When love arrives late: what no one tells you about cross-cultural romance after sixty

Ms H and I have been together for a while now. She’s fifty, Vietnamese, and maintains her own house about ten minutes away by car—which, according to my Adelaide mates, means we’re ‘not really together’.

I’m sixty-six, Australian, neurodivergent as hell, and living in Vietnam because my brain works better here than it ever did in Adelaide. We have dinner together most evenings, maintain separate spaces, and somewhere between the language barriers and the fact that I can’t remember whether I’ve taken my meds without checking my tracking app, we’ve built something that works.

Your friends think you’ve lost your mind. Her family wonders if you’re after a visa or planning to whisk her away to some mythical land where streets are paved with Vegemite. And you’re just trying to work out whether the communication breakdown is cultural difference, neurodivergent processing delay, or the fact that neither of you has had your coffee yet.

Welcome to cross-cultural relationships for the neurodiverse and sixty-plus. It’s not what the internet promised you.

What mainstream advice gets catastrophically wrong

Most relationship advice treats cross-cultural connection like assembling IKEA furniture. Learn the customs (Allen key). Respect the traditions (wooden dowels). Pick up some phrases (those weird extra screws you always have left over). Relationship assembled.

This completely misses that you’re both humans who’ve spent decades having your communication styles shaped by systems that rewarded certain behaviours and punished others. She learned that overt disagreement threatens social harmony. You learned that not speaking up means you don’t care enough to bother.

Neither approach is wrong. Both made perfect sense in context.

Now you’re trying to build something new using instruction manuals written in different languages, neither of which includes the universal translation: ‘this bit’s going to be wobbly no matter what you do’.

The contrarian truth nobody mentions

Here’s what I’ve learned: the biggest gift of a cross-cultural relationship isn’t learning about her culture. It’s discovering which bits of your own culture you’ve been following purely because everyone else does.

When Ms H first suggested separate houses, my Western-trained brain had a complete meltdown. Couples who love each other live together. That’s the rule. That’s what you do. Anything else is relationship failure or emotional unavailability or commitment issues or—

Except it’s not a rule. It’s a cultural assumption that snuck in disguised as universal truth.

Separate houses means I can organise my books by colour without negotiating. It means when my ADHD brain decides that 2am is the perfect time to reorganise the entire kitchen, I’m not waking anyone up. It means when we have dinner together, we’re choosing it—not defaulting to it because we share a mortgage and it’d be weird to eat separately.

It means I can have my autistic shutdown days without performing ‘I’m fine’ for someone three metres away.

Turns out, separate houses isn’t a Vietnamese cultural quirk. It’s possibly the most neurodivergent-friendly relationship structure ever invented, and nobody in Australia thought to mention it as an option.

What actually matters (and what’s complete nonsense)

Language barriers matter less than you’d think. Ms H’s English is better than my Vietnamese, which is setting the bar somewhere near ankle height. But here’s the thing—when you’re both operating in shades of a second language, you learn to say what you actually mean.

No passive aggression disguised as politeness. No cultural euphemisms that require six decades of shared context to decode. No ‘I’m fine’ that means seventeen different things depending on tone.

You just… say things. Then check you’ve been understood. Then laugh when you discover you’ve accidentally told someone their grandmother looks like a potato instead of that she’s lovely.

This is genuinely easier than navigating sixty years of unstated expectations with someone who speaks your language fluently but means something entirely different by it.

Age matters more than you think. Not because you’re old—because you’re experienced enough to know that most of what you were told about relationships was marketing material for a lifestyle you can’t afford and wouldn’t want if you could.

A Vietnamese woman at fifty has navigated family expectations, possibly raised children, maybe survived economic collapse. She’s not looking for someone to complete her. She’s looking for companionship that doesn’t require her to shrink herself to fit.

An Australian man at sixty-six with a neurodivergent brain has—if he’s done any self-reflection at all—worked out that every relationship template he was sold requires performing a version of himself that doesn’t exist. He’s exhausted.

This creates space for something rare: two people building something new rather than auditioning for roles in someone else’s screenplay.

The systemic realities hiding in plain sight

Vietnamese families and friends can be intensely involved in relationship decisions. Ms H’s tribe had opinions. Lots of them. Some expressed directly, most expressed through pointed questions about whether I understood how things worked here.

Australian individualism prizes independence to the point of isolation. My Adelaide mates had opinions. Mostly expressed as ‘mate, are you sure about this?’ followed by concerned silence.

Here’s what nobody tells you: the tension isn’t about culture. It’s about systems.

Vietnamese culture developed in agricultural communities where survival depended on extended family networks. Individual choice was a luxury approximately three people could afford.

Australian culture developed in contexts where geographic isolation and economic mobility were rewarded. Family obligation was often framed as the thing holding you back from your True Potential™.

Neither system is inherently better. Both have costs. Both occasionally produce people who look at the system and think ‘this is exhausting, there must be another way’.

I wonder if the real work of cross-cultural relationships is building a third system—one that honours both histories without being imprisoned by either. One that lets you have dinner together every evening and separate houses and family and friends involvement that doesn’t require micromanagement and independence that doesn’t mean isolation.

Possibly I’m overthinking this because I’m neurodivergent and it’s what we do. But it seems to be working.

What the neurodiverse bring (and need to watch out for)

Let’s talk about the thing most relationship advice completely ignores: what if your brain’s wired differently and you’re trying to navigate cross-cultural connection whilst also translating neurotypical social expectations into something your brain can process?

What you bring:

Pattern recognition that sees through cultural bullshit. Your neurodivergent brain is excellent at spotting systems. You’ve spent your entire life trying to work out unwritten social rules. You’re not fooled by ‘but this is how it’s done’ because you’ve been questioning ‘how it’s done’ since you were five.

This is massively useful in cross-cultural relationships. You can see which ‘cultural traditions’ are genuinely important and which ones are just inherited nonsense nobody’s questioned.

Direct communication that cuts through ambiguity. When you’re both learning to communicate across culture and you’re neurodivergent, you get really good at saying what you mean. ‘I need alone time’ instead of hints. ‘I’m overwhelmed’ instead of performing fine. ‘I don’t understand what you’re asking’ instead of guessing and getting it wrong.

Ms H tells me this is one of her favourite things about our relationship. I say what I mean. She doesn’t have to decode it.

Hyperfocus when something matters. When your brain locks onto understanding something—learning phrases, researching cultural context, working out how to navigate family/friendship dynamics—you go deep. This isn’t performative interest. This is genuine curiosity unleashed.

Different processing creates different solutions. You’ve spent your life finding workarounds for systems that weren’t built for your brain. You’re good at this. Separate houses? Not a compromise, an innovation. Scheduled connection time? Not unromantic, actually really helpful. Clear boundaries around social events? Not cold, genuinely necessary.

What to watch out for:

Sensory overload masquerading as cultural adjustment. Vietnamese family gatherings can be loud, crowded, intense. Multiple conversations happening simultaneously in a language you’re still learning whilst processing unfamiliar food textures and someone’s touching your arm and the music’s too loud and—

This isn’t you failing at cultural integration. This is your nervous system hitting capacity. Know the difference. Communicate it clearly. Leave early if you need to.

Special interests consuming relationship energy. That thing where your ADHD brain discovers Vietnamese history or linguistics or traditional medicine and suddenly it’s 3am and you’ve been reading for six hours and you’ve forgotten to text back or show up for dinner or… yeah. That thing.

Ms H finds this amusing now. Initially, less so. Clear communication helps. ‘I’m hyperfocusing, not ignoring you’ is information she can work with.

Executive dysfunction looking like not caring. You meant to book the restaurant. You meant to remember the family/friends gathering. You meant to follow through on the thing you said you’d do. Your brain just… didn’t convert intention into action, and now it looks like you don’t care.

This is where tracking apps, shared calendars, and clear systems save relationships. Also, explaining how your brain works so she knows it’s not personal.

Masking exhaustion after social performance. You’ve just spent three hours at a gathering performing ‘appropriate guest’ in a second language whilst navigating unfamiliar social rules and sensory input. You’re done. Completely done. This isn’t antisocial—this is recovery time.

Separate houses really help here. You can collapse without an audience.

Time blindness creating actual problems. Vietnamese culture is punctual about some things and flexible about others. Your ADHD brain is punctual about nothing and flexible about everything. This needs managing before it becomes a pattern of disrespect.

Multiple reminder systems. Not romantic, genuinely necessary.

What to watch out for (everyone, not just the neurodiverse)

Financial expectations that go unstated. In many Vietnamese families, adult children support ageing parents. This is assumed, not discussed. Australian men often assume financial independence is maintained throughout adulthood.

These assumptions need to surface early. Not as dealbreakers—as realities to navigate together.

Ms H and I sorted this early on. I know what her family obligations are. She knows what my veteran’s pension covers and what it doesn’t. No surprises, no resentment.

Visa assumptions and power imbalances. If you’re the one with citizenship in a wealthier country, you hold systemic power whether you want to or not. I’m Australian, living in Vietnam by choice. Different dynamic. But if you’re in Australia and she’s on a partner visa, that power differential exists.

This needs acknowledgment. The relationship can’t pretend the power doesn’t exist.

Fetishisation dressed as appreciation. If you’re attracted to Vietnamese women because they’re ‘more traditional’ or ‘more feminine’ than Australian women, you’re not seeing a person. You’re projecting a fantasy.

Vietnamese women are as diverse as any other group. Some are traditional. Some are rebels. Most are complicated humans who defy categorisation and would like to be seen as individuals, thanks.

Loneliness masquerading as love. Being a senior in a new country can be profoundly isolating. Same for being an expat anywhere. Make sure you’re building a relationship, not just solving for loneliness.

I had friends in Vietnam before I met Ms H. If I hadn’t, I’d have sorted that first. Putting all your social needs on one person is unfair regardless of culture. Doing it when that person’s also navigating cultural and language differences with you is cruel.

What to celebrate (the genuine gifts)

Permission to reinvent. You’re both old enough to know that life doesn’t follow the script anyone sold you. This relationship is evidence. Celebrate the courage it takes to build something unconventional.

Complementary exhaustion with different systems. She’s tired of certain Vietnamese cultural expectations. You’re tired of Australian ones. Together, you get to cherry-pick what actually works and quietly ignore the rest.

Perspective on ageing. Vietnamese culture treats elders differently than Australian culture does. You might discover that ageing doesn’t have to mean invisibility. That experience is valued. That sixty-six isn’t ancient, just seasoned.

This has been genuinely healing for me. Australian culture treats sixty-plus like you’re gently decaying in the corner (and unpleasantly smelly). Vietnamese culture occasionally asks your opinion because you might know something.

Shared foreignness. Whether you’re both in Vietnam, both in Australia, or splitting time, you’re both navigating unfamiliar territory. This creates partnership rather than one person accommodating the other’s comfort.

Finding out what you actually need. Turns out I need: separate space, clear communication, scheduled connection time, understanding that sometimes my brain just stops working and it’s not personal, dinner together every evening, and someone who finds my peculiarities interesting rather than problematic.

I didn’t know this until I had permission to ask for it.

The cosmic frame (or: why this matters on a spinning rock)

Somewhere in this corner of the universe, on a small planet orbiting an ordinary star, two people from different cultures and different neurotypes found each other in their fifties and sixties. They’re building something that honours both histories without being imprisoned by either.

The universe spent billions of years evolving consciousness. The least we can do is use it to build something genuine rather than performing someone else’s idea of what relationships should look like.

Your friends might think you’ve lost your mind. Ms H’s friends and family might wonder what you’re playing at. And you’re just trying to build something that works for both of you whilst navigating language barriers, cultural expectations, neurodivergent processing, and the delightful reality that you’re both old enough to know better but too stubborn to care.

This is either completely absurd or genuinely beautiful.

Possibly both.

And maybe that’s exactly the point.