My marriage ended at 50. I thought dating would be hard, but making new friends has been harder.

When my marriage ended at 50, I expected dating to be difficult.

I had been married for a long time. I knew nothing about Hinge, had never heard the word “situationship,” and did not understand why grown adults were suddenly communicating via disappearing photographs on Telegram.

I was prepared to be confused by men, but I was less prepared to be confused by friendship.

I was an empty nester with free time

My kids were away at college, and for the first time in decades, my evenings and weekends belonged largely to me. This initially sounded fantastic. I was single! Free! I could do whatever I wanted!

There was just one small logistical problem: Everyone I knew was busy.

I’d text a friend on a Saturday afternoon: Want to get a drink tonight?

One was having dinner with her husband, another was with her kids, and someone else was going to a cookout with three other couples. Meanwhile, I had no dependents within 1,000 miles and a cute outfit with the tags still attached.

My friendships hadn’t disappeared when my marriage ended. My friends still loved me, and I loved them. The problem wasn’t friendship; it was availability. Suddenly, we weren’t living the same kind of life.

I had friends but no people to do things with

For years, my social life had been organized around the same infrastructure as theirs: husbands, children, school schedules, family dinners, neighborhood gatherings, and invitations extended to couples.

Then my marriage ended, and my children left home at almost exactly the same time.

I still had friends, but what I didn’t always have was people to do things with.

I also began noticing how much adult social life is organized around couples. Nobody sent an email informing me that my couple’s membership had expired. There was no formal cancellation notice. I simply wasn’t automatically included in certain dinners, cookouts, and weekend plans anymore.

At the same time, my own life was moving in another direction.

I was dating, focusing intensely on my writing career, and had more freedom than I’d had in decades, and I increasingly wanted to use it.

At 50, I had somehow arrived at a strange intersection: I had more freedom than I’d had since my 20s and fewer people available on a Tuesday.

I started doing things alone

So I started going places alone, which was easier when I traveled.

I took solo trips to Spain and Mexico, where I would leave my hotel and wander. I ate alone, allowed men and couples to buy me drinks while I practiced my terrible Spanish, and I explored museums where I would find myself chatting with strangers.

I didn’t feel lonely; I felt adventurous.

Eventually, I had to confront an embarrassing possibility: Perhaps I was going to have to leave the house. Why was I game to joyously walk into a bar alone in another country but afraid to do it in my own neighborhood?

So I started trying to bring the woman I was while traveling home with me.

I take myself out. I go places even when nobody is available to come. I’ve poured more energy into my career. I’m also trying to put myself in situations where friendships might actually form.

I’ve also created a different kind of to-do list, one that includes line dancing, trivia nights, and group dinners. I am approaching this with the same philosophy I brought to dating: Leave the house, be open to fun, and see what happens.

Making friends feels like dating

Unfortunately, I am discovering that making friends at this age requires many of the same indignities as dating.

You have to meet strangers. You have to risk feeling awkward. You exchange numbers, and someone says, “We should totally hang out,” then one of you has to perform the radical act of actually suggesting a date and time.

Sometimes you like someone, and they don’t seem particularly interested in you. Sometimes they like you, and you don’t feel the friendship chemistry. Sometimes you meet someone delightful and then discover she lives in Pasadena, which in Los Angeles may as well be a study-abroad program.

Apparently, what I needed was a roster, not for late-night “WYD?” texts, but for margaritas on a Wednesday. Most importantly, I’m learning that friendship doesn’t happen automatically anymore.

When I was younger, community was built into my life. School gave me friends, then work did. Marriage and motherhood brought other couples and parents into my orbit. I didn’t have to deliberately construct a social world because one kept forming around whatever stage of life I happened to be in.

This stage is different because I have to build it myself.

There are still nights when I text someone, and she’s busy with her husband or children. There are still weekends when it seems as though everyone has somewhere they naturally belong and I don’t, but I’m getting better at not treating an empty evening as evidence that something is missing from my life.

I don’t want to solve this problem by finding another man.

One of the things I’m learning about being single is that no one person should be responsible for making my life feel full. I want friends and work and romance and travel and my children and people who will meet me for trivia on a Tuesday.

Maybe making friends after 50 isn’t about finding my way back into the social life I had when I was married; maybe it’s about building a community around the life I have now.

So I’ll go to the sip-and-paint. I’ll embarrass myself in group Pilates classes. I’ll sit at the fancy bar alone. I’ll ask the woman I just met if she wants to get coffee, risking the impression that I’m asking her on a date.

In a way, I am.

I’m dating for friendship now, and this time, I’m hoping to find something serious.