
Same table. Same black coffee.
A woman walks in.
No blazer. Jeans. A worn-out hoodie that says “World’s Okayest Principal.”
She orders a lavender oat milk latte.
Extra hot.
No foam.
And then she sees me.
Smiles.
Slides into the booth.
“Hey Steve.”
“Hey Michelle.”
She sets something on the table.
The keychain.
Number 33.
Scotty Pippen.
“I came back for it,” she says.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. But not the way you think.”
She turns it over in her hands.
“I’m not looking for Scotty anymore. I’m not looking for Michael Jordan either. I’m just looking for someone who wants to sit on the bench with me sometimes. You know? Watch the game. Eat nachos. Not keep score.”
“That sounds boring,” I say.
“That sounds like peace,” she says.
I raise my coffee cup.
She raises her latte.
We don’t clink.
We just sit.
Two people who finally stopped performing.
And somewhere across the café, her mother is pretending to read a magazine.
But she’s smiling.
Because she knows.
The race isn’t over.
But Michelle finally stopped running alone.
Hinged Sentence #5 (Final): “She’s not scaring men away because she’s too strong. She’s scaring them away because she’s already decided they can’t keep up.”