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It’s Christmas morning. I sit cross-legged on the living room floor of a house I once called home, smiling as genuinely as I can while my teenagers unwrap their gifts. And I am happy — truly. Their faces light up the way only kids’ faces can when the world still holds a little magic, and I am glad to be here to witness it.
But there’s a pit in my stomach. My ex and I exist in a state of polite tolerance, and being in that house — with the rugs I handpicked, the paint colors I chose and the blank spaces on the walls where pictures of the kids and me used to hang — makes me feel queasy. Like I’m holding my breath underwater. Like the hint of a panic attack starting to hum against my ribs.
Fourteen hundred miles away, my partner Amber is going through something similar — a Christmas with their ex and three kids, bittersweet in its own way. Less tension, but just as much absence.
A few years ago, during the height of the pandemic, we couldn’t be together for Thanksgiving or Christmas. So, we made a holiday in between — a kind of mashup celebration in a Virginia Airbnb, halfway between our two cities. Amber brought a string of Christmas lights and draped them across the fireplace mantel and around a fake potted plant in the corner. We cooked a turkey dinner that stood in for both holidays, exchanged thoughtful gifts, curled up in bed, and hiked a nearby trail. It was a quiet, romantic holiday. And we missed our kids.
But most years, and for most holidays, we’re apart. Midlife love isn’t always about getting what you want when you want it — sometimes it’s about waiting. And sometimes, that waiting feels endless and a little soul-crushing.
Yes, I want to be together for birthdays, anniversaries and holidays. But it’s the ordinary Tuesdays I miss the most. I want to drink coffee from the same pot and steal kisses between Zoom meetings. I want to decide together what’s for dinner, whether the dog’s behavior is quirky or vet-worthy, and what’s going on with the sluggish toilet tank.
When we’re together, we build this simple, connected life. But for the past six years, we’ve had to fit that life into sporadic five-day pockets wherever we can snag a discounted airline ticket.
There’s a strange thing that happens when you’re living in the in-between. I haven’t hung a single family photo on the walls of my house — not because I don’t have them, but because something inside me keeps whispering, This isn’t your house. I’ll be moving in a few years, and though I realize that is, objectively, not a short amount of time, I can’t seem to sink into this place when it feels impermanent.
In the in-between, everything feels temporary. My furniture choices. My streaming subscriptions. The smaller, not-quite-right surround sound system I settled for instead of the one I really wanted because buying what I wanted felt like a waste. Every change I make to my house comes with this pestering little voice: Will this help resale value? It’s like I’ve already begun packing.
And yet, life is still happening. These are not throwaway years. They matter. My youngest started high school last year, and I want her to remember, if not a home that felt lived in, then good, beautiful, full years that felt like ours. I focus on experiences. We see live shows together — we even traveled to New York City for a whirlwind weekend to see Beetlejuice on Broadway and trek every possible inch of the city in 48 hours. She’s on her high school’s swim team and plays in the local youth symphony. She is deeply connected to the community she’s grown up in, even as she, too, sets her eyes north.
When we were contemplating a pre-high school move, I almost didn’t want to admit to myself that Florida offers her opportunities Vermont can’t, like a program that allows Florida residents to attend college tuition-free. Moving now would be asking her to give up too much. I know this. I didn’t always — not until it was almost time to start making plans and I stood back and really looked at the situation. Could she be happy in Vermont? Yes. She’d adjust. But this is where her life is. I have to put her first.
So, we’re staying. And I keep telling myself: It’s only three more years.
Amber is my best friend — funny, brilliant, the person I trust with every random, half-baked thought that pops into my head. I can throw anything at them — a weird dream, a petty work annoyance, a philosophical debate about ethical AI — and I know we’ll have a fascinating conversation or end up laughing so hard someone snorts. Sometimes it feels like Amber knows me better than I know myself. When I fall into a “time warp” while working and forget to eat, Amber shows up with a sandwich even better than I could’ve made myself.
There is nothing more sacred than being completely known. With Amber, I can let my guard down all the way. No performance. No eggshells. Even when we argue, there’s a bedrock of respect that makes me feel safe. When we disagree, I don’t want to be right — I want to understand. I trust their intentions are good, and I know they trust mine are, too.
This is not a love you walk away from because the logistics are hard.
So, we savor the time we get. We send TikToks and goopy texts and grocery lists for recipes we want to try the next time we’re together. We live parallel lives that we know will, one day, finally merge. When my unmatched skill for scouting deeply discounted flights is no longer needed, when we’ve shared the same space long enough to be annoyed by each other’s mouth noises, I think we’ll be better for it. It’ll soften the edges of our frustration to remember how truly awful it was to be apart for so long.
Until then, we’ll practice patience because sometimes you fall in love in midlife with someone who lives 1,400 miles away — and if you want to keep that love, the only thing you can do is wait.
Are any of you in a similar situation? Let us know in the comments below.
LA Johnson
Follow Article Topics: Relationships
