Recently, a man I love decided to retreat from a relationship I thought we were building together.

He didn’t have the capacity to show up completely, so he pulled back—not only from us, but from society in general.

I understand the impulse. Things feel bleak. There is something seductive about disappearing into the metaphorical forest and re-emerging after the world has finished burning.

For one terrible moment, I considered burying myself in the ashes, too.

As a lifelong people-pleaser and fawn-responder, I instinctively began mirroring his retreat.

Turn inward, Jaye. Cancel everything. Enter your Winter Arc. Become so healed that everyone who hurt you will Rue The Day™.

Thankfully, I recognized the pattern.

I don’t want a revenge body or a carefully filtered social media feed.

I want a life that is full and is mine.

Maybe someone worthy of sharing its sweetness—and bitterness—will arrive. Maybe he’ll stay.

Maybe he won’t.

I have to be okay either way.

I am fifty-four years old and single again. Getting back out there at this age is hard.

But I did it.

We did it.

I’m heartbroken, angry, grateful, and—inconveniently for the narrative—still intensely alive.

Fuck Hermit Mode.

The Empress Card has entered the chat. 🔮👑

Farewell, My Darling Hermit…

Last night, I paced my apartment, ranting telepathically about how selfish and ridiculous he was being. He is fifty-one, behaving as though the village elders have carried him to the ice floe so he may nobly contemplate the burden of his advanced age.

Sir.

You are fifty-one.

Your “elder” and ex challenges you to a duel at dawn.

I was furious. I missed him. I still loved him.

Then, somewhere inside the sorrow and rage, I felt myself expanding.

I became inexplicably joyful.

Not because the relationship was over. Not because I had healed before bedtime and become some emotional Princess Mononoke, ready to ride wolves and save the forest by morning.

The joy came from recognizing that I had truly shown up.

I had been completely present in a relationship without abandoning myself.

Then the thing I feared happened:

He dumped me.

But I was still here.

More than here, actually.

I was Leveling Up. 🍄

When I reconnected with this man—someone I’d known for over a decade—I agreed to dinner simply because he asked. I wanted to be unafraid and say yes.

Curiosity led me somewhere magical with a tender, goofy, sexy, beautiful human being.

Until it all went poof. 🐰💫🎩

But the disappearing act—and the abandonment wounds it triggered—did not destroy me.

I remain a whole-ass person.

A sweet-ass person, if you know what I mean. 😈🍑

He is allowed to retreat.

I am allowed to make reservations.

So the next day, I took myself to brunch.

When in Heartbreak, Take Yourself to Brunch

I went to a local farm-to-table diner, where the meal tasted like care.

Not #selfcare.

Actual care.

Someone grew those scallions in the restaurant garden. Someone collected those eggs from a local chicken I choose to believe was happy and had a name. Someone knew exactly how long the potatoes needed on the griddle to develop those dark, crispy edges.

Then someone brought it all to my table and asked whether I wanted more coffee.

Yes.

The answer is always yes.

At another table, a group of middle-aged women gathered for what looked like a reunion breakfast. I didn’t know their story.

I only saw the way they hugged.

Warm, unrestrained, I am so happy you’re here hugs.

They reminded me of something easily forgotten after too much news and apocalyptic clickbait:

The world is not one enormous antisocial-disorder convention.

Love is everywhere, Fam.

Every-fucking-where.

People are still delighted when someone they love walks through a door. There is still friendship, sisterhood, community, and goodness witnessed over breakfast.

I opened a little newspaper filled with local events and realized how much was happening nearby.

Music. Markets. Festivals. Classes. Strange gatherings created by people who wondered, Wouldn’t it be fun if…?

The world had not emptied because my relationship ended.

It was right there, handing me a calendar.

Love and Magic are EVERYWHERE… if you LOOK

I still wanted to pick up my phone and share everything with my Hermit. I wanted him across the table, holding my hand. I wanted an entire autumn together.

Maybe that world exists someday.

Maybe it doesn’t.

But heartbreak and expansion can occupy the same body at the same time.

That is where 50+ Solo Dates begins.

I’m taking myself on at least fifty solo dates.

Some will be fancy. Some ridiculous. Some free. I might visit planetariums and pubs, gardens and arcades, weird festivals and peculiar local attractions I’ve somehow never explored.

Some dates may inspire profound revelations about solitude, aging, desire, friendship, bodies, and belonging.

Some may teach me that I paid eighteen dollars for a mediocre sandwich.

This is field research. 🤷🏻‍♀️🥪

I’m not an expert who has “solved relationships” and would now like to sell you a course. I’m documenting what I experience, witness, and learn—and inviting you along.

This project isn’t about proving that I don’t need anyone—or showing the world how ultra-independent I am.

I have zero shame in admitting that I need people. I need community. I need friendship, intimacy, laughter, touch, and to witness the beauty of women who hug one another like they cannot believe their good fortune.

I’m tired of how women have been programmed to believe that solo life should be treated as the waiting room between relationships.

It’s time to cultivate a wildly romantic relationship with my own life—even while my heart is broken.

This new project is called 50+ Solo Dates because I am a woman over fifty.

And because fifty is not a limit.

The plus sign means more.

One 50+ woman. Fifty-plus solo dates. No waiting for someone else to begin the romance. Join me for the journey.

The Date Debrief 🔮➕

Solo Date: #001
Venue: The Sixth Street Filling Station (formerly Sixth Street Cafe), Wausau, Wisconsin
Quest: Post-heartbreak brunch
What I ordered: House-made corned beef hash with eggs and toast
Food: 10/10
Vibes: 10/10
Would I return? Always—and yes to the coffee refills.

The Sixth Street Filling Station is a genuine central Wisconsin gem: warm, quirky, deeply local, and clearly created by people who love feeding other people. The food tasted cared for, the room felt welcoming, and the “Saturdays Are for Girls” mug arrived precisely when the Arcana required it.

If your travels bring you to my fair Wisconsin town, don’t miss this place!

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  Said "yes" to the refill x3

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  The Hash that Harkened to My Heartbreak

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  As Good as My Mom's Homemade Corned Beef!!!

Inspired by The Sixth Street Filling Station’s Actual Billboard Sign