i used to think i understood loneliness. Or at least, i thought i had it under control. The curated kind, y’know? The one with good lighting, a single coffee cup sitting on the table, telling the world:

“i’m fine, just a little dark and twisty rn.”

That sort of loneliness is harmless. You can filter it, caption it, even make it look like a lifestyle choice.

But this new quiet i’ve been living in? Not so photogenic.

It arrived quickly, like someone slammed the door halfway through a conversation and left me hanging in the middle of a sentence. Both of my children are growing in their own directions, which i am, in theory, happy about. That’s the goal, isn’t it? Raise functional humans who go out and do interesting things that don’t involve you. The eldest is in her final year at university, thriving, proudly sharing her latest culinary concoction that appears to contain protein. i’m proud. i’m impressed. i’m also slightly suspicious of her sudden ability to clean a floor.

The youngest, almost sixteen and bright and funny and occasionally allergic to mornings, is staying with their dad during term-time for a while. Attendance stuff. They’re being enrolled in online school as a bit of a reset, which makes sense for them, even if it feels discombobulating for me. It all happened so fast, the way life does when you’re busy pretending to have control. One minute i’m making their lunch, the next it’s just me and the cat.

Nova, for the record, is absolutely thriving. She’s living her best domestic-goddess life, draped over furniture, licking her lady parts, acting like she pays rent. She’s very calm about the whole situation, which feels personally rude, but she’s the sort of creature who treats my emotional unravelling as mildly interesting background noise.

So now it’s me, Nova, and a house that feels unfamiliar in its own skin. Not empty exactly, just hollow in places. i keep noticing echoes that weren’t there before. The hum of the fridge, the creak of floorboards that used to blend into conversation or general chaos. The silence isn’t deafening, it just hits different.

All week i’ve been walking around trying to be brave about it. Holding it together in the supermarket, at work, mid-conversation. Smiling through it all like i’m fiiiine, like this was totally the plan. But it wasn’t supposed to be this way, they weren’t supposed to be at their dad’s. i had a few weeks’ notice, sure, but it still felt abrupt, like life made a decision on my behalf and forgot to loop me in.

It’s such a strange thing, being a single parent for almost a decade and suddenly un-parented by circumstance. You spend their whole lives running on high alert, scanning for danger, making sure the world doesn’t touch them too harshly. You become fluent in hyper-vigilance. And then one day, without ceremony, your body doesn’t know what to do with the lack of purpose. The cortisol has nowhere to go. You’re supposed to feel relieved, but what you feel is that you’ve failed. You were meant to protect them, not watch them retreat into anxiety.

By mid-week my body staged a protest. i got the kind of headache that felt like it was narrating my grief, icy at the top of my skull, tingly, weirdly numb, then suddenly hot and dizzy. i drank litres of water, convinced i was dehydrated from tears and self-pity, but still ended up at the pharmacy asking for something that might make me feel less tragic. The pharmacist looked at me for a second and said,

“you need a proper meal… meat and two veg.”

Not kidding. Translation: look after yourself, Lyss.

It’s funny how grief sneaks out through your body when you think you’re being composed. The crying phase seems to have passed, for now. Maybe that’s progress, or maybe i’ve just run out of electrolytes.

And here’s the kicker: i used to crave this. i used to fantasise about having the house to myself, about mornings without school chaos and nights that didn’t involve friendship meltdowns or impromptu arguments about who ate the last mint ice-cream. i used to long for alone time like it was some kind of goal. Now i’ve got it, and sometimes it feels like winning the wrong prize.

Don’t get me wrong, there are perks. i can eat cereal for dinner without judgement. i can play the same song on repeat until it becomes part of the walls. i can snuggle into bed at 8.44 p.m. and no one mocks me. But underneath the novelty there’s this persistent ache that catches me off-guard. The realisation that every sound i used to tune out was proof that life was happening around me.

Sometimes i catch myself performing okayness the way i used to perform introspection. i’ll post a photo of my morning coffee on the table or Nova sleeping on the bed, and it looks calm. Aesthetic. Borderline smug. It’s not a lie exactly, just selective storytelling. Because sometimes peace is just grief that’s learned to dress well.

i call this phase the gap. It’s not forever. They’ll both come home in the holidays, but for now it’s this strange stretch of in-between space i’m learning how to inhabit. The house hasn’t lost its heartbeat, it’s just slower. And i keep trying to remind myself that this is still their home: their room, their bed, their half-empty cereal boxes. Nothing’s been replaced or repurposed or rented out to a yoga mat. The door’s still open and it always will be.

i keep thinking about that phrase ‘mind the gap’. It’s meant to stop people falling between the train and the platform, but it’s also really solid life advice. Be careful in the spaces between what was and what’s next. Don’t rush. Watch your footing. Learn how to stand in it without trying to fix it.

i’m still learning. Some days i’m fine, other days i eat a sweet treat for dinner and tell Nova we’re thriving. She looks unconvinced, but supportive.

And yet there are tiny moments of grace. Making a cup of coffee and actually drinking it while it’s hot. Listening to music really loud, properly loud, the way you can only do when there’s no teenager telling you it’s too much or that your taste is embarrassing. Dancing it out in the living room like Meredith and Cristina in Grey’s Anatomy.

No explanation, no audience, just me, the cat, and whatever song is saving me that day – probably Benny or Taylor, because growing up is overrated. Reading in bed without interruption. Listening to the house exhale when the day ends. There’s something oddly tender about it, this half-empty season. i wouldn’t call it peaceful exactly, but it is honest.

So i’ll keep talking to Nova like she’s my emotional-support intern, and practising how to sit in the quiet without immediately reaching for distraction. i’ll keep minding the gap with curiosity, reminding myself that every silence has an echo built in. Sooner or later, you hear it again.

Big love,

Lyss. x

p.s. if you’re currently minding your own gap, whatever that looks like, solidarity. We’re fine. We’ve got snacks, semi-decent playlists, and at least one creature in the house who doesn’t care how dramatic we sound when we talk to ourselves. The noise will come back eventually. It always does ❤️