my husband's midlife crisisMy husband has grown a beard. I’ve known him for 30 years and he has not once, not ever, tried to grow any type of facial hair at all.

Our 20-year-old daughter became concerned when she saw it. She said that surely he would shave soon; it is so unlike him to grow a beard.

And then she asked me if this could be his midlife crisis.

“Why, yes,” I told her, trying to contain my¬†excitement, “actually, I think it is.”

“Well,” she said, “if this is the extent of it, then that is good news.”

I know that she said this with great relief, even though she said it by text, because she witnessed my own midlife adjustment. She was often in the room as the hormones shifted, the tears spilled and the mood changed.

I agreed with my daughter that her dad’s beard was benign¬†midlife angst.¬†But¬†I was also secretly thrilled. For years, I had been hoping that he would exhibit some¬†mild hysteria so that I didn’t look so bad.

My husband is a rock. He is calm and patient and kind and level-headed. And although I love and appreciate these qualities, they made him seem like a saint as he sailed through midlife while I turned into Medusa.

He and I have been together for the majority of our adult lives.

We carved out our careers and moved into full adulthood together in our twenties.

We created a family and built a home together in our thirties.

We entered our forties together and after a few years, I fell apart. But he did not and it didn’t seem fair. I thought we were in this together.

I began to toss and turn at night and wake up in sweat while he peacefully snored beside me.

I began to face the reality that I had to let go of my babies because somehow, they grew up.  It was not easy letting go and I struggled. And since my husband was just as involved in raising our children as I was, I assumed that he was struggling too.

“Aren’t you sad that the kids aren’t little anymore?” I would ask.

“Not all all,” he would say. “Those were great times but now they are older and these are good times too.”

I was sure he was in denial , so I found old photos of the kids when they were small and adorable and held them up close to his face.

“Look,”¬†I’d plead, “doesn’t it just kill you that those days are gone?” ¬†But he would only smile and say, “Nah, those were fun days but now we’ve just moved on to different days. You know, circle of life and all that stuff.” He was taking it all in stride and it was maddening.

I began to count the number of gray hairs on my head¬†and I noticed that my husband¬†didn’t have any.¬†Not one.¬†As I increased the number of highlights in my hair,¬†he combed through the same thick, dark hair he’s had since he was 21.

I didn’t like this solo trip. But things are¬†looking up now that we are in our fifties.

My husband has grown a beard.  A crazy, woolly, middle-aged , gray beard.

Thank you, honey. I’m so glad we are in this together.

Amy Ruhlin blogs at



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