I am six weeks into my new life back in the UK, and how interesting this stepping stone is proving to be! I decided to invest in a small lodge near the Cornwall coastline to nurture my need as a Piscean to be close to the force of the ocean, and it has, indeed, been a good decision: I always aspire to listen to my intuitive voice.

Divorce in one’s 60s is not for the faint hearted, and whilst I have had quite a number of friends (male and female) who have previously been in the same situation, albeit mostly prior to their 60s, we handled this life changing event in very different ways.

Most of them were done and dusted and had moved on within a matter of months, embracing the dating scene, and diving into new relationships wholeheartedly. It took me two and a half years to be at peace with contemplating a new significant other in my life going forward, and even now I’m not sure what that represents at this point in my life.

I do find myself more recently embracing the term “uncoupling” (courtesy of Gwyneth Paltrow) because somehow it feels less harsh than the term “divorce.” I happen to like my two ex-husbands, so that sits well with me. However, a conventional life of marriage seems rather obsolete to me now, and my innermost thoughts and daily chat with myself tell me that marriage is a thing of my past.

To be honest, though, I have rather isolated myself in these past weeks, and it seems like the right time to reemerge from my self-imposed life of being a recluse. I am always in awe of and admire those who are so content with their single status, but I am simply not wired to consistently dwell in solitude.

I do miss a tactile connection, the comfort of a bond that has been created through years of togetherness, and I do crave the comfort zone of a significant other “having my back” when life throws its curveballs.

Nurturing My Soul in My 60s

In my previous life, my husband and I lived in a rambling seven bedroom home for 12 years (he still does), and I can honestly say there was never a time that I walked through that front door, and it felt like home to me. It was his pride and joy, not mine.

I have always found my comfort zone in “small,” compact spaces, tiny homes, petite jewelry, small portions. I think my paternal grandmother’s gypsy blood coursing through my veins is accountable for this quirk of mine: a lack of desire for unnecessary material possessions and a cozy gypsy caravan or wagon have always felt unequivocally appealing. Thus I think it was only natural that I would gravitate towards my current version of a true life Wendy House.

Smaller spaces help me to contemplate, think, ponder, listen to music, exercise, write, paint… They enable my creative juices to flow. I feel somewhat lost in vast spaces; like I’m rattling around, unable to touch the walls for a grounding force, and somehow this renders me out of whack.

Being the Best Version of Me in My 60s

If you find yourself in the same situation in your third and final act, please, please, please, be kind to yourself. I buy myself beautiful flowers; I wear perfume and makeup so that I feel feminine; I always cook myself a nice meal once a day (I know I deserve better than TV dinners just because I am not cooking for anybody else); I take long walks in nature because it feeds my soul; I listen to the music that evokes positive emotion; I seek out cat purrs and their soft warmth; I pursue fulfillment and a sense of purpose by seeking to help others.

I practice the discipline of promptly making my bed and cleaning the dishes; I get in my daily steps. I think it is important to keep up these routines for my own dignity, my sense of self-esteem. Whatever your version of treating yourself kindly, make it a priority because it will keep your spirits high in times of heading for a low.

I got comfortable in my own skin, and it doesn’t have to be defined by a significant other, either showing their approval or their disapproval of how I choose to live my life. Yet I do find myself manifesting new beginnings that include a relationship, in some form, so that I feel ready to move on from hiding out in my She Shed, my Lady Lair, my Fem Den.

But for now, I will continue to enjoy the confines of my woman cave and the reassurance its four small walls bring me. I just had a thought: maybe I am regressing to being in my mother’s womb; now that’s deep.

Let’s Have a Conversation:

Why do we refer to a man cave, but not a woman cave? Where is your happy place? Is less more, in your eyes? How have you handled a divorce in your 60s?