The Solitude of Starting Over

At eighteen, I was fresh out of high school, newly enlisted in the US Air Force, and married—a son would arrive within a year. Life’s path seemed clear, though I was barely more than a boy. Thirty-two years later, the script had changed. My wife and I parted ways, and suddenly, I was a single man again—living alone in a snug one-bedroom apartment.

For years, I’d struggled to keep my marriage afloat, wading through storms I hoped would pass. When the end came, there was relief, but also scars—marks of battles fought and lost. At fifty, I needed a break, a chance to breathe. So, I moved out and didn’t look back.

It didn’t take long for loneliness to creep in. Friday nights became a ritual: the local theater offered movies for a dollar, though popcorn and a drink would cost extra. I loved the films, but when the credits rolled and I walked to my car, something was missing. The joy of the story felt hollow without someone sharing it with me.

That realization surprised me. What was wrong? I’d escaped a difficult marriage, found the peace I’d longed for. Why did solitude feel so heavy? Would time ease the ache? Could I learn to be alone without feeling lonely? I waited a few months to see if I could fill the quiet in my life.

Months passed. I found myself in a psychiatrist’s office, describing the chasm that had settled in my stomach. He suggested a medication that might help. Within weeks, the emptiness faded. Life felt less forbidden, and I enjoyed my Friday night movies again.

Six months later, my psychiatrist announced he was moving to Atlanta. He told me I didn’t need another doctor, and that I could stop the “magic pill.” He advised me to seek companionship—not necessarily marriage, but someone to share life’s joys. I took his advice and joined a group called “Selective Singles,” meeting every Tuesday at a local nightclub. There, I found solace among others who understood the ache of being alone.

A year later, at one of those gatherings, I met the woman who would become my wife. Our life together has brought me daily joy. Now, as we move through our eighth decade, I know that one day, one of us will be alone again. The odds say it will be her, but if it’s me, I won’t be surprised. I’ll fill the void with friends and embrace every bit of joy they’re willing to share.