Maybe It Wasn’t Fate. Maybe I Just Had To Poop. Trust Your Gut In Dating

I have had very few visceral reactions to men in my life.

Two, to be exact.

The first was my ex-husband. The moment I saw him, it was as if someone knocked the air straight out of my lungs. It wasn’t even logical. We didn’t fall into romance immediately — that came years later through friendship — but I remember the exact feeling of seeing him for the first time. My body knew before my brain did. Or at least I thought it did...

The second happened post-divorce. Different man. Same lightning strike.

That immediate, electric, soul-punch feeling people write songs about and therapists eventually invoice you for. Neither ended in sublime happiness. Both ended in more tears, confusion, anxiety, overthinking, stomachaches, and emotional exhaustion than I’d care to admit. Which is unfortunate, because the world is constantly telling women to “trust your gut.” My gut has the survival instincts of a drunk raccoon.

Brandy Greenwell Middleburg, VA

Honestly, if I had followed my logic instead of my chemistry, I might currently own a vineyard and have normal blood pressure. Instead, I have emotional damage and a playlist.

I joke sometimes that maybe what I interpreted as divine clarity was actually just hormones, trauma bonding, ego, unresolved attachment issues, or boredom in a cute outfit. Because how can something feel so right and go so wrong?

People romanticize intuition like it’s this magical female superpower. But what if your “gut feeling” is just your nervous system recognizing a familiar wound or the repercussions from Taco Tuesday.

What if butterflies are sometimes just gas or internalized chaos wearing lip gloss?

A few years ago, one of my closest friends became violently ill. The symptoms were dramatic — severe abdominal pain, nausea, panic. We were convinced it was something catastrophic. Appendicitis. Kidney stones. Some rare medical emergency destined for a Grey’s Anatomy episode.

I rushed her to the ER where she spent the night undergoing tests and scans.

Diagnosis? Constipation. Severe, road block, constipation.

That’s it. She simply needed to poop. Bad.

And honestly, I think about that diagnosis more than I should.

Because maybe some of the great emotional emergencies of my life weren’t cosmic alignment either. Maybe not every visceral reaction is fate. Maybe sometimes your body is just full of shit.

Which raises important questions for middle-aged women trying to date with dignity:

Do I need stronger boundaries? More therapy? Less exposure to emotionally unavailable men? A beach house? Celibacy? Fiber?

Should I retreat into safety instead of trusting my gut on dating? Or is the entire point of life to keep risking humiliation for the possibility of connection? I genuinely don’t know anymore.

What I do know is this:

Every time I ignored the zing, I wondered “what if.”

And every time I followed the zing, I eventually needed electrolytes and emotional recovery time.

So perhaps healing in your 50s is less about finding Prince Charming and more about learning the difference between intuition and indigestion.

At this point, I’m just asking for clarity, peace, stronger discernment, and maybe a daily probiotic.

Pass the Ex-Lax and the Charmin.

I’m moving forward with a cleaner system, positive movement, and significantly less shit.