There’s a common observation that floats around in conversations about modern dating: people’s standards seem to lower as they get older. While this framing makes for catchy commentary, it misses something fundamental about how we evolve as romantic partners. What’s really happening isn’t a lowering of standards, but a recalibration of what actually matters.
In our twenties, many of us approach dating with a mental checklist that’s equal parts aspiration and fantasy. He must be over six feet tall. She needs to have a certain career trajectory. They should share our exact taste in music, have read the same books, enjoy the same hobbies, and fit seamlessly into our social circle. We’re looking for someone who checks every box, as if compatibility were a multiple-choice exam where only a perfect score will do.
This approach makes sense given where most people are in their twenties. You’re still figuring out who you are, which means you’re also figuring out who you want. The dating pool feels infinite, and opportunity seems endless. Why settle when you could find someone who matches every single criterion you’ve dreamed up? The future stretches out indefinitely, and there’s always the sense that the perfect person might be just around the corner.
But then life happens. You experience real relationships with real people who are wonderful in unexpected ways and frustrating in ways you never anticipated. You learn that the guy who meets your height requirement might also be emotionally unavailable. The woman with the impressive job might not actually make you laugh. The person who shares your taste in everything might bore you to tears because there’s no creative friction, no new perspectives to challenge your own.
Through these experiences, you start to understand the difference between preferences and requirements, between nice-to-haves and must-haves. You realize that some of the things on your list were never really about you at all. They were about what you thought you should want, what would look good to others, what would signal success or status or having arrived at some imagined destination.
By your thirties and forties, you’ve likely experienced heartbreak, compromise, growth, and perhaps even a long-term relationship or two. You’ve seen friends in marriages that look perfect on paper but are quietly miserable. You’ve watched unlikely couples build genuinely happy lives together. You’ve learned that chemistry isn’t formulaic and that some of the most important qualities in a partner are things you would never have thought to put on a list in the first place.
So when someone in their late thirties says they’re “less picky” than they used to be, what they often mean is that they’ve stopped being picky about the wrong things. They care less about height and more about emotional intelligence. They’re less concerned with whether someone went to the right school and more interested in whether that person is curious about the world. They’ve stopped requiring a partner who fits a predetermined mold and started looking for someone who brings out their best self.
This shift also reflects a deeper understanding of what relationships actually require. Young daters often focus on the sparks, the passion, the butterflies, the intoxicating early stages of romance. Older daters, having been through those stages multiple times, know that while attraction matters, what sustains a relationship over years is something else entirely. It’s kindness during arguments. It’s showing up when things are difficult. It’s the ability to repair after conflict. It’s maintaining respect even when romance wanes temporarily.
There’s also a pragmatic element that emerges with age. People become more aware of their own imperfections and contradictions. You can’t expect perfection from others when you’ve spent years becoming intimately familiar with your own flaws. The person who once demanded someone without baggage eventually realizes that everyone over a certain age has baggage. The question isn’t whether it exists, but whether you can handle what’s in the suitcase.
Time itself becomes a factor. In your twenties, you can spend two years with someone who’s ultimately wrong for you and still feel like you have endless time to find the right person. In your forties, time feels more finite. Not in a desperate way, necessarily, but in a realistic acknowledgment that you have fewer years ahead than behind. This doesn’t mean settling for someone you don’t genuinely care about, but it might mean being willing to explore a connection with someone who doesn’t immediately check every box.
Perhaps most importantly, people develop a clearer sense of what they actually need to be happy. They’ve lived alone, dated different types of people, experienced different relationship dynamics. They know themselves better. Someone who once thought they needed constant adventure might discover they actually crave stability. Someone who prized independence above all might find they’re ready for deep interdependence.
This evolution isn’t about lowering standards. It’s about raising them in the dimensions that actually matter while letting go of the superficial criteria that never mattered much in the first place. It’s about understanding that a great relationship isn’t about finding someone perfect, but about finding someone whose particular flavor of imperfection you can live with, whose growth trajectory aligns with yours, and whose presence in your life makes it richer rather than just fuller.
The person in their twenties who won’t date anyone under six feet isn’t necessarily more discerning than the person in their forties who cares more about emotional availability than height. They’re just discerning about different things, and only one of them has enough experience to know which things actually correlate with happiness.
So the next time someone older talks about being more flexible in their dating life, consider that they might not have lowered their standards at all. They might have finally figured out what standards are worth having.