The house feels different now. It’s been a year since my husband passed away, and every corner is filled with memories of him—the way he used to laugh, the way his presence filled the space in ways I never fully appreciated until now. The quiet is almost suffocating at times, like the air itself has changed. I’m left with the empty space he left behind, and every day it feels like I’m learning to live without him all over again.

My children, though I’m so proud of them, live far away, across the globe. Their voices are a comfort when we talk, but the distance is always there, reminding me of how alone I am. There are no visits, no spontaneous get-togethers, no Sunday dinners. I watch as their lives continue to evolve, while mine feels stuck in place. I try to be strong for them, not wanting to burden them with my loneliness, but some days, the silence of my home is overwhelming.

As a school teacher, my days are filled with the energy of my students. Their laughter, their curiosity, their energy—it all fills my heart in a way that almost makes me forget the empty house I return to every evening. They rely on me, and I pour everything I have into being there for them. But when I shut the door to my classroom, I walk into the quiet. The house feels hollow, like an echo of a life that no longer exists.

I try to keep busy. I go for walks, practice yoga, even try to reconnect with old hobbies, but it’s hard to shake the feeling of being adrift. It feels like everyone else has a purpose, a partner, a full life, while I’m left to rebuild my own. There are moments when the weight of it all is too much, when I wonder if I’ll ever find happiness again.

But I know deep down that healing doesn’t happen overnight. I try to remind myself that it’s okay to be sad, to grieve the life I had, and that it’s normal to feel lost after losing someone so important. It’s a hard road, but I have to believe that there is still joy to be found in the little things.

Each day is a step forward, even if it’s a small one. I know I won’t always feel like this. Eventually, I’ll find my footing again. Life may look different now, but I’m determined to make it my own. With time, I hope to rediscover my sense of purpose, not as someone’s wife or mother, but as myself. The journey of healing is long, but I’m learning to embrace the idea that it’s not about where I’ve been, but where I’m going next.