For most of my life I lived in pairs. Twenty six and a half years spent with a partner at my side. A wife, a lover, a person to share the weight and the warmth. I didn’t know any rhythm except the rhythm of two. I didn’t know how quiet a house could sound when it was just me in it. At first that silence felt like a wound. I kept reaching for someone who wasn’t there anymore. I kept trying to fill empty spaces with old habits.
But time has a way of softening the sharp edges. Little by little I learned how to sit with myself. I learned how to cook for one without feeling lonely. I learned how to walk through my own door and let the peace settle around me like a blanket instead of a punishment. I learned that I don’t have to be in love to feel alive.
Now there is a calm in me that I never had before. A steady sense of self that doesn’t depend on anyone’s touch. I can love without losing myself. I can connect without getting swallowed. I can be a part time lover and still a full time man. I can let people in without needing them to stay.
This might be the longest I have ever lived on my own, but it is also the first time I have ever lived as myself. Not someone’s partner. Not someone’s caretaker. Just me. And I like who I am becoming in the quiet. I like the peace I carry. I like the freedom that comes from knowing I choose everything in my life now.
If someone comes along and fits, good. If not, I still have myself. And after forty three years, that feels like a kind of victory I never expected.