**Diary Entry**
I’m 67. I live alone in Manchester, in a modest two-bedroom flat that once echoed with children’s laughter, the scent of freshly baked cakes, and evenings filled with music. The hallway used to be cluttered with coats and schoolbags—now there’s only silence. A heavy, suffocating quiet, as if even the walls have forgotten how to breathe. My husband passed eight years ago. The children have long grown up and moved on. And here I am—utterly alone. Not metaphorically, but starkly, achingly so.
I still work. Not for the money—my pension, though modest, covers my needs. I work because it’s the only thing keeping me from losing my mind entirely. From the monotony. From the silence. From the telly murmuring to itself. From the fridge holding a single bowl of soup meant to last three days.
I have no hobbies. And if I’m honest, no real desire to find one. I once thought I was too old to start anything new. I reached out to my son—he lives in a cottage in the countryside with his wife and three children. I offered, “I’ll move in, help with the little ones.” But my son’s wife refused. Said plainly it would be too much, sharing a home with an elderly woman. I don’t blame her. The young need their space, their routines, their own way of living.
I thought about my daughter. She’s busy with her job, her husband, their two children. She loves me—always welcomes me for Sunday roasts, listens, smiles. But living together? No. Not because she doesn’t care, but because her world is built differently. Visiting them fills my heart—the noise, the warmth, the life. But the longer I stay, the harder it is to return to this empty flat. Yet I do. Because I’ve nowhere else to go.
For a while, I wondered—is this just how it’s meant to be? Is old age loneliness? Then something inside me snapped. I realised: this isn’t normal. It’s not about age—it’s about losing touch with life itself.
A therapist I spoke to recently said something that stayed with me: “At 67, you’re not old. You’re alive. You’ve just lost your way.” He pointed out that lacking hobbies—or even the will to find them—is a warning sign. Perhaps the start of depression. I needed help—from a doctor, a counsellor, from life itself.
He was right—my children aren’t obliged to share their homes. They’ve built their own lives, and that’s as it should be. But I can build something new too. At this age, I finally have time. Energy. No one demanding, no one pressuring. It’s freedom, not a sentence.
“Look for what’s around you,” he said. “Free clubs, exhibitions, classes, talks. Find something that sparks your interest. Go places you’ve never been. Make connections—it’s never too late.”
It got me thinking. How many places have I dreamt of seeing? How many books have I set aside for later? How many people might be sitting in their own quiet flats, feeling just as unseen?
I’m still afraid. Fear isn’t a sin—giving up is. And I won’t give up. Not yet. I promise myself—I’ll try something. Anything small. Walk a few extra bus stops. Visit the library. Sign up for a free sketching class, or maybe a gardening club. Who knows?
And the children—they’re still here. Just not under the same roof. They call. They hug. They love. And that’s happiness too. Enough to remind me I’m not abandoned. Life has changed. And maybe it’s time I change with it.
I’m 67. I’m alive. And there’s still something good ahead. The trick is remembering that when morning comes. And not being afraid to start again—even if that start is just a cup of tea and a step out the door.
