I catch my reflection in the bedroom mirror as I smooth down my dress one last time. At sixty-five, the face looking back at me tells stories I never thought I’d be sharing with someone new. The silver threading through my hair, the laugh lines deepening around my eyes — they’re markers of a life well-lived, but tonight they feel like neon signs highlighting every insecurity.Twenty years. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve felt the intimate touch of another person. After my partner passed, I poured myself into raising our children alone, into my work, into being the strong mother and grandmother everyone needed me to be. Somewhere between soccer games and graduations, between promotions and retirement, between first steps and grandchildren, I convinced myself that romance was a chapter of my life that had quietly closed.But loneliness has a way of becoming a constant companion — something you learn to live with until suddenly you realize you don’t have to. It was my son who finally convinced me to try one of those dating apps. “Mom,” he said, “you’ve got so much life ahead of you. Don’t let fear keep you from finding happiness again.” Easy for him to say — he didn’t have to worry about explaining a post-menopausal body to a potential partner, or whether the softness that’s settled around his middle might be judged.The dating world has changed dramatically since I last ventured into it. Back then, you met someone at church or through friends, maybe at the local book club. Now, my fingers do the talking as I swipe through profiles, each one representing a person with their own story, their own scars, their own hopes. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.Last week, I matched with Thomas. He’s sixty-eight, retired from teaching, and has kind eyes that crinkle when he smiles. We’ve been texting daily, and tomorrow we’re meeting for coffee. But beneath the excitement lurks a gnawing anxiety. If things progress — and part of me hopes they will — how do I navigate physical intimacy after so many years of solitude? How do I explain that my body has changed, that it’s different now from what it was in my forties?The mechanics aren’t what worry me most. It’s the vulnerability, the exposure of not just my body but all its changes. Will he understand that my hesitation isn’t lack of interest but the rust of twenty years falling away? That my nervousness about intimacy comes from a place of having been one person’s wife for so long, and then no one’s for even longer?The thought of physical intimacy after all these years feels like standing at the edge of a diving board — my heart racing, my mind swirling with “what ifs.” Twenty years is a long time to hold yourself apart from touch, from that particular kind of closeness. My body has changed, grown softer, more hesitant. The confidence I once had in its rhythms and responses feels like a distant memory. Last night, I found myself lying awake, remembering how it felt to be desired, to desire in return, wondering if that part of me is still alive underneath all these layers of time and uncertainty. My doctor says many women my age share these concerns, that there are ways to make everything comfortable again, but having that conversation with someone new seems almost as daunting as the intimacy itself. I keep reminding myself that anyone worth sharing this new chapter with will bring their own uncertainties to the table, that tenderness and patience can build bridges across any gap — even one that spans two decades.Yet beneath all this anxiety, there’s a spark of something I thought had long since flickered out — hope. Hope that someone might see past the gray hair and reading glasses to the woman beneath who still yearns for connection. Hope that they too might be carrying similar fears, and together we could find the courage to be beginners again.My girlfriends tell me I’m brave for putting myself out there, but I don’t feel brave. I feel like a teenager again, all awkward angles and uncertain moves. But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe there’s something beautiful about discovering that even in our sixties, we can still feel the flutter of possibility, the spark of potential romance.Tomorrow, as I sit across from Thomas at that coffee shop, I won’t just be a woman of sixty-five looking for love. I’ll be every age I’ve ever been — the nervous teenager on her first date, the confident young woman who fell in love with John, the grieving widow, the mother to my children, and now this new person who’s finally ready to embrace whatever comes next. Because that’s what I’m learning: love doesn’t have an expiration date, and neither does the capacity to feel its first tentative stirrings all over again.The mirror shows my age, but it doesn’t show my heart. And my heart, despite its scars — or perhaps because of them — is ready to try again.