But where to start? I needed to get outside of my head, stop obsessing over my miserable situation, and instead, focus on others. I’d always been interested in kiruv, so I called every kiruv organization I knew and volunteered my services.

My calendar quickly filled up as I volunteered at JEP and Jewel and Heritage Retreats. Slowly, the other pieces fell into place. I got my job back, got into a better school, and found a new apartment.

As I rebuilt my life, I spent a lot of time analyzing what had happened, how it happened, and what I could do to avoid it again. It was clear that had I seen more of my fiancée before we’d gotten engaged, I would have picked up on the issue that derailed things. But after six weeks of dating, someone I trusted had told me, “At this point, you’re not dating; you’re hanging out. Either get engaged or break up.”

That line made me feel like I was doing something “bad.” I didn’t want to be a bummy girl, so I went ahead with the engagement, even as there were serious doubts simmering beneath the glossy surface.

No one asked, “What’s concerning you? What would you need to see more of to feel comfortable? What’s making you uneasy?”

Even so, I was the one who ultimately made a poor decision. That rattled me; I lost trust in my own judgment.

I didn’t date for many months after my broken engagement; I gave myself time to regain my footing. When I did start dating again, I was more guarded and cautious.

By the time I was 23, I realized that all my close friends were married. I was okay with my situation, though. I wasn’t going to get engaged to make others happy. Having been engaged to the wrong person, I’d reached a stark realization: The only person who would have to live in this marriage was me. I needed to be entirely comfortable before moving forward.

This approach saved me from being pushed into dating boys who ultimately weren’t people I wanted to be married to. I’d date for a long time, because the more we dated, the more stuff floated to the surface.

At 24, another guy proposed. I said yes. But I was about to leave to Eretz Yisrael, and we decided to wait to make it official. Hashem was good to me — while I was away, he called incessantly and became demanding and controlling. I got out as fast as I could.

There were several more proposals, all of which I ultimately turned down.

As my years in shidduchim dragged on, I felt misunderstood by many of the people setting me up. They’d connect me with prospective dates on the flimsiest of connections. “You like to exercise? I know a fitness instructor you should meet.” Or “I see you’re involved in kiruv, you’d probably be perfect for my Chabad neighbor.” A few basic questions revealed that the person had nothing else in common with me.

When people would throw a name my way, I’d ask, “Why me? Why him?” If they felt our personalities meshed, or our hashkafos aligned, I’d give it consideration. If it was a pants-skirt idea, I let it go.

When I hit my thirties, I realized I needed regular social outlets — and could also use more inspiration. I got together with a group of friends, and we set up a Rosh Chodesh club. Once a month, we hired a speaker and discussed the topics we were grappling with, such as kibbud av v’eim as an older single. We’d order good food, play upbeat music, dance, or just enjoy each other’s company.

Additionally, every week, we’d focus on a different single. We’d send out her résumé to all 25 women in the group, and then each of us would try to think of someone for her. During my week, I was sent just one name: Ozzie Burnham. I’d heard most names at that point; his was brand-new.

Then I found out that his wife had just passed away. That explained why I’d never heard of him before, but the loss was too fresh, so I put it aside. Still, the name stuck. Friends really know you, and if a friend suggests something, it’s usually worth taking seriously.

Months later, a rav I trusted redt me to someone he thought would be perfect:
Ozzie Burnham.

Ozzie had been married for a decade. He lived in Silver Spring, a town I’d never visited. He wasn’t the doctor-lawyer profile I usually dated — he didn’t even have a college degree.

But I looked past the externals. And as we dated, slowly and carefully, I found so many things to admire and respect. He was kind, warm, intelligent, well-spoken. He was passionate about his Yiddishkeit. He was great with kids, had a wry sense of humor, and possessed the “zip and zap” I felt so many guys were missing.

He hadn’t dated in years and was rusty. I found myself showing him the ropes as the dating progressed. But he had precious knowledge I was missing — how to get married and be a good spouse. He helped me get over my own blocks in this area.

One gorgeous summer day, I stood under the chuppah and became Ozzie’s wife.

Dating was finally behind me. But right after I got married, the phone started ringing.

Friends and acquaintances from all over wanted my input on their latest dating saga.

“Why are you calling me?” I’d ask. “Speak to a professional.”

“No, we want you. You know what we went through.”

So I spoke to them. I started lecturing at events and writing a column in a local paper. Over the past ten years, I’ve guided over 1,500 singles. And much as I knew about the process from my own 14 years, I’ve learned so much more while helping others trying to find lasting connection and commitment.

This serial is a combination of stories and savvy. The people you’ll meet are composites, but the struggles are oh so real.

To all of you still searching for the right one, know that you’re not alone. May you very soon be taking that short walk to your longest relationship.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 924)