My Second Chance at Love
Finding love again after 40.
I leaned against the kitchen bench, typed and then deleted a message into my phone, struggling to find the right wording. Lately, I’d found myself thinking up reasons to get in touch with Ben and now felt as good a time as any.
He’d been a friend for a few years, but in the 5 months since my divorce, I hadn’t seen him.
I’d gone off the radar with most of my old friends. People seemed judgmental of divorce in my small town, and I didn’t know where he stood with that.
I hung out with new friends—people I’d met after divorce, who’d never known me as someone’s wife. As a broken half of a couple. People who didn’t interrogate about what went wrong. Asking their seemingly caring but intrusive feeling questions. Looking at me with sad eyes as they gathered fuel for their gossip.
But I was slowly healing and I missed my friend, Ben. So I sent him a text.
I suspected finding love in my 40s would be very different than in my 20s. The world was different. The way people dated had changed (Tinder seemed far too scary). And I certainly wasn’t the same person.
It was harder to believe in love, especially the forever kind.
Like many other divorcees, my expectations of love and relationships had been permanently altered. It was harder to believe in love, especially the forever kind.
I scrolled Facebook, joining several divorcee groups hoping to find solace and guidance. There was some of that, but mostly I found dozens of people who’d lost faith in love completely. Some of them embraced the joys of singleness, but many just sounded bitter.
As much as love had let me down, I couldn’t bring myself to give up on it. I struggled but I was still a believer, if a slightly bruised one, and was willing to risk heartbreak again to have a second chance.
Before long, Ben and I were casually dating.
After divorce I learned new dating terms, like ghosting, breadcrumbing, and ‘Netflix and chill’. I’d been married since my early 20s; it was like emerging from a coma into a new world, and it wasn’t looking rosy. To me Netflix and Chill sounded like a terrible way to get to know someone. Was this dating now?
Ben is a Millennial, 11.5 years younger than I am, and I wondered if he was used to the low effort dating of swiping and ‘chilling’.
To me Netflix and Chill sounded like a terrible way to get to know someone.
I needn’t have worried.
Right from the start, Ben planned actual dates, and it impressed me. We went to concerts, hiked mountains, and talked on the phone late into the night.
One gorgeous spring evening, Ben arrived after work with a familiar sparkle in his eye. “Want to have a picnic on the beach?” he asked. I tilted my head, wondering what he had planned. “Sure.”
“We can get fish ‘n chips and watch the sun set.”
Ben owned a small off-road truck. When we arrived at the beach, he drove right up onto the rocky bank overlooking the ocean, pulled out a rug from the boot, and pointed to the roof. “Let’s eat up there.”
I laughed. “I’m not sure I can get up there.”
Ben easily scaled the back of the truck, then leant over and held out his hand.
We sat snuggled together on the rooftop, eating chips, and enjoying the endless views from the mountains to the horizon, now aflame with darts of orange and pink.
I wasn’t in a hurry to be someone’s partner; I’d only just signed the divorce papers, but I could tell I was falling for him and that worried me. Ben was still commitment shy from his previous relationships and, while I was willing to take a risk, how long could I wait to see if he was?
Two months later, I had my answer.
Ben had been working overseas for several weeks and I wondered if this would be the end of our relationship—a relationship we hadn’t even officially started yet. My friends invited me out, trying to distract me with parties. I smiled, danced, but couldn’t be distracted.
Maybe we weren’t even a good match?
Also, I’d been married before…and I’m older. Some of our friends and family thought those two things alone were enough evidence to say we weren’t right for each other.
Ben’s a practical country boy, born and raised in the same small town his whole life; I’m an academic city girl who likes to eat at nice restaurants and go to the theatre. We have different interests, different educational backgrounds. Maybe we couldn’t make it work.
Also, I’d been married before…and I’m older. Some of our friends and family thought those two things alone were enough evidence to say we weren’t right for each other.
It would have been nice, I thought. But I accepted it probably wasn’t going to happen.
Then one day he called, and in his sweet, gentle way, he said he missed me and wanted me to be his girlfriend.
I’d just turned 40, but I felt like a teenager falling in love for the first time.
Two years later we said our vows and walked out of the decorated barn, hand-in-hand to “I Believe in a Thing Called Love”—a song we’d both decided on.
We’re not an obvious couple. We were friends, and it took time to overcome some mental obstacles and make the switch to romantic partners. We’re different in many ways…but none of those differences matter.
We have similar values and we just work in an easy way I’ve never experienced before.
Rather than try to find a soulmate–some kind of impossible perfect match–we found gentleness, respect for each other’s differences, acceptance, and a sweet, passionate love. Perhaps that is a soulmate?
This November we celebrated our fourth wedding anniversary (still newlyweds!). I’m grateful we both gave love a chance.
Relationships are risky and it could have gone differently. It still could. There aren’t any guarantees when you trust someone with your heart. For many people, that risk feels too large. They build a barrier and tuck themselves safely behind it. Love is scary. Heartbreak hurts like hell. Relationships let us down sometimes. I know all of that far too well.
But for me, love is too good to stop believing in.
Kelly Eden has been telling and selling personal essays for over a decade and a half. To do the same, check out Because You Write and grab your free writing resources.