I’m 67, living alone in Manchester in a small, old flat—the kind that used to buzz with laughter, the smell of homemade pies, music in the evenings, and coats and school bags scattered in the hallway. Now, it’s just silence. The kind so heavy it feels like even the walls have stopped breathing. My husband passed eight years ago. The kids grew up and moved on. And I’m alone. Not just in a metaphorical way, but physically, achingly alone.
I still work, not because I need the money—my pension, though modest, covers the basics—but because it’s the only thing keeping me from losing my mind. It’s an escape from the quiet, the telly blabbering to itself, the fridge with a single bowl of soup that lasts me days.
I don’t have hobbies. If I’m honest, I don’t even have the will to find one. I used to think I was too old to start something new. I asked my son—he’s got three kids, lives in a nice house out in the countryside—if I could move in, help with the grandkids. But my daughter-in-law said no. Straight out. Said it’d be too hard living under the same roof with an older person. I don’t blame her. Young people need their own space, their own routines.
My daughter’s different—she’s got her family, her career, two little ones. She loves me. Always happy to see me, invites me for Sunday roasts, listens, smiles. But living together? She doesn’t want that either. Not because she doesn’t care, but her world’s built differently. When I visit, my heart lights up—the noise, the chaos, the life. But the longer I stay, the harder it is to come back to an empty flat. Still, I come back. Because where else is there for me to go?
For a long time, I wondered—is this just how it’s meant to be? Is old age just loneliness? But something inside me snapped. This isn’t right. It’s not about age—it’s about losing the spark for life.
A therapist I spoke to recently told me something important: *“At 67, you’re not old. You’re alive. You’ve just lost your way.”* He said not having hobbies—or even the desire to find them—is a warning sign. Maybe the start of depression. I needed help—a doctor, a therapist, or just… life itself.
He told me my kids aren’t obliged to share their homes. They’ve built their own lives, and that’s normal. But I can build something new too. At this age, I finally have time. Energy. No one’s demanding anything from me. It’s freedom—not a life sentence.
*“Look for things around you,”* he said. *“Free clubs, exhibitions, workshops, talks. Find what interests you. Go places you’ve never been. Make friends—it’s possible at any age.”*
It got me thinking. How many places have I wanted to see? How many books have I saved for *“later”*? How many people out there are just like me, sitting in their flats, thinking no one needs them?
I’m still scared. Fear’s no sin—giving up is. And I won’t give up. Not now. I’ve promised myself I’ll try. Something small. Walk a few bus stops instead of riding. Stop by the library. Sign up for a free sketching class. Maybe even a gardening club. Who knows?
As for the kids—they’re still here. Just not under the same roof. They call. They hug me. They love me. And that’s happiness too—enough to know I’m not abandoned. Life’s just changed. And maybe it’s time I change with it.
I’m 67. I’m alive. And there’s still something good ahead. I just have to remember that when I wake up. And not be afraid to start again—even if that *“again”* begins with a cuppa and a step outside.
