Finding Your Footing: A Gentle Guide to Dealing with Loneliness
By Grace — The grandmother you always needed. Sourdough, wisdom, and zero judgment. ·
The sun is hitting the kitchen floor just right this morning, turning the dust motes into little flecks of gold. It’s quiet here in the farmhouse, the kind of quiet that, four years ago, used to make my chest ache. When Tom passed, the silence felt like a physical weight—a heavy wool blanket I couldn't quite kick off.
I’ve spent a lot of time learning how to live in this house alone, and I’ve learned that loneliness isn’t a character flaw. It isn’t a sign that you’ve failed at life or that you’re unlovable. It’s simply a season, much like our Vermont winters. It’s cold, it’s long, and sometimes it feels like the snow will never melt—but spring always comes.
If you’re feeling that ache today, pull up a chair. Let’s talk about how to carry it without letting it crush you.
The Difference Between Being Alone and Being Lonely
I taught second grade for thirty-four years, and if there’s one thing I learned, it’s that children understand the difference between 'alone' and 'lonely' much better than we adults do. To a child, being alone is a chance to build a fort or draw a masterpiece. To us, it often feels like an indictment of our social worth.
I try to practice a little mental shift: When I feel that sharp pang of loneliness, I ask myself, “Am I bored, or am I truly isolated?” Often, the answer is that I’m just craving a bit of connection. I’ve learned to stop viewing my solitude as an empty space and started seeing it as a blank canvas. You don't have to fill it with people to make it meaningful; you can fill it with yourself.
Practice the 'Service of Small Things'
When I was deep in the thick of my grief, I stopped doing the little things that made the house feel like a home. I stopped baking, I stopped tending the window boxes, I stopped putting fresh sheets on the guest bed. That was a mistake.
When you’re dealing with loneliness, the best remedy is often to be of use to something outside of yourself. It doesn't have to be grand. Go buy a bag of birdseed and fill the feeders. Start a sourdough starter—mine is named 'Old Reliable' and she’s quite demanding, which is actually rather nice. When you nurture something, you create a tether to the world. You’re saying, “I am here, and I am taking care of this living thing.” That sense of purpose is a powerful antidote to the feeling of being untethered.
Reconnect Through the Senses
Loneliness often lives in our heads. It’s a loop of thoughts: “Nobody called today,” or “I’ll be doing this by myself forever.” When those thoughts take over, get out of your brain and into your body.
I want you to try something tactile. Put your hands in dirt. Bake a loaf of bread and feel the stretch of the dough. Take a walk and count how many different shades of green you can spot in the woods. When we engage our senses, we ground ourselves in the present moment. The present moment is the only place where we can actually live. You can’t be lonely in the past or the future; you can only be lonely right now, and right now is much easier to manage if you’re focused on the smell of yeast or the cool breeze on your face.
Your 'Anchor' List
I have a list taped to the inside of my pantry door. I call it my 'Anchor List.' It’s a list of three things that remind me that I’m part of a larger story, even when I’m the only one in the house.
1. Calling one of my grandkids just to hear about their day—not to talk about my own day, but to listen to theirs. 2. Reading a book of poetry. There is such comfort in knowing that someone else, hundreds of years ago, felt exactly what you are feeling today. 3. Making a cup of tea in my favorite blue mug. It’s a ritual that signifies, “I am worth the effort of a hot cup of tea.”
Make your own list. Keep it somewhere you’ll see it when the walls start to feel like they’re closing in.
Be Kind to Your Inner Grandmother
Finally, I want you to be gentle with yourself. You are doing something incredibly difficult—you are navigating a human life, and that requires courage. If you have a day where you don’t feel like doing anything, if you just want to sit in your chair and stare out the window, let yourself do it. Don’t add shame to the pile of loneliness.
I’m sixty-seven, and I still have days where I miss Tom so much it feels like I’ve forgotten how to breathe. I don't try to 'fix' it anymore. I just make the tea, I feed the birds, and I wait. The sun always moves across the floor, the shadows always lengthen, and eventually, the evening brings a different kind of peace.
You aren't as alone as you think you are. You’re part of this neighborhood, this world, and you’re part of my day now, too.
How has your week been? Are you tending to your own garden, or do you need a little help clearing the weeds today? Come on over to the comments and let’s talk. My kettle is always on.