**Diary Entry 15th October 2023**
Im 67 years old. I live alone in Manchester, in an old two-bedroom flat where there used to be childrens laughter, the smell of homemade cakes, music in the evenings, and coats and school bags left haphazardly in the hallway. Now, theres only silence. A silence so heavy it sometimes feels as if the walls themselves have stopped breathing. My husband passed away eight years ago. The children are grown. And I am alone. Truly alone. Its not 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 that keeps me from losing my mind. The routine saves me from the silence, from the telly blabbering 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 kids, lives in a house on the outskirts. I suggested, What if I moved in? I could help with the grandchildren. But my daughter-in-law refused. She said plainly: sharing a home with an elderly person is difficult. I dont blame her. Young people are different. They need their space, their routines, their own rules.
Id love to live with my daughter. She has her own family, a job, two children. She adores mealways greets me with a smile, invites me for Sunday roasts, listens to my stories with genuine interest. But living together? 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. Still, 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 psychologist 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 have themis a warning sign. Perhaps its the start of depression. And I need helpfrom a doctor, a therapist, from life itself.
He also said: my children arent obliged to share their homes with me. Theyve built their own lives. And thats healthy. But I can build something new, too. Now I have time. Energy. No one demands anything, no one pressures me. Its freedom, not a life sentence.
Look for activitiesfree clubs, exhibitions, workshops, talks. Find something that sparks curiosity. Visit places youve never been. Meet peoplethats possible at any age, he advised.
Ive been thinking. And its true. How many places have I put off for someday? How many books have I stacked up 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 would be giving up. And I wont give up. Not now. Ive promised myself: Ill try something. Anything. A small thing. Walking two bus stops further. Dropping by the library. Signing up for a sketching class. Or a gardening group. Who knows?
And the 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 to keep me from feeling abandoned. Life has changed. And its time I changed 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 overeven if that start is just a cup of tea and a step out the door.
Today, Ive learned: loneliness is a choice. And I choose to open the door.
