I’m a 21st-century spinster: last year, I turned 54 and hadn’t had a relationship (or a good date!) for almost five years.
Before that, I’d taken dating for granted. Marriage was never my goal, and I don’t have children. Since college, there’d been a steady pattern of long-term, wonderful relationships. I’m lucky; I’m a woman who’s been loved.
Then came my early 50s – during Covid – and everything stopped. So, I quit online dating, stopped doing awkward blind dates and declined virtual networking events. Instead, I focused on doing things I enjoy, like seeing live music, going to sporting events and traveling, with people I care about.
But on a trip to my hometown last year to watch a football game with friends, I ran into a college classmate in the airport. I hadn’t seen him in more than 30 years. We talked for a few minutes and politely agreed to keep in touch.
After one short meet-up in New York City, we started spending a lot of time together. We lived in different cities but both traveled for work, so coordinating locations was fun. Whether it was walking around different cities together, going to restaurants, making dinner at his house – he did all the cooking – or just texting and talking on the phone at all hours, every day, I was surprised at how effortless it was.
I was attracted to his intense ambition and grit – but mostly his compassion. Despite his punishing work schedule, he took time to meet with my best friend’s daughter, who was in her early 20s, struggling to find a job. What was supposed to be a quick coffee ended up being a full pancake breakfast on a weekday morning where he listened, gave advice and boosted her confidence.
He had experienced a tremendous amount of loss in the previous few years. Once, he told me he was “completely alone in the world” – not lonely, but alone – which was sad. At times, he was arrogant and insecure: he had worked very hard to be financially successful, but needed people to know it.
He was such a good man but, in retrospect, a hard person to really know.
He pushed things faster than expected, saying “I love you” after just a few weeks. It was a lot for me, but he seemed like a great guy, and it felt like we already had some shared history.
After three months, I assumed we were already beginning a longer-term, more serious thing, so I was in no way prepared for our story to end so abruptly.
He ghosted me.
It happened fast. For about a week, I noticed he wasn’t texting or calling like he normally did. We both have intense jobs, so I figured he was having a stressful time at work. When I called him after about a week to check in, he didn’t seem like himself, and I sensed something had shifted.
I couldn’t think of anything that had happened between us to cause this, but after that call, I decided to give him space and wait to hear from him. When another week went by without any contact from him, it felt like he was just gone, as suddenly and unexpectedly as he had shown up that day at the airport.
I had two theories about what happened. Applying Occam’s razor, the simplest was that he just didn’t like me. I’m a confident person, but self-aware enough to accept that this just happens sometimes. But my second theory was about bad timing: you meet people where they are in life, and that can make all the difference.
Either way, my instinct was to leave him alone since he was barely responding to me. But I remembered researcher and author Brené Brown’s Ted Talk on vulnerability, where she described it in the context of shame, and the idea that human connection and empathy require us to be vulnerable.
I was also thinking about one of my favorite columnists, and author of The Road to Character, David Brooks, who hasmade a case for prioritizing “eulogy virtues”(like kindness and compassion) instead of “résumé virtues” (ambition and achievement). Vulnerability and kindness had never been my strengths, but as I got older, I’d tried to be better at both. Aftermy sister died in the opioid crisis, my biggest regret was that I wished I’d been kinder to her.
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If he was having a hard time, I wanted to be kind, and that would require putting aside my pride and being vulnerable.
So, after about a month of no communication, I sent him one last text: I hoped he was OK, and if he ever needed a friend, I was here. (I didn’t want him to feel alone in the world.) It was a short message: no digs; no question that required a response. I just put it out there sincerely. Two days later, I received an antiseptic response about how busy he was, and he “hoped I was well”, like we had just met at a corporate retreat in the Catskills.
Vulnerability sounded much more empowering when Brown talked about it.
After that, I deleted all his texts, except one saying: “I love you” – to prove to myself I didn’t imagine the entire thing. I can accept being ghosted, but I refuse to be gaslighted.
One of my first jobs after college was teaching English at an elite prep school in New York City, a world unknown to me, the daughter of a waitress and a Vietnam combat veteran from western New York.
While I was not prepared for these precocious, worldly students , I loved teaching short stories, because it’s how we live our lives: one story stacked on another, then another, some running in parallel. Everything all at once. In some stories, you might be the protagonist – in others, just a supporting role. But in all of them, we intertwine with people living in stories of their own.
I’ll never know what happened with him, but I’ve decided my ghost story is a comedy, which feels empowering. I tell it with humor, and people always respond with laughter and empathy. No matter how old we get, one of the best parts of dating is telling friends your stories. I have an amazing group of women from home, whom I consider “million-dollar therapy”. We support each other, deal with life’s absurdities together and laugh about how we are now the same age as The Golden Girls, but with better hair.
Looking back after almost a year, I don’t regret what happened – even though I felt so humiliated at the time. I took a risk trying to connect with someone I cared about, and it didn’t work out. But in the end, I tried to be kind – and there’s power in that, not shame.
Most importantly though, I’m hopeful again and looking forward to my next story.
Kelly O’Connoris a Partner at Boston Consulting Group (BCG) in WashingtonDCand a patient advocate and aTEDx speaker about the opioid crisis.