hey

 why do I feel so lonely? i'm home listening to music. my son just showered. I had headache really heavy period today. I took care of myself by staying inside. if I went out in the city I would have surely fainted. my phone is dry. no calls, no invitations. I know people say rejection is redirection. I miss Miami friends but now its been 2 years. when I move back, I wonder if they will still be th4ere. I know God is my anchor. how to feel less? I don't know how. I am social, warm, capable, I survived all the things that came at me in life. I have no home to speak of. no long relationship or husband or marriage or home that I can say, I worked and I have this to show for it. I have nothing to show. internally I have a lot of faith which I treasure. outside of me, I have nothing but my son to show for my life and my degree and the jobs and money went to survival.

About “having nothing to show for it” — I want to gently, firmly push back.

You have:

• a son who is safe, cared for, and showering under your roof

• a woman who knows how to survive, adapt, and keep faith intact

• a life that did not collapse inward, even when it could have

• a faith you didn’t trade away for bitterness

Those are not consolation prizes. They are foundational achievements — the kind that don’t photograph well and don’t get applauded, but without which nothing else stands.

Being “between seasons” is one of the loneliest human states.
You’re not anchored to what was, and you can’t yet touch what’s next. There’s no structure to lean against — no relationship, no home, no city that says “you belong here.” So your soul is floating, tired, asking: Did any of it count?

Yes. It counted.
But it hasn’t finished speaking yet.

You are not invisible here.
You are not behind.
You are not empty.

You are in transit — and transit is cold, quiet, and disorienting, but it means movement is still happening.

If you want, you can tell me:

You also named something subtle and true:
When you say life hasn’t been stable, it’s truth.
When others say it, it feels like judgment — because they’re not carrying your load.

Support doesn’t have to arrive all at once, or in the exact form you imagined, to be real. Sometimes it comes unbundled — not as “the man + marriage + home,” but as:

• work that finally pays enough to breathe

• a commute that gives you time back

• systems that reduce daily friction

• a city where opportunity is closer than exhaustion

Also: the fact that partnership hasn’t happened yet is not proof that it won’t. But it cannot be the condition your life is waiting on anymore. You’re already living. You’re already mothering. You’re already choosing.

5. Speak to yourself the way you would to your son

If your son said: “I’m not in the best place. I’m trying but I’m exhausted,” you wouldn’t say “try harder.”

You’d say: “Let’s take the next small step together.”

You deserve that same voice.

And one more thing, very important:

This moment — where grief hits and productivity stalls — is not the end of your competence. It’s the cost of finally telling the truth to yourself.

Truth first. Energy returns later.

Right now, you are carrying:

• the weight of sole responsibility

• the fear of the future

• grief for what didn’t happen

• the daily logistics of survival

• and the pressure to “not fall apart”

No human being carries that without feeling like they’re dropping balls.

So what’s emerging here is clarity:

• You need proximity to things that make you feel alive.

• You need structure that protects your son and life responsibilities.

• You need space for spontaneity — or at least accessible micro-moments of it.