I am 67 years old. I live alone in Manchester, in an old two-bedroom flat where childrens laughter once filled the air, the smell of homemade cakes lingered, and evenings were alive with music. Now, theres only silence. A silence so heavy it feels as though even the walls have stopped breathing. My husband passed away eight years ago. My children are grown. And I am alone. Truly alone. This isnt a metaphorits pure loneliness, echoing in every corner.
I still work. Not because I need the moneymy pension, though modest, covers my expenses. I work because its the only thing keeping me from losing my mind. Routine saves me from the silence, from the TV talking to itself, from the fridge where a bowl of soup lasts three days.
I have no hobbies. And to be honest, no desire to find any. I thought I was too old to start new things. Thats what I believed for years. I asked my sonhe has three children, lives in a house on the outskirts. I suggested, “I could move in, help with the grandchildren.” But my daughter-in-law refused. She said plainly: its hard sharing a home with an elderly person. I dont blame her. Young people are different. They need their space, their routine, their rules.
Id love to live with my daughter. She has a family, a job, two children. She adores me. Always welcomes me with joy, invites me for Sunday roasts, listens to my stories with a smile. But live with me? She doesnt want that. Not for lack of love, but because her life is already set. When Im there, my heart feels fullnoise, movement, life. But the longer I stay, the harder it is to return to my empty flat. Yet I do. Because I have nowhere else.
Ive thought a lot: is this what old age has to be? Inevitable loneliness? Until something inside me broke. I realised: I cant go on like this. This isnt normal. Its not about ageits about having lost the joy of living.
The therapist I spoke to recently said something important: “At 67, youre not old. Youre alive. Youre just lost.” He explained that the lack of hobbies, or even the desire for them, is a warning sign. Maybe the start of depression. And that I need helpfrom a doctor, a therapist, from life itself.
He also said: your children arent obliged to share their homes with you. Theyve built their own lives. And thats healthy. But you can build something new, too. Now you have time, energy. No one expects anything, no one pressures you. Its freedom, not a life sentence.
“Look for activitiesfree clubs, exhibitions, workshops, talks. Find something that sparks your curiosity. Visit places youve never been. Meet peoplethats possible at any age,” he advised.
Ive been thinking. And its true. How many places did I save for “one day”? How many books did I pile up “for later”? How many people, just like me, are sitting at home now, thinking theyre no longer needed by anyone?
Im still afraid. Being afraid isnt a sin. The sin is giving up. And I wont give up. Not now. Ive promised myself: Ill try something. Anything. One small thing. Walk two more bus stops. Pop into the library. Sign up for a drawing class. Or a gardening group. Who knows?
And my children Theyre still here. Even if not under the same roof. They call me. They hug me. They love me. And thats happiness too. Enough to keep me from feeling abandoned. Life has changed. And its time for me to change with it.
I am 67. Im alive. And there are still good things ahead. The important thing is to remind myself of that when I wake up. And not be afraid to start again. Even if that start is just a cup of tea and a step outside the door.
Today I learned: loneliness is a choice. And I choose to open the door.
