A few weeks after I land in Marrakech, having left my husband, I post a picture on Instagram. It’s me, sitting at a café table with my laptop, writing. An hour later, a message arrives from a neighbour back in Westport, Connecticut, a woman I have been friends with for more than 20 years and have always held in huge affection.

She and my husband are close. I suspect she has a crush on him – she always told me how sexy he was. I read her message, and my heart starts pounding: ‘So sorry you blew up your life for a midlife crisis.’ It still makes me want to scream today.

Is leaving what looks like a perfect marriage having a midlife crisis? Or is it something that isn’t talked about, because God forbid a woman has the right to stand up and say: ‘Enough. I will put myself first now?’

On social media, we post pictures of our ‘perfect’ lives; curated vignettes of our homes. We beam at the camera with perfect hair and make-up, achieved with the help of filters that bleach out the bags under our eyes, sculpt those double chins, slim those menopausal bodies.

We hide the sadness, the disconnect.

Women in midlife leave when they don’t feel cared for or valued. They leave because all the hormones that turned them into nurturers, suppressing their own needs for others’, dry up when they hit menopause. Biologically, they’re simply not willing to put up with s**t any more.

No woman in her fifties leaves a marriage to be alone unless she is so unhappy she has no other choice.

The woman I thought was my friend is unapologetic. She is still close friends with my former husband. She and I will never speak again.

On social media, we post pictures of our ‘perfect’ lives; curated vignettes of our homes

No woman in her fifties leaves a marriage to be alone unless she is so unhappy she has no other choice, says Jane Green (pictured with her ex husband Ian)

My first novel, Straight Talking, was about a single girl in London navigating her way through relationships. 

It was based on a quote from the American writer and painter, William Wharton, who said this: ‘Love is a combination of admiration, respect, and passion. If you have one of those going, that’s par for the course. If you have two, you aren’t quite world class but you’re close. If you have all three, then you don’t need to die; you’re already in heaven.’

I was in my twenties. I remember thinking, which two were enough? Could you live without passion?

Shortly after that book was published, I met a man I got on with really well. We had amazing conversations, and huge fun, but there was no chemistry. The first time he kissed me I felt … well, worse than nothing, perhaps a slight recoiling.

But he checked all the boxes of who I thought I should be with. American (therefore a bit glamorous), great teeth, clever, funny: we never ran out of things to talk about. I just didn’t fancy him.

After three months of dating, I decided I had to end it, but before I had a chance, he phoned one night. ‘I can feel you pulling away,’ he said, ‘and I want to say this: I love you. I mean, I’m completely in love with you. Head over heels.’

This was the thing the little girl in me who never felt good enough had always wanted. She was finally chosen. I thought then that perhaps when he kissed me and I felt nothing, it was me. Here was a good man who loved me. What if I was about to throw away the greatest relationship of my life?

Eleven months later, I married him. It was not the right marriage and we were not a good fit. Had I trusted myself, understood that it wasn’t enough to be chosen, that I was allowed to choose, to fall in love myself, the outcome might have been very different.

But there is no point in regret. I got four beautiful children and a move to America from that marriage and would not be where I am today without it.

Second time around I married a wonderful man, yet much of that marriage, too, was filled with pain.

If I ever do have another relationship, I don’t want to repeat the same patterns; I don’t want to end up in the same pain.

I have no wish to castigate my now ex-husband. He is a lovely man, who was, in so many ways, a wonderful father, a good husband: selfless, caring and kind. Until life intervened and both of us fell into our own dark places, and it felt like all our kindness and care seemed to fly out the window.

I am particularly sensitive to anger, which was very much part of my childhood and perhaps why I later found myself in a marriage that was filled with anger.

Mine was internalised, causing me to be cold, to withdraw, to – if I’m honest – want absolutely nothing to do with my husband.

I didn’t understand then that a relationship is always a mirror – you will attract what you think you deserve.

In the last years of my marriage, I felt the way I had as a child; diminished, unheard, difficult.

During adolescence our brains undergo ‘synaptic pruning’. Unused neural connections are eliminated, and the connections that have been most frequently used are strengthened.

And while that creates a more efficient brain, it means that whatever our childhood has been up until then, whatever were the most common experiences, habits and influences, are now cemented in our minds.

What none of us realise, even if we have intellectually come to terms with all the ways in which our parents messed us up, is how we are programmed to recreate the patterns of our childhood.

However toxic, however unhappy we were, however much we swore we would be different, we will always – unless there has been a significant therapeutic intervention – unconsciously recreate what feels like home.

As a child, I was tall and chubby. No boys were interested in me, preferring my petite, blonde friends. I was pretty sure I wasn’t who my parents wanted either, neither thin enough nor pretty enough for them to proudly show me off. I was not an adequate reflection of how they both were – slim, stylish, glamorous.

My parents both had tempers. As a child, I tried to make myself small, to stay in my bedroom with my books and my music, keep out of the way so I wouldn’t be a target, but life as a child often felt difficult.

The lesson I carried with me my entire life was one that started as a child: that I was not deserving of unconditional love, that I was somehow not enough.

Years ago I heard a story I have told many times.

A woman pulls into a petrol station in Westport, Connecticut. ‘I’m moving here with my family next week,’ she says to the attendant. ‘Tell me, what’s Westport like?’

‘What’s it like where you live now?’ he asks.

‘Oh it’s awful,’ she grimaces. ‘The people are so unfriendly. Everyone’s obsessed with keeping up with the Joneses. We’ve had an awful time and we hate it.’

‘Well,’ he replies. ‘I think you’ll find Westport is much the same.’

A few days later a different woman pulls in and meets the same attendant. ‘Hi!’ she says. ‘I’m moving here next week with my family. What’s Westport like?’

‘Well, what’s it like where you live now?’

‘Oh it’s wonderful!’ she says. ‘The people are so kind. Everyone gets involved with the town, and there is such a strong, caring community.’

‘I think you’ll find Westport is much the same.’

In other words, life is where you look. Life is going to throw all kinds of things at us. What makes it bearable is the way we deal with what it throws at us.

I believe, firmly now, that happiness is a choice.

The process of divorcing is so heartbreaking and sad that when we have the Zoom calls with our mediators, I have to cover the box that contains my husband’s face with a yellow sticky note.

That I am causing this much pain to someone I have loved for 18 years, someone I continue to love, hurts in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

People don’t understand. ‘If you still love him, surely there’s a way?’ There is not a way. I miss our family life together, but I cannot be married to him.

Once our divorce is finalised, something shifts. If I stayed locked in anger and blame, constantly making everything everybody else’s fault, I will not change, grow or heal.

Relationships are never about one person’s behaviour, but rather the dance two people do together. Bad things happen to good people. Good people behave badly. It is complicated.

It is now 2025, and Instagram regularly fills my feed with dating advice. There is much talk of narcissists, of ghosting, of love-bombing. I have never been love-bombed.

As a young, single woman I was not secure enough in my skin, nor attractive enough to be someone who was constantly pursued. Young men wanted unthreatening.

In May, I match with someone on Bumble.

From Amsterdam, he is clever, handsome, speaks perfect English and, most alluring of all, offers to fly to Marrakech very early on, to take me for dinner. A corporate lawyer, Niels loves sailing and self-development.

This is a year after I have left my husband, and while I think I am happier being single, I am aware now that I am still hoping to meet someone.

I am on the dating apps somewhat obsessively, telling friends that I am not needy, that I love being alone, but in truth I am very much still hoping for the elusive Prince Charming to sweep me off my feet.

Niels books one of my favourite restaurants, La Maison Arabe, where the table, set with starched white linens, are arranged around a beautiful pool, surrounded by lanterns. It is the ultimate romantic spot.

I wear a chiffon printed kimono. Tall, blonde but greying on the sides, a wide smile and better-looking than his photographs suggested, Niels gives me a huge hug then steps back, holding me at arm’s length, grinning from ear to ear.

Relationships are never about one person’s behaviour, but rather the dance two people do together – it is complicated

I have moved through the deep grief of a marriage ending, chosen to be alone in my mid-fifties, moved to a country halfway across the world, says Green

‘Wow,’ he beams. ‘Wow!’

This is not a reaction I often get from people. In fact, I’m not sure I have ever seen a man so obviously delighted at seeing me.

And I’m afraid, until that moment, I hadn’t realised how seductive it is, particularly at a time in your life when you are feeling a little vulnerable. I forget that this is not about what he thinks of me, but rather what I think of him, and lapse back into old behaviour – grateful at someone of value choosing me.

He is very – what the Americans call – handsy, over dinner.

He doesn’t try to kiss me over the table, but spends the evening constantly stroking my arm, my legs. My God, it is lovely to be touched.

I am completely swept up in this new feeling of being unreservedly adored. In his gaze I became more beautiful, more brilliant, a brighter, better version of me.

He talks a lot about his ex-wife and how traumatised he was by the ending of that relationship five years ago.

He dated ‘a wonderful English woman’ for the subsequent few years, then reveals that he dumped her out of the blue when he decided he was doing all the work, travelling back and forth to England every weekend.

A red flag inches its way into my vision, which I firmly push to the side because receiving this kind of attention from a handsome man just feels so good.

We spend much of the next four days together, and it is blissful.

I take him to the Montresso Art Foundation, 45 minutes outside of Marrakech, built amid lush, gorgeous gardens. We wander round, chatting with one of the artists-in-residence. I remember what it is to be part of a couple. I feel whole.

It is lovely to walk through the medina with a tall, handsome man who says he wants nothing more than to look after me. I haven’t felt looked after for years, certainly not during the final years of my marriage.

Here is a man who shakes his head in delight every time he looks at me, as if he can’t believe his luck.

He buys me a necklace and we drive out to Berber Lodge, my favourite weekend retreat in the countryside. Built of traditional hay and clay, it sits in an olive grove.

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‘This is beautiful!’ He is overcome by how lovely it is, then turns to me. ‘Could you see yourself living somewhere like this? Maybe a place to hold retreats?’ I almost laugh.

This is my ultimate dream, to build a farmhouse in the country, a farmhouse that can hold my friends and family when they visit, but a working business; a farmhouse where I can hold writing and rewilding retreats. He pulls me in to him for a kiss. ‘Could you see yourself living somewhere like this … with me?’

I nod, almost crying in relief. I think I have found my person.

He does not let me put my hand in my pocket, paying for lunches, dinners, car rides. I have paid for everyone for 25 years, and I relax into being taken care of.

On the final night I bring him to a friends’ dinner party, where he fits like a glove. He is chatty, and charming, and everyone adores him.

There are photos from that night, of us leaning in to each other around the dining table on the rooftop. I look relaxed and beaming with happiness. I should have known it was too good to be true.

Two weeks later, he surprises me by flying back to Marrakech for my birthday. Two weeks filled with video calls, daily texts. ‘Hi beautiful,’ I get every morning. ‘How did you sleep?’

He tells me again how much he loves it here, how he sees himself here. We watch a movie after dinner, and I keep turning my head to look at him, unable to believe I have found someone like this, on a dating app, no less.

Thank God. No more dating apps for me. No more moving through the world on my own.

On the day he leaves I set my alarm for 5am as I have to collect my belongings from America that have been shipped to Casablanca.

I attempt to wake him up to say goodbye, but he barely stirs.

A warning.

I am flying to New York later that week, and he is flying in from Amsterdam to join me. He has booked his flights, is excited to come to the States, and I can’t wait for him to meet my friends there.

The next morning I wake up to this: ‘Sweet Jane, I hoped I never had to write this, but I have reflected over the last two times we met and stayed together.

‘I think you are a woman with a beautiful heart and a beautiful brain. I loved spending time with you and to chat about everything that came up.

‘But the hard truth is that I don’t feel “it”. We are just not meant to be together in a romantic relationship. I am sorry that I needed to say this. Niels. xxx’

I stare at the screen, shocked. It makes no sense.

I remember his ex-girlfriend to whom he travelled every weekend, also unceremoniously dumped when she was busy making wedding plans.

The new me puts up with the pain of uncertainty for two weeks – as he texts or calls, then vanishes, not knowing what he wants – before realising that I deserve more. It is time to walk away.

I don’t like how my body feels; I don’t like how insecure I have been feeling, how exhausting it is to try to make sense of behaviour that makes no sense.

I have moved through the deep grief of a marriage ending, chosen to be alone in my mid-fifties, moved to a country halfway across the world where I knew no one, a country with an entirely different culture, an entirely different set of rules.

And, at last, I am rewilded. I have found myself.

Still, a romance might be nice …

• Adapted from Rewilding: Freedom, Friendship And Finding Our Way Home by Jane Green, to be published on June 4 by HarperCollins, £16.99. © Jane Green 2026. To order a copy for £15.29 (offer valid to 06/06/26; UK P&P free on orders over £25) go to mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937.