Lately, I’ve been finding a strange comfort in my own quiet. It isn’t peace exactly, it’s more like an exhale that no one else hears. When the house finally settles and the world stops asking things of me, I sit in the kind of stillness that used to scare me. Now it feels familiar. The loneliness that once felt heavy has started to feel like a place I know by heart. It’s where I can finally drop the mask, where no one needs me to be strong, patient, or grateful. It’s where I can simply be.
I used to think loneliness meant something was wrong with me, that it was proof I was unloved or unworthy. But I don’t see it that way anymore. Loneliness, for me, is the quiet room inside my chest where I meet the truest parts of myself, the ones I hide during the day. It’s where I can cry without apology and think without interruption. Sometimes it hurts; sometimes it feels like relief. Either way, it’s mine.
I’ve spent so much of my life surrounded by people, yet feeling completely unseen. I love deeply and give fully, but there’s always been this invisible distance between what I show and what I feel. Maybe that’s what motherhood and grief do to you; they carve out spaces inside you that no one else can reach. People can stand beside you, love you, hold you, and still not fully understand the ache that lives beneath your skin. That realization used to make me feel alone. Now, it just makes me human.
In the quiet, I can finally admit how tired I am, of holding everything together, of trying to explain feelings that don’t have words. I can acknowledge the anger without softening it for someone else’s comfort. I can forgive myself for not being endlessly patient or unbreakable. I can remember that being alone doesn’t mean I’ve failed; it means I’m listening to the parts of me that I’ve ignored for too long.
There’s a freedom in not having to perform strength. In not needing to be the one who always fixes, reassures, or makes things easier. In the silence, I let the sadness stretch out beside me and stop trying to make it leave. Because the truth is, pain has taught me things happiness never could. It’s shown me the depth of my love, the resilience of my spirit, and the quiet power in simply enduring.
Sometimes I wonder if this is what healing really looks like, not a grand awakening, but a slow softening toward yourself. Not the absence of pain, but the acceptance that it may always live somewhere inside you. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s enough to know that even here, in this solitude, I can still feel hope flicker. Not the loud kind that promises everything will be perfect, but the quiet kind that says I’ll keep going.
I don’t need to be rescued from this loneliness. I just need to understand it. To sit with it long enough to realize it isn’t the enemy; it’s the reminder that I’m still here, still capable of feeling, still connected to something deeper than exhaustion. Maybe one day I’ll step out of it completely. Or maybe I’ll just learn to carry it differently, like an old song I hum to myself when the world gets too loud.
For now, I’ll keep breathing in the quiet. I’ll keep holding space for the woman I’ve become: the one who has lost, loved, and still chooses to show up. Because even in the loneliness, there’s strength. Even in the silence, there’s meaning. And even in the heaviness, I’m still here.
-Honest
Actually, I'm not fine... blog 