The Age Gap Phenomenon: Is Love Enough to Overcome Age Differences?
A perspective on dating someone much younger in your 30s
When we first met, I’d sat across him at an expat event in Medellin.
I’d been terribly lonely that August, and consequently homesick — having just returned from a 2-month busted affair in Europe with a man who certainly seemed into me prior to meeting back up in France, but in retrospect was really not looking for the commitment level I’d hoped to secure in our jaunt across the Western front.
Instead, I’d returned to my cat in Medellin with fatigued eyes, a mighty ovarian cyst on the verge of rupture, and a bruised heart.
Suffice it to say, love was nowhere on the radar when I Facebook RSVP’d to a “Fuck the Small Talk” social event —
Frankly, I just wanted out of my head. And I spent a majority of the event admitting just that as I moved between quick, 5- to 10-minute conversations designed to foster intimate sharing (hence the name of the event).
I enjoyed it, even in my rotten attitude: candor and over-disclosure being two of my favorite social proclivities. So when the event founder encouraged the group to dine together afterwards, I agreed. It couldn’t hurt I reckoned, and I’d do just about anything to avoid another night staring at my cat in my Airbnb apartment, lamenting the reasons why I was still single.
In the overhead lights of the outdoor glitzy Poblado Italian restaurant, his then-bleached tips glowed as bright as his bronzed Latino skin while he regaled the table with recent Colombian festival experiences.
We hadn’t spoken at the event, but as he sat in front of me I noticed the presence he commanded when he spoke, his deep voice authoritative and level.
I sensed he was younger, like nearly everyone there, and collectively the groups fresh, vibrant energy buzzed loudly at the table as I sat quietly — a creeping awareness of just how much older my tired smile must have seemed against their wide eyes glittering in the light.
A handsome boy I thought: in the prime of his youth — tall and toned, tattoos in the double digits scattered over his arms and hands. His eyes alert with conversations around music festivals and night life - upcoming concerts, reggaeton clubs, and weekend ventures. Conversations I felt I’d long exhausted in my 30s as I nursed a glass of wine.
While carrying on an objectively dull conversation about commercial real estate in Tulum with one of the only other 30-something men at this event, I watched as the attractive blonde Californian beside me flirted with him over bites of Pepperoni pizza. When she mentioned she spoke French, and it was helping her learn Spanish, he switched to French mid-sentence without a blink. And as she blushed, I bargained that maybe I was watching a love story unfold before me at 9pm on a Tuesday.
Except, I noted the way he looked at me when I spoke.
“You listen to Ed Maverick?” He asked, when I mentioned to the table my growing interest in Mexican and South American music. His dark eyes locked onto me and I remember feeling slightly unsure what to make of that.
“I do,” I said. “He’s been my muse here; learning a lot of Spanish slang too.”
“Ed’s the man,” he agreed. “Big fan — I’ll send you his best songs sometime.”
"Sure thing,” I said, entirely expecting him to avert his gaze back to the leggy blonde who was now only speaking to him in French.
But his eyes stayed with me, “Your accent — where are you from?”
“Texas,” I shared. “It’s that obvious?”
He grinned. “No, it’s just I’m Canadian. Well, Quebec, Colombian-Canadian,” he clarified. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone from the southern part of the US.”
“Well, we’re out there,” I joked. “Full blown southern lady in front of you.”
“I see that,” he quipped. “In Medellin of all places.”
“Yep,” I agreed. “With a cat.”
“A cat, really? You brought a cat to Medellin?”
“Yes, but she’s used to it. We live in a van.”
“A van,” he repeated, bemused. “Like one of those campers?”
“Yes — well, but not here. A van in the US. Let me clarify,” I fumbled. “I didn’t drive that thing down here.”
I felt flush. Why had I bothered mentioning the van? To seem cool? How I loved to brandish my ‘free spiritedness’ to the nearest attractive man it seemed. I internally rolled my eyes at my own blundering.
He nodded. “I can imagine — pretty dangerous for a small woman like yourself.” He sounded nearly concerned. “I’m glad you didn’t to be honest. I love my country but a van is a no-go for a butterfly gringita … even one as adventurous as you.”
I smiled.
“So, a cat huh?” I’m actually hoping to bring my dog here soon from Canada. I could use some advice on what to do.”
“Sure, reach out anytime.”
He looked at me. “I’ll do that.”
As I was about to offer my WhatsApp number, he instead surprised me by asking for a social media handle — and internally I reckoned that it must be kosher amongst Gen Zers, phone numbers perhaps an outdated source of contact.
And though 7 months would go by following that night, before he appeared at my door that next February in Medellin with flowers in hand, I still remember the way he looked at me down the street as we left the restaurant.
“You coming?” He’d asked, as the group of 16 or so filtered out of the restaurant into the sidewalk.
“To the club?” I nearly laughed. “No, but thank you. I’ve experienced enough drunken sweaty men fondling me to last a lifetime.”
“It’s a chill club, not reggaeton really,” he tried to say - but I put my hand up.
“My club days are long gone, but thank you. Y’all have a good time.”
And he smiled, gathering I would not be influenced. “Nice to meet you, Lindsey. Hey, I’ll find you on Instagram okay?”
I nodded. “Sounds good. Enjoy your night.”
As I took off, I remember walking a few feet down the street before I felt an instinctive pull to look back —
When I did, his 6’4 frame, towering well above the rest of the group who had now began to float down the opposite street, was turned and gazing down the sidewalk my way.
When we caught eyes, he yelled: “Hey, get home safe okay? You walking alone? Do you want me to call an Uber?”
“I got it,” I shouted back, waving goodbye. “Go off, don’t worry about me.”
“Be safe little gringita, alright?”
“You too.”
The next morning, I’d wake to multiple likes on my Instagram photos dating as far back as 2020: a most Colombian gesture if there ever were one. And I’d grin in my bed, eyes half open, entertaining the digital compliments.
So young, I thought, glancing through his photos and feeling a tad Mrs. Robinson. No older than 25 I assumed, amused by his Gen Z style and social media savvy: the way he wore see-through sunglasses at night, much like I’d seen other 20-somethings do in Colombia, which I found objectively ridiculous in my millennial mid-30s mentality.
A sinking awareness that in all the ways my parents were left befuddled by my fashion choices in my teens and 20s, it was much like I had become now: confused by what was now considered style and baffled by the oversized t-shirts and baggy jeans.
In truth: we had nothing in common — not a bloody thing. But the seeds of allure rarely care where they’re planted it seems. Only that for them to grow, they must be nurtured by both parties.
Later, we’d admit just that to friends around our dining room table in our Montreal apartment.
“We really have nothing in common,” we’d laugh to his best friend after we hosted dinner. “Not a damn thing. But man we sure love each other.”
“Hey,” I’d clarify. “We do both like horror movies.”
“True,” he’d nod. “And Ford Broncos.”
“And Bad Bunny.”
“You do not like Bad Bunny,” he’d clarify. “You like one song, and not even a good one. You’re not a true fan.”
I’d smirk. “Fine. But we both like Ed Maverick.”
“Fair.”
His best friend, always contemplative, would ask: “So how do you make it work then? How do you think you guys will decide on things for the future?”
He’d shrug: “I just do whatever she wants really. I’m a simple man.”
To which, I probably argued that that was not in fact true, even though I had a sneaking suspicion it was probably more true than I wanted to believe: our top floor, 2-bedroom high ceiling apartment certainly a testament to my more particular housing needs.
“I’d live with you in a box on the sidewalk,” he’d say sometimes.
“I know you love to believe that’s true.”
From the beginning, I worried about our age and cultural differences: a nagging sort of endless concern from our first date onward that each difference, combined together, would rear its ugly head in the more definitive life choices.
It is objectively hard to date a person who shares little relatability to your background. It is also objectively hard to date someone who does not share the same generational bylines as you either.
Where I had a specific type of upbringing with specific standards and expectations, so does he.
We both share love for family, and were blessed to receive similar kind of love as well, but what it meant to make our own — I’d say now that we had remarkably different viewpoints.
Top that off with a sizable age difference, and you’re left with two people who were often left scratching their heads at the others rationale.
I appreciated his honesty, loyalty, protectiveness, passion, and his intensity. At times, I even appreciated his boyish immaturity and the effect it had on my own rigidity. Only, it seems, I liked it all better when witnessing those qualities from a distance. In all the ways I loved each of those characteristics - I fought them all when directed at me.
I’d venture to guess he feels similar (keeping in mind however that I am the sole narrator of this essay and therefore unreliable). Drawn to my go-getter energy, my alert (at times chaotic) writer brain, and free spirited nature — yet, when it came to our future and my vision for it — he was jaw dropped.
“We can’t possibly haul children around the world for months at a time, we need stability Linds.”
As alluring as we were to one another - and I use the word ‘alluring’ purposely because I think alluring is the exact sentiment - the daily reality of our life, once we were packing and unpacking the dishwasher and sorting the laundry, felt like a puzzle we couldn’t quite find the pieces to complete.
It’s not that I see age difference or cultural backgrounds as dealbreakers. I don’t. I wouldn’t have traversed my cat and I two continents above Medellin in order to be with him in Montreal a year after we met had I thought so.
I believe two people can turn passion into a day-to-day relationship without killing the fire. I believe that age gaps and cultural differences are simply factors to consider when embarking on the arduous journey of commitment:
But, I do also believe that two people have to be self-aware, conscious, confident, and compromising in order to make those factors work within the frames of a relationship.
I say confident because I often now see how my own insecurities played a role in the misshapen formation of our puzzle.
I was 34 when I moved to Montreal to be with him. He was 27. We started dating when he had just turned 26 and I steadily 33. While some would say that’s not really a critical age difference (in comparison to, say, Anna Nicole Smith), I’m here to say that it can be.
While he never once protested the timeline in which I wanted to have kids (basically… tomorrow) or appeared squeamish at my daily envisioning of our future with kids in it —
I was constantly aware of the time I felt I was trying to shave off his youth.
When we met, he had bleached tips and his bedroom looked like he just moved into the Kappa Sig Delta Phi Chi frat dorm room. I nearly had a heart attack, immediately going to town to organize and rearrange, adjust and sweep.
If that’s how he wanted to live before me, so be it. But, I couldn’t possibly be dating someone who lived like that.
There’s nothing wrong with being messy, I’d remind myself as I swept cobwebs under his bed. I had certainly lived as such too in my 20s — only that in my mid 30s post-eating disorder type-A “adulting” belief system: I had already phased through this way of life. I now craved organization and Lysol wipes. I wanted folded clothes and matching towels. I want order at home to feel calm, even if the blanket irony is that I’m almost always on a plane jetting off to god knows where.
In one of our best moments, we went to a music festival in Bogota and for 4 nights we danced in the Colombian countryside until the sun came up.
I loved his boundless energy — carefree, fun-loving and suave. Affectionate and handsy.
He was just, objectively, cool.
And I was in love, staring at him while he sang to me in Spanish and feeling never as infatuated as I felt in that moment.
I simply loved looking at him. I loved feeling protected in a crowd. I truly loved loving him and feeling loved by him.
But internally, I grappled with a persistent self-consciousness that I was - bluntly stated - way past my prime of 4-day music festivals and sexy costumes and endless Jungle Juice vodka canisters.
I felt a bit ridiculous fielding client calls hungover from his friend’s bed, festival makeup smeared across my face, and wondering where my retinol cream went — while he bounced up gingerly to partake in the day’s festival thrills.
In another instance, he made the monumental decision to change jobs for the first time in his 9-5 career. Like anyone who is still cementing the pavement of their career, he was more than apprehensive about the change.
I was proud helping update his resume, advising him lightly on what I’d look for when I was interviewing candidates back in my previous PR positions. Listening quietly from the next room as he swooned the HR lady and later the two Directors.
I admired him. Probably in part because it reminded me of all the times I too had changed jobs in the past and thankfully succeeded.
But later, as he voiced what I reckon is a normal amount of worry and imposter syndrome about the new role, I wondered how he’d manage this big transition while I wanted to own a home and be pregnant with a kid in the next year.
I silently contemplated how selfish it was to force more responsibility onto his plate when he was only 27, and now grappling with a new step in his career.
Would would I feel if the shoe were on the other foot? I wondered.
Pressure.
As more time passed, and that exact sentiment began to escape his lips when our arguments grew more heated — I felt that pit in my stomach enlarge. That gnawing thought that left me wide awake at night while holding his arm around my chest as he slept.
We’re not ready for kids.
I’m being selfish. Because I know he loves me and will do it anyway.
I can’t try to force this. You cannot force his time.
A few months into his new job, he received yet another offer from a former boss.
It was a riskier position but had its payoffs and I pushed him not so gently into taking the opportunity.
“You’re 27,” I urged. “You’re kid-free. Take all the risks. You gotta grab these opportunities by the horns because you’ll grow a ton. It’ll look absolutely fantastic for anything that comes after.”
He took it. I was proud. Because it’s exactly what I did at that age.
But, again, I wondered just how on earth we reckoned we’d start for a family come summer.
My career well established and the money I made certainly helpful for his transition, I also began to feel pressure to both support his opportunity but also keep up with the financial budget I firmly felt we needed to fulfill my real desire, which was to have children asap, wander around the world with them, and one day wake them at sunrise to hike to hot springs and watch the sun peak above the mountains.
At my age, I have the career freedom to do just that, too. At his age, he does not.
Though, I now reckon that was not the sole issue. Because no matter how many times I painted that future picture, it became more and more evident it was not a shared dream.
Children, yes. But he had little interest in hot springs, especially those that were clothing optional. And less interest in wandering anywhere but home while he needed stability in his career. And as our mounting cultural differences and life pressures grew, so did the elephant in our squeaky clean living room.
A pressure cooker which finally blew while back in Medellin during the days following a family wedding.
A silly fight in retrospect, but sometimes that’s all it takes for the precarious deck of cards to crumble.
We loved each other, but we could not be together as the humans we currently are today.
Sometimes, when I’m lonely, which happens more often again as of late —
I berate myself that it was me who should’ve laid the whole thing to rest back when we first met on that warm Medellin evening.
Hadn’t I seen it all so clearly before it ever really began? Hadn’t I observed his youth? Even when we’d first started dating, my hesitancy became a sore spot we later argued over privately. “Give me time,” he’d say. “I know I can be ready.” But I never did quite trust he was ready for what I wanted. Or that we could ever get to the same vision.
Maybe, I let my own anxiety run frantic. Maybe I thought I knew best and now I don’t. Maybe the aftermath bears rose-tinted glasses. Maybe, I don’t need to know what of any of it is actually accurate.
Because ultimately, it matters very little now. Something did happen that first night in 2022 and at present here I am, mulling over its end.
Sometimes, when particularly heart sick, I romance about if we had met later in life. But then some part of me knows that had that happened — it would never truly make sense. And likely our ships would have passed in the night.
Attraction is a curious force, with its magic often hinging on timing. Who knows if he would’ve found me as attractive at 40 as he did at 33. Not that one can’t be attractive at 40—quite the opposite—but the reasons why we were drawn to each other then might not have existed later.
Ultimately, I don’t yet have the words to tie a bow on our story — a see saw of emotions that still leaves me replaying the past and trying to siphon the parcels of truth when you’re left with only your skewed memories for clarity.
One thing I do know:
No one really ever knows where the heart will land. And love, despite its ferocity, doesn’t always go as planned.
Perhaps some stories aren't meant to have a clear ending, just a gentle fade into memory.
Still, I find myself rooting for you.
It turns out love is easy when you’re no longer trying to hold on to the outcome.
I just look back a lot more than you probably thought I would. And think of you all the same.
Love this piece 🫶🏻
Lindsey thank you so much for sharing and for your vulnerability, knowing that many other women are out there strugguling but still moving forward. Sending you much love