There’s a particular kind of grief that settles into your bones when you lose the person you were supposed to grow old with. No one prepares you for it — the way it steals not just your present, but the future you built in pencil, ink, and stubborn hope.
When you’re younger, love is about becoming.
Becoming a couple.
Becoming a family.
Becoming adults together.
You grow and shift and soften with the same person beside you. You change physically — we all do — but you don’t see those changes the same way the world does.
Because when you love someone for decades, you don’t see wrinkles or gray hair or the softening around the edges.
You see the man who held your hand in the hospital waiting room.
You see the woman who laughed so hard she snorted on your second date.
You see the life you built — the shared history that becomes its own kind of beauty.
Familiarity becomes attraction.
Shared memories become desire.
Love shapes your eyes.
But when you lose that person — or when a marriage ends — you’re thrown into something no one asked for: starting over.
And starting over at 40, 50, 60 is a completely different mountain to climb.
Because now, instead of being seen through the lens of someone who lived your life with you…
You’re being seen through the eyes of strangers.
Strangers who didn’t watch you grow.
Strangers who didn’t walk your valleys or climb your victories.
Strangers who don’t know the you who existed before the wrinkles, before the grief, before the years changed your body and your face and your heart.
When you start over at this age, you feel that difference.
Even if you’re confident.
Even if you’re grounded.
Even if you know your worth.
There is a quiet voice — sometimes faint, sometimes vicious — that whispers:
“What if I’m not enough anymore?”
Not pretty enough.
Not young enough.
Not thin enough.
Not radiant enough for a world obsessed with first impressions and filtered perfection.
And the truth is, that fear isn’t vanity.
It’s human.
Because for years — or decades — you were loved by someone who saw all of you, not just the surface. Someone who saw your worth through shared life, not swipe reactions. Someone who learned you the way a favorite song becomes a part of the body that listens to it.
Losing that lens is its own grief.
And stepping into dating again — especially after loss — means presenting yourself to people who haven’t earned the right to see you deeply yet. People who only know the picture on the screen and not the lifetime behind your eyes.
But here’s the part the fear forgets:
You are not starting from zero.
You are starting from wisdom.
From strength.
From a heart that has lived, loved, broken, healed, and dared to remain open.
And you are not “less than” for aging.
You are more — more experienced, more emotionally intelligent, more discerning, more compassionate, more real.
Someone new may not see the version of you that existed decades ago…
But the right person will see the woman you’ve become because of everything you survived — and they will recognize the beauty of that immediately.
You don’t start over because you stopped loving the person you lost.
You start over because they taught you what love can be.
And that lesson — that depth, that devotion, that courage — is the very thing that makes you worthy of being loved again, exactly as you are now.
Wrinkles, laugh lines, grief lines, silver hairs, soft edges, and all.
Not in spite of them.
But because of them.
© 2025 Heather Nicole Kight – Menopause & Malarkey. All rights reserved.
Menopause & Malarkey 