Courtesy of Victoria Peel Yates.
- My partner is 17 years older than me. I've been calculating how much time we have left together.
- Since my mom died at 69, I can't stop worrying about what our future might look like.
- Despite my fears, we recently moved to Italy together.
On New Year's Day, I sat crying alone on the sofa while my partner, Max, slept. I wished it were just the one too many glasses of cava I had the night before. But it was something worse: a sudden, panicky feeling that time had moved faster than I realized.
When we met in 2015, I was 29, and he was 46 — 17 years my senior. He looked so youthful that I assumed he was in his late 30s. If I'm honest, the age difference made me hesitate, but the connection between us was too strong to ignore. He made me feel seen and wanted in ways no one else had before, and after a few months of resisting, I gave in to my feelings.
After 11 years, I worry about things my friends don't think about yet
In the early days, he used to say, "I wish I were 10 years younger so I could have ten more years with you." It sounded so romantic to 29-year-old me, and 10 years seemed like an eternity. I wasn't prepared for how quickly they would pass.
Over a decade later, Max still has the same energy and drive he had when I met him. Now 57, he's not showing signs of slowing down anytime soon, despite a few health niggles. He regularly spins records as a DJ, indulging in his passion for music.
Courtesy of Victoria Peel Yates.
But while friends my age are raising children or focusing on their careers, I worry about things that feel like they belong to someone much older. Those thoughts have intensified since my mom died unexpectedly at 69.
Losing my mom made me start calculating our time together
I often find myself calculating how long we have left together, as he's now just 12 years younger than my mother was when she died.
Will I still be with the same energetic man in another 10 years? Or will I spend my 50s or 60s as a caregiver? Would I even be able to handle that responsibility if it fell to me? I picture hospital visits, me pushing a wheelchair, and the man I've come to depend on becoming dependent on me.
Other times, I jump further ahead and picture what might come after. Will I end up alone at 50 or 60? Will I meet someone else, or build a new life on my own? I call these calculations "grief math."
Awareness of time keeps me grounded in the present
When Max woke up, I didn't say anything. How do you tell someone you've been contemplating their death? But when he asked what was wrong, I confessed. He wasn't upset; instead, he told me I should always talk to him.
Courtesy of Victoria Peel Yates.
I still catch myself doing grief math from time to time. But when I do, something else happens: all the daily annoyances, like how he interrupts me when I'm talking, or lets the dishes pile up in the sink, just evaporate. I just want to hug him and hold onto the feeling forever. So I do.
We recently moved to his hometown in Italy to be near his aging parents, which felt like a deeper commitment to a future that scares me. But if my mother's death taught me one thing, it's that time is never guaranteed, and not always in the way grief maths assumes.
Max could live to 100. I could die first. We could have forty more years together. Obsessing over worst-case scenarios only guarantees I'll have wasted the time we definitely have now.