I'd got to that age when I was out on a date with a guy and I

In the words of Denise Van Outen, “I’d got to that age when I was out on a date with a guy and I would be thinking: Don’t mention your age, don’t mention that you want a child – because they would just run out the door.” There lies in this utterance a truth both ancient and enduring — the burden of time, the fear of judgment, and the longing for love unshaken by expectation. It speaks not merely of one woman’s experience, but of the universal ache to be seen for who we are, not for the ticking of the years or the desires of the heart that come with them.

There comes a season in every life when the heart wrestles with silence. The speaker’s restraint — her decision not to mention her age or her wish for a child — is not born of deceit, but of defense. It is the quiet armor of one who has learned that truth, when laid bare too soon, may drive away those unready to hold it. And yet, within that silence, there is sorrow: for to hide what one truly longs for is to wear a mask that suffocates the soul. This quote, then, reveals the battle between authenticity and acceptance, a struggle older than the stars themselves.

Think of the ancient queen Boudica, who rose from loss and betrayal to lead her people against Rome. In her eyes, too, time and judgment were foes. She was told that women of her age should bow to fate, that strength was unbecoming of her sex. Yet she defied them, speaking not to please but to awaken. And though her rebellion was crushed, her spirit endured — for truth once spoken cannot die. Likewise, Denise’s words remind us that when society teaches us to silence our desires, it is rebellion simply to speak them aloud.

The ancients knew that age was a sacred fire, not a curse. The Greeks revered the matron as the keeper of wisdom; the Egyptians painted goddesses with silver in their hair; the Japanese honored the elder woman as the mirror of divine patience. But in our time, the modern world hides its wrinkles as though they were wounds, and love is pursued as though it were a contest of youth. Van Outen’s lament reveals this folly — a world that measures worth by years and ignores the eternal radiance of the soul.

Yet there is courage in this confession. Beneath her fear lies resilience: she still goes on dates, she still hopes, she still dares to dream. That quiet persistence is the mark of one who has not yielded to despair. Just as the poet Rumi wrote, “The wound is the place where the light enters you,” so too the ache of concealment becomes the gateway to self-understanding. Her story teaches that vulnerability, though frightening, is the path toward the love that truly sees.

Let us then learn from this. To those who have hidden their dreams for fear of scaring others away — speak them. To those who have measured themselves by the calendar — burn it. To those who tremble at rejection — know that truth, even when it drives others away, always draws the right ones nearer. The heart that whispers its desires only to the void will one day echo back with the sound of its own liberation.

The lesson, then, is simple yet profound: Do not diminish your truth for the comfort of others. Speak with grace, but speak fully. Those who run are not your loss; they are your deliverance from those who cannot stay. The practical action for all who hear these words is to practice honesty as devotion — to speak openly of what they seek, to let time be their ally and not their jailer, and to trust that what is meant for them will not flee at the sound of their truth.

Thus, in Denise’s confession we find not merely a lament, but a torch — a light passed from one heart to another across the ages. It burns with the wisdom of all who have feared their truth and found freedom only when they dared to speak it. Let each of us carry that flame forward, so that no one ever again must whisper their longing in the shadow of shame.