I’m 67, and I live alone… I asked my kids to take me in, but they said no. And now I don’t know how to go on living.
I’m 67. I live by myself in Manchester, in a little two-bedroom flat that used to be full of life—kids laughing, the smell of fresh cakes, music in the evenings, coats and schoolbags scattered in the hallway. Now, it’s just silence. So heavy sometimes it feels like even the walls have stopped breathing. My husband passed eight years ago. The kids grew up and moved on. And here I am. Alone. Not just the idea of alone—the real, aching kind of loneliness.
I still work. Not because I need the money—my pension’s not much, but it covers the bills. I work because it’s the only thing that keeps me from losing it completely. From the endless quiet. From the telly that just drones on to itself. From the fridge with the same bowl of soup for three days.
I don’t have a hobby. And if I’m honest, I don’t even have the energy to look for one. Maybe I’m just too old to start something new. That’s what I used to think. I asked my son—he’s got three kids, lives out in the countryside in a big house. I said, “Let me move in, I’ll help, look after the grandkids.” But his wife said no. Straight out—she couldn’t live with an older person under the same roof. I don’t blame her. Young people, they’re different. They need their space, their own way of doing things.
I’d love to live with my daughter. She’s got a family, a job, two little ones. She loves me. Always happy to see me, invites me round for Sunday roasts, listens, laughs. But living together? She doesn’t want that. Not because she doesn’t care. Just because her world is set up differently. When I visit, my heart lifts—noise, chaos, life. But the longer I stay, the harder it is to come back to this empty flat. Still, I come back. Because where else would I go?
I’ve wondered—maybe this is just how it’s meant to be? Is loneliness just part of getting old? But one day, something inside me snapped. I realised—this isn’t right. It’s not about age, it’s about losing your spark.
A counsellor I spoke to recently told me something that stuck: “At 67, you’re not old. You’re alive—just a bit lost.” He said having no hobbies, not even the will to find one—that’s a red flag. Could be the start of depression. And I should get help—see a doctor, a therapist, just reach out.
He told me—kids aren’t obliged to share their home with you. They’ve built their own lives. And that’s okay. But you can build something new too. At this age, you’ve finally got time. Energy. No one’s making demands. It’s freedom, not a prison sentence.
“Look for things around you,” he said. “Free clubs, exhibitions, workshops, talks. Find something that interests you. Go places you’ve never been. Meet people—you can do that at any age.”
And he’s right. How many places have I wanted to see? How many books have I saved “for later”? How many people are sitting in their own flats right now, thinking no one needs them?
I’m still scared. Being scared isn’t weakness—giving up is. And I won’t give up. Not now. I’ve promised myself—I’ll try something. Anything. Walk a few extra bus stops. Drop by the library. Sign up for a free sketching class. Maybe even join the gardening club. Who knows?
And the kids… They’re still here. Just not under the same roof. They call. They hug me. They love me. And that’s enough to know I’m not abandoned. Life’s just changed. And it’s time I changed with it.
I’m 67. I’m alive. And there’s still good things ahead. I just have to remember that in the morning. And not be afraid to start fresh—even if that “fresh” is just a cup of tea and a step out the door.
