Falling in Love at 55

I fell in love at fifty-five.

Not with another person—but with myself.

And no, it didn’t arrive in a dramatic moment. There was no sweeping declaration, no lightning bolt of self-adoration. It came quietly. Gently. In small, almost unnoticeable ways—like most things that truly matter.

For most of my life, I believed love was something that needed to be earned. Something conditional. Something that arrived only after I became better: thinner, calmer, more successful, more agreeable, more healed.

I spent decades trying to be worthy of it—shaping myself around expectations, relationships, roles, and versions of myself that were never quite true.

I loved others deeply. Fiercely. Sometimes, to my own detriment.

But loving myself? That idea barely crossed my mind. And when it finally did, it snuck up on me.

As I moved through each decade and the experiences that came with living, I began to get curious. Curious about why I felt the way I did. Curious about how others navigated their inner worlds.

After all—if I could love others through their mess, their pain, their becoming… couldn’t I offer myself the same grace?

 So I began slowly. A self-help book here. An article there. A class that sparked something. Each one offering a small glimpse into self-awareness, into consciousness, into myself. Over time, the knowledge I gathered began to awaken a deeper wisdom—one moment at a time.

I started paying attention.

 What did I actually want to eat, instead of grabbing whatever was easiest?

What objects around me brought me joy—and which I kept out of obligation?

How did what I wore affect my mood?

Gaelen Abt

I allowed myself to have opinions. To stop agreeing just to keep the peace. And, paradoxically, I also learned that not every thought needs to be spoken. That filtering my words wasn’t silencing myself—it was honoring the energy of the moment.

I began to understand my energetic needs and boundaries. To honor them without labeling myself as “too sensitive” or “weird” for needing space. I stopped apologizing for my need to step back.

And somewhere along the way, I realized something surprising:

I was no longer afraid of being alone.

In fact, I began to crave time with myself. My company wasn’t just good enough—it was nourishing. I no longer felt like my presence was an inconvenience. I understood that I bring value to every room I enter simply by being there.

At fifty-five, I didn’t “fix” myself. I befriended myself.

And I continue to stay curious. To learn. To grow. To discover new reasons to fall in love with who I am becoming.

This love story is still unfolding—and for the first time in my life, I’m fully here for it.