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, nights were alive with music, and the hallway was always cluttered with forgotten coats and schoolbags. Now, theres only silence. A silence so thick it sometimes feels like even the walls have stopped breathing. My husband passed away eight years ago. The kids are grown. And Im alone. Properly alonenot as a metaphor, just plain loneliness echoing in every corner.
I still work. Not because I need the moneymy pension, though modest, covers the bills. I work because its the only thing keeping me from losing my marbles. The routine saves me from the silence, the telly talking to itself, the fridge where a single bowl of soup lasts three days.
I dont have hobbies. And truthfully, I cant muster the enthusiasm to pick any up. I thought I was too old to start new thingsthats what I told myself for years. I asked my sonhes got three kids, lives in a semi-detached house just outside town. I suggested, What if I moved in? I could help with the grandkids. But my daughter-in-law said no. Straight out. Said its tricky sharing a home with an older person. I dont blame her. Young people are differentthey need their space, their routines, their rules.
Id love to live with my daughter. Shes got a family, a job, two little ones. She adores me. Always welcomes me with open arms, invites me for Sunday roasts, listens to my rambling stories with a smile. But live with me? No. Not for lack of love, but because her lifes already on its own track. When Im there, my heart swellsnoise, chaos, life. But the longer I stay, the harder it is to go back to the empty flat. Still, I go. Because Ive got nowhere else.
Ive wondered: does growing old have to be like this? Inevitable loneliness? Until something inside me snapped. I realised: I cant do this anymore. This isnt normal. Its not about ageits about losing the joy in living.
The therapist I spoke to recently said something important: At 67, youre not old. Youre alive. Just lost. He explained that having no hobbiesor even the will to find anyis a red flag. Maybe the start of depression. And that I need helpa doctor, a therapist, life itself.
He also said: your kids arent obliged to share their home with you. Theyve built their own lives. And thats healthy. But you can build something new too. Youve got time. Energy. No ones making demands, no ones pressuring 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 hes right. How many places have I saved for someday? How many books have I stacked away for later? How many people, just like me, are sitting at home right now, convinced theyre no longer needed?
Im still scared. Being scared isnt a sin. Giving up is. And I wont give up. Not now. Ive promised myself: Ill try something. Anything. A tiny thing. Walking two bus stops further. Popping into the library. Signing up for a sketching class. Or a gardening club. Who knows?
And the kids Theyre still here. Even if not under the same roof. They call. They hug me. They love me. And thats happiness too. Enough to stop me feeling abandoned. Lifes changed. And its time I changed with it.
Im 67. Im alive. And there are still good things ahead. The trick is remembering that when I wake up. And not being afraid to start overeven if that starting over is just a cup of tea and stepping outside.
Today I learned: loneliness is a choice. And I choose to open the door.
