I’m 45, Married With Three Kids — And I Think I Fell In Love With My Physical Therapist

At 45, I have been married for 16 years to a man who means the world to me and a mother of three wonderful children. 

And I am hopelessly drawn to someone else, almost half my age.

It all began when my knee surgeon referred me to a nearby hospital known for its top-notch therapy center. This was my first injury requiring rehabilitation, and I didn’t know what to expect. I hobbled into the spacious treatment room in my crutches, my leg immobilized in a brace. As I waited to be called, I noticed most of the patients were elderly, and I wondered how often they treated anyone younger than 70. I fit right in, feeling like I’ve earned my place among the aches of age.

Then, a man in glasses and navy blue scrubs approached me, holding my plastic file, and read out my name in the manner most Japanese do, when they see a foreigner’s name written in katakana — pausing, reading each syllable slowly so I usually end up completing it for them. He asked how I should be addressed, and I said, “Sheri” is easiest for most Japanese and is fine with me. 

He introduced himself. I followed him to one of the widest therapy tables in the room. As he explained how a rehabilitation session flows and what to expect, then and in the sessions to come, he leaned in closer than I was comfortable with. I moved away a few times,  but wondered if there was an unspoken rule in the room to speak in low tones. 

He led me to one of the widest therapy tables in the room and instructed me to lie down. He removed his shoes, climbed onto the table, and knelt beside me. After asking for permission to examine my knee beneath the brace, he gently poked and prodded. With each touch, he made reassuring sounds, confirming that I was right where I needed to be in the recovery process, even though I was overwhelmed with helplessness and frustration, bound by my brace and crutches. 

As he massaged my leg, he said, “You’re a runner, right? I run too.”

“How did you know that?”

“I read your profile,” he was referring to the medical write up.

He mentioned that he had a couple of races lined up, including the Hawaii marathon in just three weeks, his first full marathon. Having completed two full marathons myself, I felt the instant camaraderie and unspoken bond shared by runners. I teased him about needing a crash course in English, or he’d be in trouble with the little English he was using with me. The atmosphere between us lightened, and I felt more at ease. 

“There is not much we can do between now and when your doctor gives the go signal that you can start putting weight on the operated knee,” he explained. He set our next appointment for three weeks later, when we expected to receive that go signal, and he sent me home with a colored illustration of exercises he would like me to do at home.

The next time we met, he had just returned from his marathon in Hawaii and was eager to tell me about it. He was shocked that people were offering him beer along the race course. He also took his time running, stopping to take photos as he ran, but he still managed to finish in 4 hours and 30 minutes. That was my pace without stopping, which led me to wonder, how fast was he running?

With the green light to start bearing weight on my leg, he pulled out an array of tools from his seemingly bottomless pockets to take further measurements. I marveled at how much he could carry in those scrubs. Our exercises this time were entirely different from the last session, and each subsequent visit introduced new routines. He seemed to tailor every movement to how I was progressing, a personalized approach I noticed extended to every patient in the room, each one engaged in unique exercises suited just for them. It was my first real glimpse into the world of rehabilitation, and I found myself intrigued. How did he discover this path? Did he always know this would be his calling? Back in his school days, he played baseball and excelled as a runner. His love for sports naturally led him to physical therapy, a perfect blend of passion and profession.

It was coming up to Christmas. At the end of the session, as we were trying to figure out the next appointment, he said, “How about the 25th, Christmas?” 

“Won’t you be busy that day?”

“No, my schedule is open… wide, wide open…” he said with a wry smile, his tone suggesting he was joking about spending Christmas alone, a day typically reserved for couples in Japan. 

“That can’t be right,” I bantered back.

On my way out, I noticed a photo posted in the center’s bulletin area. It was a photo of a group of runners, decked in uniformed shorts, tank tops, and numbered bibs. I recognized some of the other therapists immediately, but had to look a bit longer at one who resembled my therapist. The guy in the photo had no glasses, hair was stylish, and he had on a huge smile. My therapist always wore his glasses, his hair was unremarkable, and I have never really seen his full face because we were required to wear masks at the hospital. The runner in the photo had muscular arms and well-defined legs, which I never suspected were concealed beneath my therapist’s scrubs.  I snuck a peek back at my therapist. He was like Clark Kent, and the runner in the photo was his super athletic alter ego. I began to see my therapist’s nerdy persona in a whole new light.

I began looking forward to my rehabilitation sessions, becoming increasingly aware of my attraction to my therapist. My mind knows that he treats me with a professional manner and personalized focus because I am his patient and he is responsible for my progress. This is just a job for him, nothing more. But my heart is confused. In his presence, I felt as giddy as a 16-year-old. Because of our face masks, our exchanges relied on eyes, voice tone, and small gestures, heightening every glance and inflection, making our interactions feel unexpectedly intense, intimate, even charged. His touch is electric. I savor the moments I can make him laugh and get him to tell me something about himself. 

After one rehabilitation session, I went to shop for a sweater. In the fitting room, I caught a glimpse of my bare belly — sagging, wrinkled, scarred, weary. Though I was able to pick out two sweaters that flattered me, the image of what lay underneath stayed with me. My body is aging, and reality hit harder than expected. My thoughts drifted back to my therapist whose skin was taut and flawless. 

A full moon was coming up, and my partner invited me to view it with him. There was a cemetery up on a hill that was the best spot to view the moon rise. As we stood side by side watching the moon’s soft glow, I told my partner everything. At one point, as I talked, my voice wavered and my eyes filled with tears, grieving my youth.  He listened, amused, but he was also kind.

“It’s funny, as I listen to you, I feel a sense of distance because your feelings are for someone else. Yet paradoxically, I feel closer to you and even more attracted to you.”

We walked home together. But before we went back inside, he held me and said, “I want you to feel your feelings, feel them all to the full.”

The next day, before my physical therapy session, I texted my partner, who was away on a short trip, that I ought to keep my eyes down lest my therapist could see right through me. He texted back, “Who would go to Paris and not gaze upon the Mona Lisa?” 

This session was our second-to-last. My therapist is being moved to the facility across the street dedicated to the elderly. He was transferring me to the care of a different therapist. It was already two months post-surgery, and while I could do a 3-kilometer brisk walk, my knee still refused to straighten. 

To demonstrate how to push my knee down to straighten it, my therapist laid his hand right on top of my hand, which happened to be resting on my thigh. I almost fainted.

Determined not to let things be awkward, I jovially talked about his upcoming relay race, how he is training for it, and consequently, our favorite running courses in the area. 

Then he said, “It would be nice if we could go running together.” I could have died right there and then. 

Over chat with my 70-year-old friend Luz, I shared everything I was going through. When she was my age, Luz experienced the same spark.  She laughed as she told me about a man she had a crush on, a man who had no idea how she felt.

“If he’d asked, I would’ve run away with him,” she said with a smile. “I wanted to kiss him. There was this electricity when I was near him. It was all so weird, but looking back, I can’t help but smile. I don’t forget the feeling. The sun seemed to shine brighter, I laughed more, and I felt light, like I was young again.”

She paused, then added, “But here’s the thing: Today, I can’t even remember his face anymore. Maybe it wasn’t really him I had a crush on. Maybe it was more about feeling giddy and desirable again. That infatuation, though real, wasn’t about the person—it was about feeling alive, feeling young.”

She turned the conversation back to me. “You’ve been feeling down about your injury. You’ve started seeing yourself as older, maybe even losing sight of how you think of yourself. Your feelings are developmentally appropriate—especially as we age and experience these shifts. I’m glad someone made you feel beautiful and happy. But you know, this feeling will pass. If you got to know him, really knew him as a person, you’d probably lose interest. It’s not about him. It’s about what he made you feel.”

Luz always had a way of putting things into perspective, grounding me with her wisdom and experience. I considered asking my therapist if he enjoyed books and reading, and if he didn’t, that would instantly crush all feelings I have for him. 

What purpose did this infatuation serve? Why experience a burst of color in an otherwise steady life? 

Esther Perel says our attractions outside of marriage often speak more to our own unmet longings than to the other person. Infatuation can be a mirror, showing us the parts of ourselves we want to reclaim like aliveness, desire, possibility, play. What I felt for my therapist was not necessarily about him at all, but about the spark of myself that I glimpsed in his presence. Perel reminds us that longing does not always mean we want to leave what we have, but that we are searching for lost parts of ourselves. In this light, my crush becomes less a threat to my marriage and more an invitation: to see myself not only as wife, mother, patient, but also as woman, still capable of desire, vitality, and surprise.

I look at my partner whose love and generosity have been a constant in my life. I look at my quirky children from 5 through 15 who fill our home with laughter and joy. I realize, this is everything I have ever hoped for in my youth. I love them to pieces and treasure the love they have for me in return. 

But still, I taste the bittersweetness of grieving my youth and everything it entailed, yes, the flawless physical body, but also the innocence and carefree emotional energy, the sense of infinite possibility, the excitement of adventure, the sense of freedom in exploring who I was and discovering passions. But if I accept that this is part of my journey and make space for my nuanced feelings, it doesn’t diminish what I have today. Passion and fire still burn in me, even if I no longer need to chase them with the same urgency. 

I will savor these feelings that are not meant to last. I will revel in the life I have now. A life full of love, complexity, and beauty.

Sherilyn Siy is a writer, life coach, and tour guide based in Japan. She writes about parenting, marriage, and everyday moments of connection on her blog.

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