I Said Yes at 51

Greg got down on one knee on a perfectly slow morning in Punta de Mita, Mexico, mid-coffee, incense burning, as we started to share our intentions for the day. (A very “me” thing to do, that Greg so often sweetly obliges.) The air was humid. I was barefoot, wearing eye patches, in my robe. High on nothing but vacation and him. We had talked about this, about cementing our love, formally dedicating our lives to one another. And still, in the moment, I was surprised. I was elated. I buried myself in his chest when he pulled out the ring.

Almost instantly, I felt something underneath the joy that is harder to describe. A kind of collapse. A release. As if a body that has been braced for most of my adult life finally got the news that it could stand down. In the days since, I keep catching it happening. Shoulders dropping. Jaw unclenching. Fifty-one years old, and I am only now learning what I feel like when I’m not waiting for something to go wrong.

I said yes. And first, I want to tell you who I said yes to.

Greg is one of the steadiest humans I have ever known. He is my anchor and my best friend, the one who shows up the same on the hard days as the easy ones. He is the person you’d want next to you when the earth shakes. For almost five years, he has been my safest place, and now he is officially my ride or die. Cemented. Chosen. My person, formally and forever.

But steady doesn't mean simple. Greg is an artist to his core, and creating is his love language. He makes ice cream with the intensity of a man possessed. He spends hours musing in the dirt with his plants and his cactus and his ground covers, talking about them constantly, and comes home with a trunk full of new plants and rocks and treasures lifted from nature like some kind of botanical klepto. He'll redesign a piece of clothing for one of his kids or mock up their school projects with the artistic eye and attention to detail he brings to every single thing. He also lets me control the remote which is kind of amazing in and of itself.

But here's the thing about this man: he doesn't do anything he loves just once. He built an outdoor fire pit. And then he made three more. He didn't put a putting green in the backyard. He erected an entire golf course. Nine tee boxes. Because the thing I love about him most is that he doesn't see a no. His imagination has no ceiling, anything is possible, and he doesn't just say it, he builds it. I have never seen anything like it. That's how he loves, too. In abundance, with his hands, with devotion, taking endless pride in the home and the life we are building together.

Now back to my yes. It’s the easiest decision I have ever made.

But here’s the rest of the truth.

I got the love story wrong for most of my life. Spectacularly wrong. A man like Greg did not simply happen to me. I had to become someone who could recognize him, and that took everything.

So, this is a piece about a remarkable man, yes. But it’s also a piece about what I had to unlearn before a good love could actually land. The road to him is the story.

The rest of this one is for paid subscribers — the ten years it took to get here, the part where I almost left, and the map I'd hand any woman who's stopped believing. Join us.