Learning to be single again
I never imagined I'd be dating again in my fifties.
When I got married, I genuinely believed that was it. I'd found my person, built my life, had my children and settled into the comfortable certainty of knowing who I was and where I belonged.
Then, after 24 years of marriage, it ended.
There wasn't one enormous explosion. No dramatic discovery or suitcase thrown onto the driveway. We'd simply spent years slowly becoming two people who shared a house, a history and a family, but very little else.
When we finally admitted it was over, I felt two completely contradictory things.
I was devastated.
And I was relieved.
For the first few months, dating was the last thing on my mind. I was too busy working out practical things like finances, where I was going to live and how you divide up decades of possessions without turning every coffee mug into an emotional negotiation.
Then came the quieter problem.
Who was I now?
For years I'd been somebody's wife. We had couple friends, couple holidays, couple routines. Even Saturday nights had a predictable rhythm.
Suddenly, Saturday night was just... Saturday night.
"You need to get yourself back out there"
My friends started saying it long before I was ready to hear it.
Apparently, there was an entire world of single men waiting for me.
I wasn't convinced.
Eventually, after a couple of glasses of wine with a friend, I agreed to create an online dating profile.
That was an experience.
How do you describe yourself when you haven't had to advertise your best qualities since Tony Blair was Prime Minister?
I stared at the box asking me to write something about myself and realised I had absolutely no idea what to say.
"Recently divorced woman enjoys Netflix and occasionally cries in the car" didn't seem particularly marketable.
So I wrote something safe. I liked weekends away, eating out, walking, music and spending time with family.
In other words, I sounded exactly like approximately 98% of the British population.
Then came the photographs.
Apparently, every decent photograph of me from the previous decade contained my ex-husband.
Eventually, I found a few that didn't require aggressive cropping and pressed the button.
My profile was live.
I immediately wanted to delete it.
My first message
The first message arrived about twenty minutes later.
"Hi sexy."
That was it.
After 24 years of marriage, this was apparently my grand reintroduction to romance.
I didn't reply.
There were other messages, though. Some funny, some strange and some surprisingly lovely.
I started chatting to a man called David.
He was 55, divorced, had two grown-up daughters and seemed reassuringly normal. We messaged for about a week before he suggested meeting for coffee.
I said yes.
Then spent the next three days regretting it.
My first first date in nearly 30 years
I arrived 25 minutes early.
Obviously.
I sat in my car watching people walk towards the café wondering whether every middle-aged man was David.
When I finally went inside, he was already there.
And my first thought was: "Oh."
Not a terrible "oh". Just an "oh".
He looked slightly different from his photographs. Older, perhaps. But then I suddenly wondered whether I did too.
We hugged awkwardly.
For the first ten minutes I felt as though I was attending a job interview for the position of girlfriend.
We covered work, children, divorce, holidays and dogs.
Then something changed.
I stopped thinking about whether he fancied me. And started wondering whether I liked him.
That sounds ridiculously obvious now, but at the time it felt revolutionary. I'd been so worried about being judged that I'd forgotten I was allowed to judge too.
David was nice. Kind. Interesting. Funny. But there wasn't a spark.
We had another coffee anyway.
When we left, he said he'd enjoyed meeting me and asked whether I'd like to do it again.
For the first time in years, I had to make a decision based entirely on what I wanted.
I told him I'd enjoyed meeting him too, but I didn't think there was a romantic connection.
He smiled and said, "I thought you might say that." Then he hugged me goodbye.
I got into my car. And cried.
Not because I wanted David. Because I'd done it. I'd gone on a date.
Dating turned out to be stranger than I expected
There were more dates after that.
One man talked about his ex-wife for almost two hours. One looked absolutely nothing like his photographs. One told me within 15 minutes that he was looking for "someone who takes care of herself", while simultaneously eating his third sausage roll.
There was also a man I really liked who disappeared after three dates without explanation. That one hurt more than I expected.
I began wondering whether I was too old for all of this.
Then I realised something.
Dating hadn't suddenly become difficult because I was divorced or because I was in my fifties. Dating had probably always been difficult. I'd simply forgotten.
There were disappointments, misunderstandings and evenings when I came home thinking I'd rather remain single forever than answer another question about my favourite holiday destination.
But there were good moments too. Someone holding my hand for the first time. Getting a message that made me smile. Choosing what to wear because I felt attractive rather than because it was practical. Having someone look across a table at me with that unmistakable expression that says, I like you.
I'd forgotten what that felt like.
The biggest surprise wasn't meeting someone
About eight months after joining the dating site, I met someone.
I'm deliberately not going to turn this into a fairy tale because it wasn't one. There were no fireworks. No instant certainty.
We just enjoyed talking. One date became another. Then another. And gradually I realised I was looking forward to seeing him.
We're still together now. Where it goes, I don't know. And strangely, I'm comfortable with that.
Because the most important thing I found after my divorce wasn't another relationship. It was myself.
For a long time, I'd thought dating again meant replacing my husband and rebuilding the life I'd lost. It doesn't.
My old life is gone. Some parts of that still make me sad. But I've also discovered that starting again doesn't mean starting from nothing.
I brought 24 years of marriage with me. I brought mistakes, memories, children, scars, confidence, insecurities and a much clearer understanding of what I want from another person.
Most importantly, I've learned that being alone and being lonely aren't the same thing. I don't need somebody to complete my life. But I'm open to somebody becoming part of it.
And if you're recently divorced and wondering whether you'll ever be ready to date again, I can't tell you when that moment will come. You might be ready in six months. It might take two years. You might download a dating app, panic and delete it the same evening. That's fine too.
Just don't make the mistake I nearly made. Don't assume that because one chapter of your life has ended, all the interesting parts of your story are behind you.
Sometimes you don't realise how much life is still waiting for you until you finally turn the page.
— Sarah, 53
