Where the Men Are Wounded, the Women Are Weirdly Hot & Everyone’s in Therapy (Or Should Be)
Dating after 40 is less like a rom-com and more like an indie horror film with bad lighting and a recycled cast of emotionally unavailable ghosts.
Nearly 50, I’ve spent the better part of the last two decades solo - not celibate (I wasn’t a fucking nun), but definitely not co-existing with anyone, save for my kids, pets & now hormones that like to play musical chairs with my nervous system.
And when I say dating, I use the word loosely, because let’s be real, most of us aren’t actually dating anymore.
We’re swiping through a wasteland of men holding fish, flexing in mirror selfies, or talking about their “healing journey” while still bleeding emotionally on everything that moves.
✨ The Mental Load of Modern Dating
It’s not fear of rejection that stops me anymore.
Goddess knows I danced that dance in my 20s, 30s & even into my early 40s.
I used to fear abandonment so deeply, that I became a Grade A people pleasing, boundary less version of myself, just to be chosen.
I shape shifted.
I shrank.
I showed up as the “cool girl” with zero needs and a heart like an open buffet.
But I’ve outgrown that.
Now the fear is more like:
“If I give this person energy, am I going to be exhausted, disappointed, or moving on by Tuesday?”
Spoiler: probably.
It’s not about fear anymore.
It’s about capacity.
I don’t have the bandwidth for breadcrumbing, for banter that leads nowhere, for the slow, soul draining burn of trying to emotionally translate someone who hasn’t even figured out how to name their own feelings.
Dating, as it stands, feels like another unpaid job; but this time, there’s no HR, no health insurance & no guarantee anyone’s bringing snacks.
And honestly? I’m tired.
Not in a jaded way. In a clarity way.
I know what my energy’s worth now.
I know what peace feels like & I’m not willing to trade that for another half formed human who thinks “opening up” means telling me their ex was crazy and they’ve “done the work” because they once read The Four Agreements.
Here’s something to consider:
I don’t want to babysit your emotional unavailability. I want to build something with someone who can hold themselves when shit gets real.
And if that’s a high bar, so be it.
I’d rather be alone with my dog, my dreams & my wildly fulfilling life, than stuck entertaining yet another man-child who thinks vulnerability is sending a “U up?” text at 11:47 PM.
🐟 Men, Fish & Fuckery
One moment please..
Can we just talk about the fish?
What is this unspoken rule that every second man must be holding up a dead fish in his dating profile?
Is it meant to prove virility?
A modern day caveman flex?
A visual metaphor for “I can provide”?
Or is it simply: “Here’s a lifeless body I’m oddly proud of. Would you like to be next?”
Because all I see is cruelty, bloodless eyes & a giant red flag flapping in the breeze of your unprocessed boyhood.
Some people will love it, not me.
If you’re holding a fish, congratulations — you’ve just been left swiped by a menopausal animal empath who’s 87% sarcasm, funny & foul mouthed, 13% oat milk & 0% interested.
And let’s not even start on the deer heads, the dirt bikes, or the truck bonnets covered in dust like they’re auditioning for a Mad Max remake. Actually, that would be cool.. could deserve a second look.. shhhh.
That aside, there’s a very specific aesthetic in this demographic:
Sunburnt, slightly squinting, mildly wounded, with a side of protein powder and no emotional awareness to be found.
It’s like the universe copy n pasted one guy and gave him 1,000 different fish.
Other Instant Icks:
• Bios that say “Just ask” – Bro, this isn’t a hostage negotiation. If you can’t string a sentence together to tell me what makes you tick, I’m not about to launch a forensic investigation into your personality. I’m busy.
• Unsolicited DPs – No, Greg, I didn’t ask to see your angry thumb. I barely know your middle name and now I know what your balls look like under overhead lighting. This is not intimacy. This is digital assault.
• “Good morning” texts with zero follow-up – Breadcrumbs are for birds. I’m not about to rearrange my nervous system for a man who thinks effort means sending the same message to fifteen women, hoping one replies.
• “Looking for a good time” – Aren’t we all? But if your version of a good time is three drinks, some trauma dumping & a fumble under bad lighting… hard pass, mate.
• Photos with a woman cropped out – Sir, that is clearly your ex. I can see her hair, her hand, and her aura of regret. This isn’t mysterious. It’s emotionally unavailable with a filter.
And don’t even get me started on the ones who list “spiritual” in their bios, only to drop in with “Hey sexy, wanna chat?”.
Look, I’m not here for beige energy, trauma cosplay, or emotional laziness wrapped in a BCF polo.
If you’ve got a fish photo, a fridge full of Oxyshred RTD and a fear of commitment masked as “living free” — keep scrolling, I’m not your girl & frankly, you’re not even a man.
You’re a tired meme in human form.
😮💨 The “Self-Aware Woman” Problem
Here’s the kicker: it is harder to date now…
Because I actually like myself.
That might sound smug.
It’s not.
I’ve done the work.
Not the TikTok trends or the curated Pinterest version; I mean the snot nosed, soul shaking, plant medicine journey, bone deep kind of work on myself.
I’ve sat in sacred circles where silence spoke louder than solutions.
I’ve screamed the rage I wasn’t supposed to feel.
I’ve cried in the car park after holding space for everyone else.
I’ve saged my heartbreak and sung lullabies to the parts of me no one else ever stayed long enough to love.
And now?
Now when some man with a 3 word vocabulary slides into my DMs with a lazy “wyd?” or a midnight “u up?”, my entire nervous system just goes: ugh, no thanks.
It’s not even anger, it’s cellular exhaustion.
Because I no longer fawn.
I don’t shrink myself to fit his perceptions.
I don’t chase love in the places where respect never even showed up.
But there’s a kicker within the kicker…
I still get ghosted.
Still get breadcrumbed.
Still get energy snatched by men who say they want depth, until they realise depth has strong boundaries.
And standards.
And a fucking spine.
They don’t ghost me because I’m too much.
They ghost because they don’t know how to meet a woman who’s already met herself.
🚩 Emotional Hospice Care: Dating Men My Age
Honestly? Trying to date men my age feels like working in palliative care; but for repressed emotions.
Like I should be showing up with soup, soft socks & a Spotify playlist titled “Feelings You’ve Never Processed Vol. 1”.
Somewhere between the divorce, the career burnout, the mid-life identity crisis & that one pyramid scheme disguised as a “business opportunity,”something in them just… flatlined.
They’re not bad people.
They’re just emotionally bankrupt.
Running on fumes and still trying to pay for connection with the currency of denial.
No capacity.
No curiosity.
No clue how to meet a woman who has already survived herself.
I’m not looking for a saviour.
I’m not trying to be one either.
I’ve got my own nervous system to regulate and zero interest in becoming someone’s emotional defibrillator.
But damn… the emotional IQ is often somewhere between a drunk Labrador and a damp sponge in a sad bachelor flat.
Cute, occasionally loyal, but mostly confused and shedding fur all over my boundaries.
It’s no wonder women my age are hooking up with younger men.
They’re still alive in the eyes.
Still curious.
Still want to go out & live.
Still asking questions instead of monologuing about their ex-wife over tapas.
Sometimes it seems they haven’t been fully domesticated by disappointment yet.
And if there’s respect, presence & shared values?
Who gives a flying fuck about the age gap?
Just don’t be an asshole.
That’s the only rule.
Don’t weaponise your wounds.
Don’t use our softness as a landing pad for your unprocessed shame.
Don’t mistake our desire for connection as consent to carry your shit.
We’re not your mother.
We’re not your therapist.
We’re not your rehab.
We’re here to meet—not mend.
💡 Advice to My 30-Year-Old Self?
Don’t do it.
Kidding. (Kind of.)
Actually? Here’s the real talk you won’t find in a fairy tale or a Pinterest quote:
Be okay with being alone.
Not the Instagrammable kind of alone with bubble baths and matcha lattes.
I mean the gut-deep, scary kind.
The sitting in your feelings at 3am kind.
The kind where you don’t text the ex or download Tinder just to feel wanted.
Because waiting to be chosen is the fastest way to forget who the fuck you are.
Learn to choose yourself - again and again - until it’s second nature.
Until you no longer confuse attention for affection.
Until breadcrumbs don’t excite you anymore.
Until “maybe he’s just bad at texting” becomes an obvious ‘no’ instead of a puzzle to solve.
Here’s the rule I intend to follow:
If a relationship doesn’t feel safe, energising, and expansive, it’s a no.
Not a “maybe if I try harder.”
Not a “but he has potential.”
A hard no.
Walk away.
Don’t wait for closure.
Don’t look back hoping they’ll wake up.
They won’t.
And if they do? It’ll be too late.
The right connection isn’t some rom-com fantasy or soulmate saviour.
It’s someone who lets you be fully you - even when you’re tired, moody, messy, opinionated, contradictory, too loud, or too quiet.
It’s two people walking side by side.
No hand holding through your healing.
No fixing.
Just presence.
Someone who says, “I see you. I hear you. But I’ve got my own shit too. Let’s just keep showing up. Together.”
Not home.
Not rescue.
Not perfect.
Just real.
💌 And If You’re 50, Newly Single, and Thinking About Dating Again?
Babe. Here’s your manifesto:
Be you.
Unapologetically.
Messily.
Loudly.
Softly.
Weirdly.
Witchily.
Wisely.
Whatever-ly.
Dating doesn’t have to be the goal.
You are not some forgotten apple slowly rotting on the shelf.
You are a whole damn orchard & anyone stepping into your world better bring compost and reverence.
You don’t need to prove your worth by being partnered up.
You don’t need to shave your legs, hide your laugh lines, or pretend you don’t snore when you’re sick.
You don’t need to squeeze your life into someone else’s calendar like a polite little side salad.
If you choose to date again, let it be from wholeness, not hunger.
Let it be a bonus, not a bandaid.
Let it be a sacred fuck yes to connection, not a scared “maybe” because you’re lonely at night and society whispers you’re only valuable if someone wants you.
Swipe if you feel like it.
Flirt if it turns you on.
Ghost them if they’re toxic.
Say “no thanks” without explanation.
Say “yes” with joy, not obligation.
We’re old, not dead, no time to waste.
And if you match with a man whose bio says his love language is “nudes”…
Report.
Block.
Sage your phone.
Cleanse yourself in the ocean.
Then go make a cup of tea and remind yourself that your worth has nothing to do with being chosen.
You are the choice.
Full stop.
No expiry date.
No exceptions.
✨ Final Word
Dating in my 20s?
Fun.. & a little dangerous.
(Tequila on an empty stomach anyone?)
Dating in my 30s?
Non-existent. I was too busy keeping tiny humans alive and trying not to lose myself in the process.
Dating in my 40s?
Traumatic. Like a full-blown spiritual awakening with Wi-Fi and dick pics.
Dating now?
No.
Just… no.
But writing about it?
That shit is comedy gold.
So if you’re out here swiping through the same broken dudes from five years ago, wondering if you’ve accidentally entered the “recycled bin of Tinder”…
Just know: you’re not alone.
We’re all out here, laughing through the chaos, dodging red flags like it’s an Olympic sport… and realising that maybe — just maybe — the real soulmate is a night in with your dog, your vibrator, a cheeky charcuterie board & a damn good cuppa tea.
Here’s to us.
To the women who choose themselves.
To the ones who make singleness sacred.
To the ones rewriting the rules with lipstick, lube and a whole lotta laughter.
Cheers, darling.
We didn’t come this far to settle now.
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