After more failed relationships than I like to count, I had stopped believing love was something that lasted. Then I met Nathan at 42, and every instinct in me told me he was the one… but on our wedding night, he revealed something I wasn’t ready for. I had loved before, back when I still believed that effort alone could keep a relationship alive. Those relationships didn’t shatter all at once. They unraveled slowly.
And when I walked away, I carried with me a quiet understanding that love wasn’t something you could keep just because you wanted it to stay. The years that followed weren’t dramatic, but they were filled with small disappointments that added up over time. I met men who seemed right at first, had conversations that gave me hope for a while, and entered relationships that almost worked—until they didn’t. Gradually, without consciously deciding it, I stopped expecting anything lasting to come from any of it. I wasn’t unhappy.
I simply learned to accept it and allowed myself to build a life that didn’t rely on anyone else staying. I had my routines, my space, my peace—and while there were moments that felt empty, they were never unbearable. By the time I turned 42, I had stopped imagining that love would ever find its way back to me. Then I met Nathan. He didn’t enter my life like a storm. He didn’t try to impress me or rush me into something before I was ready.
