The Mid Life Dating Files 2025

Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind.

If there were an Olympic sport for “emotionally spiraling while holding a roll of packing tape,” I’d at least medal—possibly gold, depending on how many boxes I trip over on the way to the podium.

So here I am: 33 years in one house. Thirty-three. That’s not just a home—that’s a museum, an archive, a time capsule, and possibly a minor archaeological dig site. Four bedrooms, 3,100 square feet, two stories… and apparently 97% of the nation’s bubble wrap supply. And I have less than 11 days to pack it all up. Alone. Just me, my thoughts, and a label maker that has started judging me.

At this point, every drawer I open feels like a plot twist.

“Oh look, a birthday card from 1998…”

“Why do I have 14 spatulas?”

“Is this shirt vintage… or did I just forget I owned it in 2007?”

And don’t even get me started on the closets. Four walk-in closets. FOUR. At some point, I stopped collecting clothes and started curating an exhibit. I’ve got outfits for every version of myself: Teacher Me, Realtor Me, “I might go to brunch” Me, and “I will absolutely not go anywhere but still want options” Me.

Honestly, the whole thing is starting to feel like my own personal version of Eat, Pray, Love. Minus the Italian villa and plus a suspicious amount of dust and emotional attachment to throw pillows. Eat, Pray, Love

I mean, I’ve got the “Eat” part down—mostly stress eating whatever I find in the pantry that hasn’t expired.

The “Pray” part happens every time I tape a box and hope I labeled it correctly.

And “Love”? Well… currently that’s me and Blaze, my cat, who supervises everything like a tiny, judgmental foreman while eating his snacks and critiquing my life choices.

Somewhere between wrapping dishes and questioning my entire life direction, I’ve realized this isn’t just a move—it’s a full-on life chapter closing. And not a quiet, gentle page turn either. More like slamming the book shut, dropping it, and then picking it back up thinking, “Okay… what’s next?”

Because if I’m being honest, there are moments where I wonder exactly where my story is headed. Divorced, starting over, packing up three decades of memories into cardboard boxes labeled “misc.” (Which feels wildly inappropriate for a life, by the way.)

But then… there’s this other feeling. A small, stubborn, hopeful one.

The idea of a simpler life.

A river lot. A smaller, one-story home. Or hey—if life really pushes me there—a tiny house where I can’t physically accumulate four closets’ worth of “just in case” outfits. A garden. Coffee on a pier in the morning. Wine in the afternoon. Music playing loud in the kitchen while Blaze and I host our daily concert series (he’s more of a meow-soprano).

It sounds peaceful. It sounds intentional. It sounds… like maybe exactly what I need.

Right now, though? It sounds like I need to finish packing the junk drawer. You know the one. Every house has it. Mine appears to have… multiplied.

So here’s to the chaos. The memories. The boxes I will absolutely not reopen for at least a year. The temporary move back in with The Rents (send snacks and patience). And the strange, exciting, slightly terrifying blank page ahead.

New chapter loading…

Hopefully with fewer closets.