u/Time-to-rebuild775

I've been wanting to write this for a long time.

I'm not writing this to gain sympathy, expose anyone, or prove that I was right. I simply want to share what the last few years have taught me. Maybe someone will relate to it, maybe someone will disagree, and maybe someone going through a similar phase will realize they're not alone.

I come from a middle-class family in Pakistan. My parents never had a luxurious life. They didn't build their own house or leave behind huge savings because almost everything they earned went into educating me and my siblings. Looking back today, I honestly believe that was the greatest investment they could have made. Alhamdulillah, we're all standing on our own feet because of their sacrifices. After graduating from university, I worked hard, gained experience, and eventually moved to the Gulf for better opportunities. I work in the IT sector, earn a decent living, and Alhamdulillah, life has been stable. But I always had another dream. My long-term goal was to pursue a Post-graduation degree abroad—not because I was unhappy with my career, but because I wanted to continue learning, grow professionally, and create even better opportunities for my future family. It wasn't a sudden decision; it had been part of my career plan for years.

Around the age of 26 or 27, my mother started receiving the usual pressure from relatives: "Ab larkay ki shadi kar do." I wasn't against marriage. I simply wanted the right person at the right time. The only thing I was firm about was that I didn't want to marry within close relatives, even though there were several proposals. Eventually, a proposal came through distant relatives. One of their daughter was still completing her university studies. Our families met, everything seemed positive, and eventually baat pakki ho gayi. At that point, I hadn't even met her because I was working abroad and couldn't travel yet.

When I finally visited Pakistan, both families met properly. Everything seemed respectful. My mother insisted that I take gifts, so I bought a few expensive ones because I genuinely wanted to begin everything with sincerity and respect. During one of the family discussions, my mother also mentioned my plans of pursuing higher studies abroad, even though I had requested that we keep those plans private until things became more serious. After I returned to the Gulf, I messaged her first so we could get to know each other. Initially, everything felt normal, but gradually I started noticing small things. Whenever I messaged, I was often told not to because she was busy. I completely understand being busy—my own job is hectic too. Some days I barely get time for myself, yet I still try to call my parents every day, even if it's only for five or ten minutes. That's just how I've always been. For me, making time for people you care about has never felt like a burden.

One day I politely told her that sometimes her tone felt disrespectful. Her reply was simply, "Main aisi hi hoon. Main change nahi ho sakti." That was probably my first real red flag. Still, I stayed quiet. I never complained to my parents because they genuinely liked the family, and I didn't want to create unnecessary drama over something I hoped would improve with time.

Months later, I received a call directly from her parents. Most of the conversation revolved around one thing: "Higher studies abroad kab kar rahe ho?" They wanted the nikah to happen before I left. I politely explained that I was still planning everything, saving money, and couldn't promise exact timelines. The question itself wasn't the problem. What stayed with me was the feeling that my future plans had somehow become more important than actually getting to know each other. Eventually, both families agreed that we should start planning the wedding. My parents began looking at jewellery, and I started asking friends to help arrange a hall because I wasn't even in Pakistan. Then... silence. Days passed without any update. When my father finally called, we were told that the wedding should be postponed because of university commitments.

Honestly, what hurt wasn't the postponement. What hurt was that nobody thought it was important enough to tell us before we had already started preparing. Later, I spoke to her directly, and she admitted she simply wasn't ready for marriage because of the pressure of her studies. I respected that. In fact, I had already made it clear that I fully supported her education and had no issue if, after nikah, she continued living with her parents for another two to three years until she completed her studies. I wanted her to achieve her goals before we truly started our married life together.

Then came the conversation I'll probably never forget. She asked how I would manage supporting my parents while also building our own future together. It wasn't about the money. It was the fact that before we were even married, I felt I was already being questioned about supporting the very parents who sacrificed everything to make me who I am today. For me, taking care of my parents was never something that should require justification.

Looking back today, I realise it wasn't one incident that ended that rishta. It was months of small things that slowly chipped away at my confidence—feeling like I was disturbing someone by simply checking on them, conversations that revolved more around timelines than understanding each other, mixed signals, last-minute changes, and finally feeling as though my responsibilities towards my parents were already becoming a concern. None of those things alone would've ended the relationship, but together they made me realise I had been ignoring red flags for far too long. I don't regret walking away. I only regret ignoring my own instincts for so long because I didn't want to disappoint the people I loved.

So I ended the rishta respectfully. No arguments, no insults, no character assassination. I simply told her that I believed we had different priorities in life, wished her the best, and walked away. But it's very difficult to rebuild. That experience took almost a year of my life—emotionally, mentally, financially, and personally.

After that, I told my mother, "Please... no more rishtas for now." I wanted to focus on rebuilding myself, my career, and the goals I had put on hold. A few months later, when I travelled to Pakistan again, my mother requested that I meet another family. I honestly didn't want to, but like many sons, I couldn't say no to her. So I agreed.

The family came to our house, then we visited theirs. Everything went well, and the matchmaker later told us that both families were happy and wanted to move forward. I asked my mother one simple question: "Have they been told that we live in a rented house and not our own?" She wasn't sure. I requested that the matchmaker tell them before anything progressed further. A few days later, everything changed. The same family that appreciated my education, career, stability, and personality suddenly wasn't interested anymore. The only thing that had changed was that they now knew we lived in a rented house.

That honestly made me stop and think. My brother and I could probably buy a house if we made it our priority. We simply chose not to. Our parents are comfortable where they live, and we'd rather invest wisely than buy property just to satisfy society. Yet somehow, that became a bigger issue than the kind of person I actually was.

Maybe I was unlucky. Maybe Allah was protecting me from relationships that were never meant for me. But somewhere along the way, I feel like parts of our rishta culture have slowly become more about checklists than compatibility. Own house. Certain salary. Certain lifestyle. Future abroad. Perfect family. Everything has to be in place before people even try to know the person standing in front of them.

Please don't misunderstand me. I'm not saying all Pakistani women are like this, and I'm not saying every family thinks this way. I know there are genuinely good women and wonderful families out there. This is simply my experience.

Today, I don't hate marriage, and I don't hate women. I simply value peace more than rushing into the wrong relationship. For now, my focus is on my career, pursuing my Post-graduation abroad, becoming a better son, and becoming a better version of myself. If Allah has written someone for me, she'll come at the right time. Until then, Alhamdulillah, because every experience—no matter how painful—teaches us something.

And if there's one thing I hope people take away from this, it's this:

Don't judge someone's worth by whether they own a house or by how perfect their life looks on paper. Houses can be bought. Careers can grow. Money comes and goes. But good character, respect for parents, honesty, loyalty, and sincerity are much harder to find.

Somewhere along the way, I think we've started valuing the wrong things.

Aur haan... agar dua karni ho, to bas itni kar dena ke agli dafa compatibility pehle mil jaye, checklist baad mein.

May Allah guide us all towards what truly matters.