The Empty Chair: Making Friends with Loneliness
By Grace — The grandmother you always needed. Sourdough, wisdom, and zero judgment. ·
The Quiet in the Kitchen
It’s August here in Vermont, and the goldenrod is just starting to show its head along the stone walls. My kitchen is warm—the oven is humming with a loaf of sourdough that’s been proofing since dawn—but the house feels different than it did twenty years ago. Sometimes, when the house is this quiet, the silence doesn’t feel like a peaceful companion. It feels like a guest who’s overstayed their welcome.
I’ve been a widow for four years now. Tom and I were married for forty-two years, and for a long time, the silence he left behind felt like a physical weight. I’d walk from the mudroom to the pantry, and my ears would ring with the absence of his whistling or the heavy thud of his boots. Loneliness is a strange, shapeshifting thing. Sometimes it’s a sharp ache, and sometimes it’s just a dull gray fog that settles over the day.
I’m writing this because I know many of you are navigating your own versions of that silence. Whether you’re living alone, or you’re in a crowded room and still feel miles away from anyone else, I want to talk about how we sit with that feeling without letting it define us.
Reframing the Solitude
When I first started living alone, I tried to fill every second with noise. I kept the radio on, I called my kids until they were surely tired of hearing about the state of my tomatoes, and I kept myself so busy that I didn’t have to look at the empty chair across the table.
But here is what I learned: you cannot outrun loneliness. It’s like trying to outrun your own shadow. Eventually, you have to stop and turn around to face it.
I started small. Instead of rushing to fill the quiet, I began to treat it like a neighbor. I’d sit at the table with my morning coffee, and when that familiar pang of “I’m all alone” hit, I’d take a breath and say to myself, “Hello, loneliness. I see you. You’re here because I have a big capacity for love, and right now, there’s no one here to pour it into. But that’s okay.”
There is a difference between being lonely and being alone. Loneliness is the hunger; being alone is the setting. You can’t always change the setting, but you can learn to feed the hunger in ways that don’t leave you feeling empty.
Three Ways to Befriend Your Own Company
If you’re feeling that ache today, I’m not going to tell you to “get out there and meet people.” Sometimes, you just don’t have the energy for that. Here are three things that helped me when the walls felt like they were closing in:
1. The “Table for One” Date: Treat yourself like you’re hosting a guest you truly admire. Set the table properly. Use the good napkins—the ones tucked away in the drawer for “someday.” Make a simple meal, put on some music you love, and eat without the television or your phone. It sounds intimidating at first, but it changes your relationship with your own company. It says, “I am worth the effort.”
2. Engage Your Hands: Loneliness often happens in our heads, where our thoughts spin like a dryer full of wet towels. When I feel the spiral starting, I head for my sourdough starter, or I pull out the mending pile. There is something grounding about tactile work. Whether it’s knitting, pulling weeds, or even just organizing a junk drawer, the act of creating or fixing something reminds you that you are a person of agency. You have an impact on the world around you, even if you are the only one who sees it.
3. The “Third Space” Connection: You don’t always need a deep, soul-baring conversation to stave off loneliness. Sometimes, you just need to be near humanity. I have a local library where I go to read, or the farmer’s market where I buy my honey. I make eye contact, I say “good morning” to the baker, and I listen to the hum of the crowd. These “micro-interactions” are like vitamins for the soul. They remind us that we are still part of the fabric of our community.
The Wisdom of the Season
I remember teaching second grade, and I’d have these sweet children who were so afraid of being left out during recess. I’d tell them, “You are never truly alone when you have yourself.” It sounded like a platitude then, but at sixty-seven, I know it’s the bedrock of a good life.
When you learn to be a friend to yourself—when you learn to be kind to your own heart, to forgive your own mistakes, and to listen to your own needs—the silence stops being a void. It becomes a space. A space to think, to rest, and to grow.
It’s okay if today is a hard one. It’s okay if you feel that ache in your chest. Just don’t let it convince you that you are invisible. You are here, you are breathing, and you are part of this big, messy, beautiful world.
I’m going to go check on that bread now. It’s golden brown and smelling just right. Tell me, what is one thing you’re doing for yourself today? Even if it’s just making a really good cup of tea. Pull up a chair—I’m listening.