Love Actually … Is A Shit Show

The Emotional Circus of Relationships After 40

Let’s talk about romantic relationships in your 40s. Not the rose petals and grand gestures kind. Not the lust-fueled early days when you shaved your legs religiously and texted things like “can’t stop thinking about you 😘.”

No, no. I’m talking about real, capital-A Adult Love. The kind that lives in a house with shared whiteboard calendar, overdue library books, and a collection of half-drunk pepsi cans and SO many crumbs play the role of the ‘decor ‘on your kitchen counters.

The kind of love where you look at your partner and think:
“I would die for you. But I’d also smother you in your sleep if you keep chewing those chips so loud.”

It’s a wild ride, folks.

We’re Talking Real-Life Romance

There’s no time for long gazes across candlelit tables when your life is just an endless loop of:
Work → gymnastics → football → dinner → laundry → dogs → mow the lawn → wash the car → pour the wine → pass out halfway through your show with your mouth open and subtitles still playing.

I love this person. I chose this person.
But sometimes, the only thing we have in common is that we’re both deeply tired and struggling.

We have different parenting styles, different social batteries, different friends, different hobbies, different coping mechanisms, and wildly different opinions on what qualifies as “clean.”
Yet… here we are. Still showing up. Still tagging each other in for another round.

Passion? Check. Annoyance? Also Check.

Let’s be real: long-term love is not a dream state of bliss.
It’s passionate in that “I’M DOING EVERYTHING MYSELF” tone.
It’s knowing exactly how to push each other’s buttons and which button starts the coffee maker.

They fill your cup but also occasionally spill it across your new ivory couch that you waited four months for and cost more than your first car payment.

But we keep going.

The Flex Tape Phase of Marriage

Every day is a new leak in the boat.
The dog pees on the floor.
You forgot your lunch.
Kid #2 needs to be at gymnastics in 15 minutes and it’s a 20-minute drive.
You tripped over a Birkenstock, ripped your shirt, and forgot your charger at work.

Your partner walks in looking like they had a day and guess what?
You both want to be babied but there’s no one left to baby anyone.

You’re the lead in the 2025 reboot of Groundhog Day: Domestic Chaos Edition.
Except instead of a groundhog, it’s just that one drawer that never closes and keeps catching your hip every morning.

Still Worth It (Even When It’s Not Easy)

And still, through the chaos, you stay.
You try. You schedule date nights that never happen. You touch toes in bed and call it intimacy.
You trade memes and send the occasional “suggestive” text that gets ignored for five hours because someone was making snack bags for tomorrow’s field trip.

You apologize. You come back together. You pour wine.
You find each other again, somewhere between the dishes and the dog hair.
And sometimes—on those magical unicorn days—you laugh until you can’t breathe and remember exactly why you fell in love in the first place.

The Quiet Work of Loving Someone (While Tired, Touched-Out, and Wondering What’s for Dinner)

Some days, loving someone feels like soft music in the background of chaos. It’s there, steady and comforting, but it can get drowned out by the sheer volume of life. Kids, bills, work deadlines, mental to-do lists that never stop running, and the ache in your lower back that reminds you had no business moving that table by yourself…again.

And then there’s your partner—this person you adore, admire, and genuinely like… who somehow becomes the one who asks, “What we have for dinner?” at the exact moment you finally… finally sit down for the first time all day.

It’s not about the dinner. It’s never really about the dinner.

It’s about the weight of it all. The constant balancing act between being who your kids need, who your clients need, who your partner needs—and somewhere in there, who you need. And when you’re broke, tired, overstimulated, and barely holding it all together, the pressure can feel suffocating.

You start to feel like you’re the one always falling short. Like your best efforts are invisible because they don’t always look like success or care. Because survival mode doesn’t come with applause. Because “still standing” doesn’t get the same recognition as “thriving,” even when standing is a miracle some days.

And sometimes, resentment creeps in. You want space without guilt. You want to feel chosen—seen—without needing to narrate every feeling you have just to be understood.

And if we're being really honest? Sometimes you just want everyone—including the person you love most—to leave you alone! Middle age and perimenopause have brought a new kind of fatigue and sensitivity. Your body is changing. Your patience has a shorter fuse. And the idea of intimacy often looks more like a full night’s sleep than anything else.

But here’s the part that matters—the part I come back to again and again:
I chose this person. I still choose them. Even when I’m weary. Even when I feel misunderstood. Even when I don’t want to be touched, but I still want to sit beside them and be.

There is something quietly romantic about that.

Loving someone deeply doesn’t always look like fireworks. Sometimes it looks like laughing over a stupid meme on the couch. Or splitting a bag of chips while watching the show we’ve seen a hundred times. Or sitting side by side in silence because it’s the only peace you’ve had all day—and sharing it feels like connection in its own right.

And maybe that’s love in real life. Not shiny or perfect, but gritty and loyal. Not loud, but present. The kind of love that holds steady when everything else feels unstable.

Your story may not be perfect what matters is that you want the story. The one where they are still your person. And the one where you wouldn't want to do any of this without them.

Bottom line?
Love after 40 isn’t a fairy tale.
It’s a slow burn, a shared effort, a comedy of errors, and a practice in grace.
It’s showing up even when you’re depleted, and choosing to stay—sometimes out of love, sometimes out of stubbornness, often out of muscle memory.

But if you're lucky, it’s still home.
Even with the unpaid property tax bill on the table.