It’s been a year since my husband passed away, and life hasn’t been the same since. The silence in the house is deafening, and I often find myself wandering through rooms that used to be filled with his laughter, his presence, his warmth. Now, it’s just me—alone with my thoughts and the memories we built together. The hardest part is the emptiness that comes with living without him, with no one to share the little moments of joy and frustration that life offers.

My children live abroad, far away from me, and though we keep in touch, it’s not the same. Video calls, texts, and the occasional email only amplify the distance, both physical and emotional. I’m proud of them and happy for their success, but I can’t help but feel isolated in my own home. There’s no one to talk to at the end of the day, no one to share a cup of coffee with in the mornings. The house feels too big, too quiet, and I feel like I’m just a visitor in my own life.

Being a school teacher helps fill my time, and I pour myself into my work. It gives me purpose and a sense of connection, even if it’s not quite the same as the intimacy I had with my family. My students need me, and I do my best to be there for them. But when I come home, there’s no one waiting to ask how my day went or share a laugh with me. I go through the motions of life, but it feels like something is missing, and it’s hard to ignore the loneliness that creeps in at the edges of my days.

Some days, the weight of it all feels too much. I long for the days when I was part of a family unit, when the busyness of life was shared with others. Now, there are only memories—beautiful, bittersweet memories. I try to remind myself that it’s okay to grieve, that it’s normal to feel lost after such a big loss. But there’s still that nagging voice inside that asks if I will ever feel whole again, if the loneliness will ever fade.

I know that life has to move forward, but sometimes it feels like I’m stuck in the past, trying to navigate a world that no longer makes sense. The thought of moving on is terrifying. I don’t even know where to begin, or what it looks like. But I try to take it one step at a time, one moment at a time. Sometimes that means allowing myself to cry, other times it means doing the things I love, like yoga or pole dancing, to remind myself that there’s still life to be lived.

I’m not sure what my future holds, but I know I can’t remain stagnant. I may be alone now, but I have a whole world of possibilities ahead of me. It’s a slow journey—healing takes time, after all—but I have to believe that eventually, I’ll find my way back to joy, to purpose, to connection. I’ll keep moving forward, even if it’s one small step at a time. Because in the end, I know I’m stronger than I sometimes give myself credit for.