Midlife Relationships on Thin Ice

5 minute read + 8 minute listen

If you happen to be in a romantic relationship in midlife, it’s going to be tricky. You’ll more than likely have gone beyond the ‘honeymoon’ phase, while remaining quite a distance from the ‘sit-back-and-rest-on-your-laurels’ phase. So midlifers will often find themselves deep in the trenches of the ‘daily grind’ phase. And while one might believe this to be akin to cruise control, it actually takes quite a bit of work to navigate successfully.

The last thing I want to be is alarmist. But going off recent conversations I’ve had with friends – post-covid conversations, that is, where we can actually have a proper, deep conversation over coffee or wine – it feels like everyone is on the brink. I’ve had more conversations about long-term marriages crumbling, auld fellas running off with young wans and general relationship discord than ever. A pandemic thing? Probably. A midlife thing? Absolutely.

Call it what you like – a midlife crisis or an awakening – but it can sometimes take reaching a certain age to jolt us into recognising what we truly want out of life. I feel that for many of our generation, our 20s and 30s were more about conforming to university and career and relationship norms than seeking out the life we truly wanted, deep down. Then, along comes midlife with a crashing sense of our own mortality and questions such as ‘Is this it?’ and ‘Did I choose this?’.

I’ve noticed a shift in the conversations I have around break-ups with my friends. It’s no longer astonishment or disappointment really – though lots of sympathy, sure – and none of us is interested in the details of how or why. It’s more a feeling of ‘there but for the grace of God’ go any of us. Because when life gets busy and you’ve become somewhat settled into that life, it’s very easy for things to start, well, slipping.

All relationships go through phases, which is comforting, given that I feel like my own has been stuck fast in a ‘passing ships in the night’ rut for quite some time. I watch my husband, from what feels like afar, as we navigate parenting small children together.

Existing in that fog of parental exhaustion; there’ll be a small one on top of us in the morning before we can even wake up together. Breakfast is a blur of Weetabix, cartoon negotiations and searching for a favourite pair of socks the six year old cannot possibly go to school without. Towards dinner time, he’ll appear from the home office, and before I can get a look in they’ll be upon him – wrapping their arms around him like little orangutans, telling him their stories and their woes. We might manage a mutual smile, or I might attempt to shout some tidbit of news about my day at him, but conversation has become impossible. And so we’ll rumble on to bedtime (which now involves one of us lying in with the three year old until after 9pm), perhaps watch an episode of Succession together and crumple into bed full of promises to chat properly, to connect properly, to sit down with a cup of coffee properly, the next day.

Now this is just my own personal situation. But it’s one I share with many midlifers who for one reason or another are parenting small children in their 40s or maybe even their 50s. And let me tell you, it’s exhausting and probably the most testing and least romantic thing you can inflict on any relationship. But I feel like we’re a good team. We value raising a family and (kind of) knew what we were getting ourselves into, so we’ll be okay. Yeah?

But then I recently met a friend who told me, as she bounced her baby girl on her knee and distracted her toddler boy with miniature rice cakes and little train engines, of a couple whose wedding she had attended just before the pandemic who had since gone their separate ways. She had left him, taking their baby with her. And we just nodded in mutual understanding and sadness that things had somehow gone so wrong for them. Because, I mean, aren’t we all treading that dangerously fine line?

Even the empty nesters – those who should be in the clear, with time, and maybe even a little extra cash, to invest in their relationships – can find themselves suddenly questioning the purpose and strength of their romantic partnership.

It’s not unusual to emerge from a life devoted to a growing family and not really recognise – or perhaps even be interested in – the person sitting next to you on the couch. How do you navigate a life together that is old and yet brand new all at once?

It feels like we all want to have really good relationships these days – and quite rightly too. There’s a standard for many in terms of feeling fulfilled and achieving a level of intimacy that many of the generation ahead weren’t as concerned with. Being with the right person matters to midlifers more than ever and so we get it that things sometimes fall apart without it necessarily being anybody’s fault or some kind of failure. While many of our parents’ generation stayed together at all costs, we hear about people having flings and we actually get it. Life is tricky and none of us knows what might lurk ahead.

So what makes the difference between staying and going? I’ve been mulling over this question. A friend of mine in her mid-40s, who is just a couple of years into a really nourishing relationship with a younger man, reckons it’s mindset – and she may be right. Is it personality type? A willingness to grow with a partner? Is it values, a deep sense of commitment? Luck?

I was home in Cork recently, unashamedly attempting to railroad my poor parents into minding our children for a night so myself and himself could get away together. “We would really appreciate it,” I implored. “We hardly get to talk – you know how it is.” And they do, but in fairness, they’ve already served their time.

During a break in negotiations I took my troop to the playground, bumping into a neighbour ten years my senior with two young girls of his own. We both watched our offspring bounce on the trampoline and clamber on the monkey bars through weary eyes.

“Do ye ever get away?” I asked him. He looked drawn and exhausted. The Easter break had him well beaten.

“Never,” he replied, turning to look me square in the face to emphasise the never-ness of their getting away.

“Well I’m hoping to make it happen. I need to make it happen,” I said, almost greedy with anticipation of a lie-in and a quiet breakfast and a rekindling of the old flame I know we have hidden somewhere underneath the business of our lives. “Wouldn’t it be amazing just to get out for dinner? And to sleep through the night?”

“Just to have a conversation…” he said.

We left it at that.

I do want to say that relationships in midlife can have a great sense of camaraderie. A better understanding of yourself, plus taking responsibility for decisions and where you are in life can bring about a great sense of purpose at a time when it can feel like your work life and personal life are all peaking. But also, crucially, we get that relationships need work – and if the work isn’t enough, or if you don’t want to do the work any more, maybe it wasn’t meant to be. And that’s okay too.

That’s the joy of having lived a bit of life – you realise that one minute it can indeed be plain sailing – the next it’s sink or swim.