I cry at my first flat viewing, and my second. Through single beds and shared cupboard spaces, I tell strangers how my “forever romance” ended just weeks earlier and how I actually have no clue what I’m doing.

I’m 32, very nearly 33, and my years-long relationship had been a ticking time bomb ever since I said the words “I want children”. I knew, right from the start, that my former partner did not feel the same. And as I navigated the pain of my biological clock going off at just the wrong time, I realised I had to end things.

But ending things in your thirties isn’t the same as ending things in your earlier years when you can chuck your toothbrush in your back pocket and move on. My life was inextricably tied to this man: from the home we shared to the ways his support has helped me to navigate the highs and lows of a freelance writing career. I had to quickly unpick everything that held us, and life as I knew it, together.

My therapist tells me I can do and achieve anything. My therapist also tells me that wanting children in your thirties is one of life’s most common conundrums – in short, my situation isn’t as uncommon as I think. So I plough on: flat-hunting, freelance client-seeking and yes, Tinder-swiping as I try to rebuild my life in the hope that, one day, I’ll have children.

So why do I feel like I’m the only person I know going through this? I talk to friends, constantly WhatsApp-ing people as I seek everything from sexual validation to a shoulder to cry on. These friends have everything I want: the children and the steady home. No way in hell are they going back to flat sharing with strangers: they’re mortgaged up to the hilt and love it that way. So I berate myself for not getting on the property ladder or being anywhere near it.