Im 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, evenings were filled with music, and coats and school bags were always strewn about the hallway. Now theres only silencea silence so heavy it sometimes feels as though 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 bills. I work because its the only thing keeping me from losing my mind. The routine saves me from the silence, from the TV talking to itself, from the fridge where a bowl of soup lasts three days.
I dont have hobbies. And to be honest, I dont even feel like picking any up. I thought I was too old to start new things. Thats what I told myself for years. I asked my sonhe has three children and lives in a house on the outskirts of town. I suggested, “I could move in and 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 kids. She adores me. She 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 I visit, my heart fillsnoise, movement, life. But the longer I stay, the harder it is to return to my empty flat. Yet I go back. Because I have nowhere else.
Ive thought a lot: must old age be like this? 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. Perhaps the start of depression. And that I need helpfrom a doctor, from therapy, from life itself.
He also told me this: your children arent obliged to share their home with you. Theyve built their own lives. And thats healthy. But you can also build something new. Now you have time, energy. No one expects anything, no one pressures you. This is 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 hes right. How many places have I left for “one day”? How many books have I stacked “for later”? How many people, just like me, are sitting at home right now, thinking theyre no longer needed?
Im still afraid. Fear isnt a sin. The sin is giving up. And I wont give up. Not now. Ive promised myself: Ill try something. Anything. A walk two streets further. A visit to the library. Signing 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 that, too, is happiness. Its enough to keep me from feeling abandoned. Life has changed. And its time for me to change with it.
Im 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 to be afraid of starting againeven if that start is just a cup of tea and a step outside my front door.
Today, Ive learned: loneliness is a choice. And I choose to open the door.
