How I Found Love at 47 (Without Googling “How to Find Love at 47”)

Let’s just start here: I did not expect to fall in love at 47.

To be clear, I didn’t not expect it, either. But years of dating—on, and mostly off—had quelled that part of me that thought that someday, my big ol’ prince would ride in on a unicorn.

My standards had changed – not slipped entirely but changed. From thinking that a cute preppy guy whose button-down shirt matched his crew neck sweater would be perfect to just wanting someone who would laugh at my jokes and look at me like I was special. Like I was his home.

By that point, I’d missed the first sailing of the Love Boat. There was no starter marriage, no tearful breakup where I took the kids and the car to mother’s house, no second marriage that was the actual marriage. There was a series of disappointing relationships and several breaks in between. I got all cynical and shunned the whole couple thing and worked on life and career and, yes, sometimes made excuses. They were plausible excuses, of course.

But there were always these little nuggets of hope in my gut. And those nuggets are almost impossible to extract. So, I stayed open to the possibilities. And then—he showed up. Not in the “meet cute” way, but he sailed right in through my defenses. Creative, playful, consistent. He had me when, during the first week of us emailing back and forth, he shared the photos he had created of himself plastered onto famous record albums.

Like the one where his face was melded on John, Paul, George and Ringo.

Who could not be intrigued by that?

We Started and Ended with Pizza

He urged us to meet in person quickly. So that we could find out if we really liked each other and not just be charmed by his record-album photoshop skills.

I picked a restaurant near where I took art classes. I was relatively new to Chicago and didn’t know many hot spots. They served the most delicious Neapolitan-style pizza, which I knew would probably be a crowd pleaser.

Little did I know that he had picked a day where he had a hard stop at 7 p.m. He admitted later that was in case we bombed out. He was a seasoned dater.

It was August, we ate outside. I made a major mistake that night that might have sent him packing. Because we had spent a week emailing each other about family, sharing poems (me) and family photos and doctored record albums (him), I felt comfortable. Comfortable enough to bring a framed childhood picture of myself and my sibs and plop it on the table between us.

He gave me a strange look, like “does this woman carry framed photos with her on every first date?”

Oops, I thought. Then I said I brought it because it reminded me of some of the photos he had sent me via email. Not the record albums, of course.

That worked. He didn’t ask to be excused and then bolt off while I wasn’t looking.

After that, the conversation flowed. Could it be that easy? Just two adults getting to know each other and not looking for an out? There was a happy glow in my gut. An unfamiliar feeling of satisfaction. And after years of things feeling hard and forced and confusing, satisfaction felt surprisingly magical.

I remember laughing. The kind of laugh that comes from knowing someone well, even though we had just met.

After dinner, he walked me to my car and asked for a kiss. I popped up on my toes and we met in the most delightfully sweet touch of the lips.

We looked at each other, knowing that kiss had landed.

He texted me good night and good morning the next day and every day after that for a year.

The “I Love You” Moment

Things were going smoothly. Too smoothly, if you ask me.

The texting, the calling, the consistency.

On week 4, he said “I’m going to make my dating profile inactive. I’m not telling you to do that, but that’s what I’m going to do.”

Swoon.

Of course I did that, too. The warm emotional belly feels continued to glow.

I began to question if he fell in love with everyone he dated, so I asked.

Nope, his past year consisted of giving a relationship he knew was over a second chance, letting go of someone who wanted children, and saying so long to a woman who thought you should have a lot of conflict “to test the relationship.”

Huh. Maybe this was a thing.

Then about three months in, as we were lounging in bed, he grabbed my hands. “I want to tell you something that’s been on my mind for a while.” Again, with this is how I feel, you don’t need to follow suit.

“I love you.” Said with the most authentic, loving tone.

And then I felt it, and it all came rushing out, like I’d been holding in the obvious for weeks.

And I smiled like an idiot.

The next morning, I made him waffles and freshly squeezed orange juice and we went off on a little adventure, holding hands while driving the car.

We couldn’t stop saying it to each other, until it became a funny skit between us.

“Pookie, can you pass the salt because I love you?”

I confessed to a girlfriend later that I was afraid to fall in love with him because what if I lost him?

“Aww, honey,” she crooned. “You really are in love.”

We Didn’t Get Forever. But We Got Real.

You know those couples who meet, fall in love, and start shopping for matching furniture sets and matching pajamas?

We weren’t that. Unless you count our weekly trips to Costco to buy the essentials.

We were a little romantic and almost sloppy. Pookie. Honey Bunny, Cinnamon bear. Chris Would blush when I called him that and our friends would fake-puke in approval.

But beyond that, there was no game. No playing hard to get or bringing up old exes for jealousy’s sake. We just shared our messy adult lives and kept moving forward.

To be honest, his life was WAY messier than mine. A difficult former marriage, a stepson and two teenage kids who all needed different levels of support. An older brother who was mentally disabled and lived upstairs. A nonagenarian bachelor uncle who thought he could continue living independently.

I had an aging dog and 81-year-old mother who was independent.

Not fair!

But worth it. So worth it for the man who saw me, liked me, and cuddled me every day.

And then—too soon, too sharply—he got sick.

It happened fast. One minute we were arguing about whether we should share a pizza and salad or get one for each and the next, he was waking up with a stabbing pain in his gut.

The next day he was gone.

I cried like I have never cried before.

In an instant I went from planning the wedding to planning the funeral.

I thought I had more time. I thought we’d grow old together and take each other to colonoscopy and physical therapy appointments.

He was the best man I knew. And we had love – big love – that made parting all the worse.

He slipped from me so quickly, two weeks before our wedding. Gone.

But not really. Not entirely. Not where it counts.

Moving Forward. Sort Of.

Here’s what no one tells you about grief:

It doesn’t feel like he is in a better place.

It doesn’t feel like it was all part of the plan.

It doesn’t feel like time will make it better.

I lit our wedding candles for him every time I went to sleep until they ran out, over a year later.

I cried every day for a year.

I cried like crazy when I drove. Apologies to any driver I may have inconvenienced.

His friends and family faded away. It happens. I don’t blame them. But my OG friends from high school and college showed up, keeping me in their lives. Dragging me out to things.

And I took our honeymoon trip to Barcelona after visiting Chris’s old childhood friend, now living in Amsterdam.

I became way more knowledgeable about grief the longer I swam in that pool. Grief is weird. It’s not a straight line. It’s completely individual. It has its own timeline.

And the truth is, I didn’t “move on.” I hate that phrase.

No. I just moved. Forward, I guess. And sometimes backward. And don’t forget sideways.  I kept living.

He’s still here. In my head, in my heart, in the trees and flowers. And in terms of actual spiritual-medium ways, I dipped my toe into that pool and got some interesting information.

But emotionally, he’s still mine. There’s some weird and gentle guidance going on. I feel him pushing me to be more – more opinionated, more humorous, more ME.

He’s still a major part of my story. Still in the room when I make big decisions or share opinions on the best Chicago pizza.

And here’s the twist: life didn’t shrink without him.

It got bigger. More honest. I started saying the things I meant. Doing the things that scared me. Writing down the messy truth, like this.

Because grief doesn’t just crack you open—it makes space.

And in that space, I found a new version of myself. Still deeply in love. Still occasionally crying in the car. But also—still here.