Some people see being single as an active, positive choice, but for several years that wasn’t my experience. I railed against it, resenting the fact that I was alone. I had dated a lot, but why couldn’t I find the right man? Why had someone I really liked rejected me? Why did all my friends have husbands or boyfriends and kids, while I spent ages lurching from lust to loneliness and back again? It didn’t seem fair.

Each time I had a bad experience, or a good one, I had a tendency to tell all my female friends, providing endless information about the man who said I was awesome but kept cancelling, the date whose dog was more interested in me than he was, or the bloke I knew as a teenager with whom my mother set me up as an adult (predictably, a disaster).

With many of my friends settled in long-term relationships, they naturally turned to me to hear about adventures in single-land, or would ask to see a photo of whomever I had been on a date with the night before. “I love your stories,” a friend said during a group dinner last year. I took that as a compliment – as a writer, my job is to tell stories. But although I thrived on friends’ reactions to my hilarious tales, that only provided a short-term high. Deep down, all I really wanted was for my stories to end with love and happiness.

Then one day last autumn, I had a revelation: I was the one who had perpetuated these narratives, prepared to spill everything to anyone who asked. Telling all and sundry about my love life meant people would – kindly – follow up, asking how things were going. But when something bad happened, I had to update them on that too, so that the “poor me” or “hilarious me” storylines continued.

So I decided to start keeping my love life private, choosing how much to reveal and to whom. I could still have great, open conversations with all my friends about other topics, but when the inevitable “Are you seeing anyone?” question came up, I began to be vague about it, or simply said no. Then I could go away knowing that I wouldn’t have to provide another instalment the next time we spoke.

But it wasn’t always easy: I also had the feeling that, as these were my loving friends, I ought to tell them things. Would I offend someone if I didn’t spill the beans? Actually, no. Boundaries are good. When recently a single friend needed help writing a dating profile, she asked to see mine. But it felt like a step too far and I politely declined. Another asked why things did not work out with a guy I dated a few months ago, but I gently said I didn’t feel like going into detail and that I would let her know when I was with someone great. It sometimes felt harsh to shut down questions from people who cared about me, because we were used to discussing everything, but the more I got used to it, the easier it became.

I am sure that my lack of oversharing has benefited my friendships, too; it may be a relief for friends not to feel they have to ask about my love life or provide a sympathetic ear all the time.

I also discovered that always talking about dating, or discussing my lack of a relationship, was making me define myself solely as a single woman. Telling people that I have decided to talk less about my love life, and even hearing myself say it out loud, has helped me stick to my decision. Now that I keep that side of me relatively private, I am embracing other aspects of my personality and life: my work, the joy of having two gorgeous nephews, my newfound fitness regime and a love of being outdoors. I have also started to really appreciate my independence and I absolutely relish a day to myself.

Now, when something funny or exciting happens in my dating life, I smile to myself and maybe just text one close single friend about it. And if something sad occurs, instead of group texting, I sit with the feeling, sleep on it and then contact one or two people if it feels right. I know that from a mental health perspective, allowing those emotions to percolate is a good thing for me; texting a million friends might have resulted in loads of sympathy, but it only served to distract me from my feelings. Ultimately, the only person who can decide whether someone I am dating is the right kind of man to have a relationship with is me.