After Three Failed Marriages, I Finally Learned What Love Really Is

I used to believe love was something that swept you off your feet. That it had to be wild, loud, and all-consuming — like in the movies. Three marriages later, I know better. And it took me almost 60 years to understand what real love actually looks like.

My first marriage was all passion. We were both in our early twenties, full of dreams and fire. We got married after six months of dating. He was the kind of man who wrote me poetry and surprised me with weekend getaways. But neither of us knew how to fight fair. We mistook shouting for honesty and silence for strength. We confused intensity with intimacy.

We lasted four years.

The second time, I thought I’d learned my lesson. I chose someone safe. A man with a good job, no temper, and a plan. We were friends first, careful and methodical. We talked about finances, future children, everything we thought would build a solid foundation. But there was no spark. We were roommates playing house. We didn’t fight, but we didn’t touch much either — not just physically, but emotionally. We grew apart quietly.

That marriage lasted eight years.

The third one… well, that one broke me.

I was 42 and newly single again. I felt like a failure. But then came him. Charismatic. Magnetic. The kind of man who made you feel like you were the only person in the room. We had a whirlwind romance. Everyone told me to slow down — my sister, my therapist, even my grown-up daughter. But I ignored them. I wanted to feel alive again. And for a while, I did.

Until I didn’t.

He was unpredictable. The highs were incredible, but the lows were unbearable. He didn’t cheat — at least not physically — but he always had one foot out the door. He’d disappear emotionally for days, then come back with grand gestures that made me forget why I was angry. I spent more time worrying than I did smiling. I mistook chaos for chemistry. I stayed for five years, too ashamed to admit it wasn’t working.

When I finally left, I swore off love completely.

I moved to a smaller place. Started gardening. Took cooking classes. I travelled with my sister. I poured myself into friendships. And for the first time in my adult life, I was alone — and okay with it.

That’s when I met Walter.

He was my neighbour. Widowed. Wore flannel shirts even in spring. We started with casual greetings. Then we’d chat while watering our flowers or checking the mail. He never tried to charm me. He didn’t flirt or flatter. He just… showed up.

One afternoon, he brought me homemade soup when he noticed I’d been coughing. He fixed the latch on my front gate without being asked. He listened more than he spoke. And when he did speak, it was gentle and honest.

We started spending real time together. No rush. No expectations. He didn’t make my heart race — he made it feel at peace.

At first, I resisted. I thought love had to be big to be real. But over time, I realized this was exactly what I’d been missing all along.

Love isn’t loud. It’s quiet, dependable.

It’s someone who brings you tea before you ask. Who knows when to hold your hand and when to give you space. It’s someone who doesn’t try to fix you but sits with you while you figure it out. Someone who doesn’t leave when things get hard — but also doesn’t pretend to be perfect.

Walter and I aren’t married. We might never be. But I’ve never felt more committed to anyone in my life.

So after three failed marriages, here’s what I’ve learned:

Love isn’t the first spark — it’s the warmth that stays.

It’s not how you start; it’s how you grow.

It’s not someone who completes you — it’s someone who accepts you, even when you're incomplete.

If I could go back and tell my younger self anything, it would be this: you don’t have to chase love. Real love walks beside you.

And sometimes, it’s wearing a flannel shirt.