Reflections at 61: A Cocktail of Love, Change, and a Dash of Solitude

by Richard Valdez - www.RichardValdezRE.com

Turns out, love ages like wine — richer, deeper, and a little more selective with who it shares a glass with.

Tonight, I turn 61.

There’s no big bash, no clinking glasses from a packed dining room, no over-the-top birthday spread. Just me, my husband in the kitchen mixing a cocktail with care, and our four dogs curled up nearby, keeping quiet watch over our little home. It’s soft, simple, and beautifully still.

And somewhere in that stillness, between the sizzle of dinner and the sound of ice cubes in a shaker, I drifted into reflection. Back to my twenties, thirties, and forties — when love, to me, looked like a full calendar, a packed house, and a table that always had one more seat.

Back then, I believed that the number of people in my life reflected how much I was loved. I saw friendships and family as my wealth — and I felt rich. I gave myself fully: I cooked for every celebration, honored every milestone, and showed up — joyfully and wholeheartedly — for the lives and loves of those around me.

Brunches, birthdays, showers, graduations — you name it. I was there with a roast in the oven, flowers on the table, and wine glasses ready to be filled. And when I hugged, I hugged tightly. When I cheered, it was with real joy. When I said, I’m happy for you, I meant it — with my entire being.

But as the years passed and the candles increased, so did my clarity.

At 61, I see something I never quite saw before: the way adult relationships begin to change. And not in a bitter or jaded way — just in a real, human way. Life gets full. People grow busy. And friendships — once sprawling and energetic — begin to take on a more intentional shape.

It’s not that love disappears. It just evolves. It becomes more measured, more rooted in presence than performance. I’ve realized that adult friendships often orbit around value — not always in a transactional sense, but in terms of emotional relevance, support, and sometimes even shared convenience. People tend to draw close to those who meet their current season of life.

And honestly? That makes sense.

Because I’ve changed too. I no longer seek to be everywhere, for everyone. I no longer feel the need to prove my worth through attendance or effort. I’ve traded validation for presence, quantity for quality.

Tonight, my circle is smaller, but my peace is bigger.

It’s my husband — steady, loving, home.
It’s our dogs — always thrilled just because I exist.

It’s the memory of two dear friends, now gone, who walked beside me through so many seasons — and whose love still lives in the quiet moments.
It’s me — finally comfortable in my own company, without the noise of expectation or performance.

And in this quiet celebration, I’ve never felt more full. Not in the way I once measured it — but in a deeper, richer way. A way that doesn’t need an audience to feel seen.

So here’s to 61: a little older, a little wiser, and a whole lot more in love with the life I’ve built — one cocktail, one cuddle, one honest connection at a time.

Because sometimes, the greatest love story isn’t the one that plays out in a crowd.
It’s the one that lives right here, in the stillness, whispering: You are loved. And that is enough.