A Feeling of Loneliness

My mom used to say she could be in a room full of people and still feel lonely at times. I understand that now, in a way I didn’t when I was younger.

Her mom, my grandma, lost her husband when she was 40. She never remarried. She lived alone until she was 93. And yet, she never talked about being lonely. She traveled. She moved. She lived in different places. She bought cars. She did what she pleased.

Somewhere along the way, I think my mom gave parts of that adventurous spirit up. Not because she wanted to, but because the person she married didn’t share it or feel the need to match it. I love my dad, but he wasn’t a go‑getter. My mom ran the household, managed the kids, worked multiple jobs, and still found ways to take us on road trips or shopping adventures. Most of the time, she did those things without him. I think that drained her more than she ever said out loud. I think maybe that was her loneliness. She dreamed of a partner as well, to share life with in ways that inspired her as well. That loneliness was maybe her just not being comfortable being with just herself. To enjoy her company.

Fast forward to my own life, and I see the pattern repeating.

I married into something similar. And just like my mom, I slowly reshaped myself, my wants, my dreams, my pace to fit someone else’s life. I didn’t even realize I was doing it. I thought that’s what partnership was. Compromise. Sacrifice. Quieting parts of yourself so the relationship stays comfortable. I feel like I basically quit growing as my own person at age 18. I felt lonely at times as well, when I was in a room full of people.

The difference for me than from my mom is this: I’m realizing it now. Even if at the age of 53 and not accepting it.

Today I went to look at houses with my friend and my middle daughter. As we walked through rooms, my mind did what it loves to do; it imagined possibilities. Downsizing into something manageable. Creating a place where my kids feel comfortable visiting. A home where no one can tell me to leave. A life where I don’t have to adjust to someone else’s moods, standards, or expectations.

There is a deep relief in knowing that no one can suddenly change their mind and pull the roof from over me.

Saying no when I don’t want to do something. Letting go of the fear that someone will be mad if I don’t meet their needs immediately. Releasing the habit of pleasing everyone else at my own expense.

But I’m moving. I’m not standing still, watching life happen around me.

I’m learning to believe people when they say I’m doing a good job. To say out loud to myself: I know things. I am worth my wages. I have never felt that before.

I graduated in 1991. I belong to a generation that was told conflicting things: stay home and be a mom, but also work full‑time, keep the house running, carry the mental load, and somehow do it all with a partner who wasn't taught how to truly support a partner who is also a working wife and mother.

So here I am now. Thinking. Reflecting. Choosing differently.

If this season of my life is about anything, it’s this: I don’t need to shrink my spirit to make someone else comfortable. I don’t need to stay angry to prove I was hurt. I don’t need to live in black and white when I can live in the gray.

I’m allowed to want a home. I’m allowed to want peace. I’m allowed to want more.

And for now — I’m choosing me.

So yeah… eat the crust.