When my husband and I first met back in 2014, we had what many would consider a whirlwind romance. We met, fell in love almost instantly, moved in together after a year, got engaged six months later, married a month after that, and a little over a year later, welcomed our first child.
It was all very exciting, rushed, and filled with emotion and love.
I’m also a very rational person who doesn’t get easily swept up in the moment. So we talked about a lot of the “hard” decisions that couples so often neglect to discuss at the beginning of a relationship. We talked about children, our future, and what we wanted our lives to look like. That’s why, now, more than 12 years later, it’s surprising to find myself struggling with something I thought I had already made peace with: our age gap.
He is 23 years older than me
My husband and I have a 23-year age difference. Yes, I was always aware of it. And, to be honest, it never really made a difference to me.
Especially when it came to the big life decisions, including having children, we had those conversations before we even got engaged. I knew exactly how old he was. I knew there would be things about growing older together that would be different for us.
But I guess there’s a big difference between being aware of something that could eventually happen and actually living it.
Our age difference has been showing up in more ways than one lately, and there’s a part of me that’s angry with myself for being surprised by it.
It’s not like my husband was always going to be the 48-year-old I met when I was 25. I knew he would age. I knew things would change as he got older. I knew there would eventually be a point when the difference between us became more noticeable.
I just don’t think I ever wanted to admit to myself exactly how much.
He’s in his 60s now
I knew he was going to be an older father. I knew all of this. But knowing something and seeing it firsthand are two very different things. Lately, I’ve seen just how much his 61 years are catching up to him, and it’s been putting me in a strange place.
I keep a lot of things together for my family. We have two young children, and I have my own business. There is already a lot that weighs on me. But what I’ve noticed recently is my husband’s physical health beginning to catch up with his age.
Don’t get me wrong — my husband is in great shape for a 61-year-old. But at the same time, most 61-year-olds aren’t running after toddlers or handling the daily insanity of school drop-off and pick-up.
And that difference is becoming harder for me to ignore. What bothers me most is how naive I feel. I knew this was a possibility. Quite frankly, my husband knew it, too. When we discussed having children, we were always on the same page, but he expressed his concerns about being an “old” dad. I heard him. We talked about it. We made the decision together.
And yet, now that I’m watching the reality unfold in front of me, I’m beginning to feel guilty. As though I’ve been selfish. As though somehow this isn’t fair to my kids.
I see how much fatherhood — and, frankly, being a husband — can weigh on him.
The everyday insanity of being part of a household with a high-maintenance 8-year-old and a very independent 3-year-old is a lot for anyone, myself included. But it’s especially a lot for a 61-year-old.
Sometimes he physically can’t keep up with our 3-year-old, who runs at a pace that could outrun the best of us. Sometimes he mentally can’t keep up with our eight-year-old, who talks at about a million miles a minute.
And those moments make the age difference feel very real.
It’s not just the fatherhood aspect
I feel his patience with me beginning to waver, too, and I wonder how much of that is because we’re simply in such different phases of life.
I have a thriving public relations firm, and I feel like I’m just getting started. I have energy and ambition and a feeling that there is still so much ahead of me.
He had a contracting firm for many years, but that chapter of his life is well behind him now. At his age, he should be enjoying retirement. Instead, he’s a stay-at-home dad and handles a huge amount for our family. But he’s far from retired.
He’s the only one who drives, so he’s the family’s chauffeur. He makes appointments and handles logistical things. He oversees the renovations on our house. He does the grocery shopping. He does so, so much.
And the truth is, at this age, maybe he shouldn’t have to.
Our relationship itself hasn’t really changed. We are still very lucky to have an incredibly open and loving relationship. We talk about these things. We try to give each other space and understand where one another is coming from. We each do what we can mentally and physically for each other, for our children, and, just as importantly, for ourselves.
I think what we’re realizing is that neither of us has ever been here before.
We knew there was an age gap when we met. We knew what it meant on paper. We talked about the difficult possibilities before we got married and before we had children.
At 25, I could understand that my husband was 23 years older than me. At 38, I can feel it.
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