Isn’t it funny how a song can sound completely different depending on your mood, life stage, and views on love? Take “I’m a Believer” by the Monkees, for example.

The first time it played, I was a starry-eyed preteen with dreams of Monkee-love. The second time? A cynical widow who had a fortress, moat, and dragon guarding my freedom. And the third time? Well, I was finally ready to replace the military fortifications with something more like a cozy covered bridge. So, yeah, the song hadn’t changed, but, apparently, I have.

When “I’m a Believer” came out in 1967, I favored Micky Dolenz, the funny Monkee, over Davy Jones, the cute one, because, well, free spirits like me went for wit rather than looks. And, since Micky sang the lead on “I’m a Believer,” I’d cue up the song on the turntable, close my eyes, and pretend that he was singing that song directly to me. Sappy, but true.

Then life happened. I grew up, got some common sense about who’d be a good match for me (spoiler: not a Monkee with thousands of screaming fans) and married Fred, the smartest, kindest, funniest, and most energetic man I’d ever met. We were like two intertwined vines, but, sadly, his vine withered and died, leaving me to fend off the weeds of life on my own.

Now, let me tell you, when you’re widowed at 63, hearing “I’m a Believer” again? It’s like being subjected to an infomercial for some product you’d never, ever want. Not a trace of doubt in my mind? “Yeah, right,” I muttered to the steering wheel. I had so much doubt, I could have won a Guinness World Record for it all.

For years, “I’m a Believer” played like a mocking loop in my head.

Me, a believer? Sure, as a new widow, I wanted to date so I could live out my idea of a wild Saturday night. You know, dinner and a movie with my mostly married friends. But did I want to be an intertwined vine again? Absolutely not.

So I became a walking, talking billboard for Living Apart Together. LAT, for those who don’t know, is a trend that lets fiercely independent creatures like me have relationships without sharing living quarters because, let’s face it, personal space is prime real estate, thank you very much.

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But, after five years of serial dating, along came The Poet. Granted, my moniker for him sounds like something out of a Harlequin romance novel, but it’s not something I made up. The guy is an actual poet. He’s turned me on to light verse, which is basically the antidote to the grim, confusing, and pretentious poetry I’d previously suffered through – the kind that leaves you scratching your head and wondering whether the white sky is supposed to be a metaphor for death, a blank slate, or nothing at all.

Then I heard “I’m a Believer” on the radio and couldn’t help but sing along. Love at this stage of life is all about the small things – the inside jokes, the shared quirks, and mutual affection for the canines in our lives. (There’s no way I could date someone who doesn’t love dogs. It’s a non-negotiable.) The Poet and I get our jollies from sitting around the kitchen table and searching for the perfect rhyme or well-placed metaphor. Yup, poets are a strange subspecies of Homo sapiens.

I’m still all for Living Apart Together. But am I ready to embrace the idea of intermingling the indignities of aging with a romantic partner? Sorry, no. I refuse to be anyone’s 24/7 caregiver, and I sure as heck don’t want a boyfriend to be my nursemaid either. I’m hoping to carve out a happy middle ground somewhere between Cruella de Vil and Mother Teresa. Not that I think it will be easy, mind you. Still, I’ve decided to strap on my life preserver and take a chance.

Maybe you, too, have gotten a little cynical at times. Perhaps you think Saturday nights are for cozying up with a favorite pet and a good book. Who needs a romantic partner, anyway? Trust me, I’ve been there.

But, after much soul searching (and more cups of coffee than I care to admit), I’ve come to a conclusion: Being a believer is less about a lifestyle than a state of mind. Because, after all, the best belief systems are the ones we build within ourselves. So, whatever your relationship status, you can channel Micky Dolenz’s infectious optimism and go ahead, belt out “I’m a Believer” like you mean it.

Joan Axelrod-Contrada is a writer who lives in Florence and is working on a collection of essays, “Rock On: A Baby Boomer’s Playlist for Life after Loss.” Reach her at joanaxelrodcontrada@gmail.com.