Im 67 years old. I live alone in Manchester, in an old two-bedroom flat where childrens laughter once filled the air, the scent of homemade cakes lingered, and evenings were alive with music, coats and schoolbags strewn carelessly in the hallway. Now theres only silence. A silence so heavy it feels as though the walls themselves have stopped breathing. My husband passed eight years ago. My children are grown. And I am alone. Truly alone. Its not a metaphorits pure, echoing solitude 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 mind. The routine saves me from the quiet, from the telly murmuring to itself, from the fridge where a bowl of soup lasts three days.
I have no hobbies. And if Im honest, no desire to find any. I thought I was too old to start new things. Thats what I told myself for years. I asked my sonhe has three children, lives in a house on the outskirts of town. I suggested, *I could move in, help with the grandchildren.* But his wife refused. Said plainly: its hard sharing a home with an elderly person. I dont blame her. Young people are different. They need their space, their routines, their rules.
Id love to live with my daughter. She has a family, a job, two kids. She adores me. Always greets me with joy, invites me for Sunday roasts, listens to my stories with a smile. But live with me? She wont. Not for lack of love, but because her life is already set. When Im there, my heart swellsnoise, movement, life. But the longer I stay, the harder it is to return to the empty flat. Yet I do. Because Ive nowhere else to go.
I thought long and hard: must old age be like this? Inevitable loneliness? Until something inside me fractured. I realised: I cant go on like this. This isnt right. Its not about ageits about having lost the joy of living.
The therapist I spoke to recently told me something important: *At 67, youre not old. Youre alive. Youre just lost.* He explained that the lack of hobbiesor even the will to find anyis a warning sign. Perhaps the start of depression. That I need helpfrom a doctor, a therapist, from life itself.
He also said: *Your children arent obliged to share their home with you. Theyve built their own lives. And thats healthy. But you can build something new too. Youve time now, energy. No one expects anything, no one pressures you. Its freedom, not a life sentence.*
*Find activitiesfree clubs, exhibitions, workshops, talks. Discover something that sparks your curiosity. Visit places youve never been. Meet peopleits possible at any age,* he advised.
Ive been thinking. And its true. How many places have I saved for *someday*? How many books piled up *for later*? How many others like me sit at home now, believing theyre no longer needed?
Im still afraid. Fear isnt a sin. The sin would be giving up. And I wont. Not now. Ive promised myself: Ill try. Something. Anything. Walk two bus stops further. Drop by the library. Sign up for a painting class. Or a gardening group. Who knows?
And my children Theyre still here. Even if not under the same roof. They call. They hug me. They love me. And that, too, is happiness. Its enough not to feel abandoned. Life has 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. And not being afraid to start againeven if that start is just a cup of tea and a step out the door.
Today I learned: loneliness is a choice. And I choose to open the door.
