Loneliness with a hint of gingerbread

School has started again.

Children with backpacks bigger than their sense of future skip toward the classroom.

The kids are gone. The silence returns.
And you’re home. Alone.
Not “a moment to yourself” alone — but the kind of alone where even the dishwasher sounds friendlier than your own thoughts.

You’re a parent. On your own.
Which means you’re the safety net, the calendar, the comforter, the cook, the driver, the sponsor — and the emotional trash bin.
And when they go back to school, something stays behind.
Not just an empty room, but a hollow space inside yourself.

You try to create some rhythm.
Cup of coffee. Load of laundry.
And then you need to go to the store.
And there they are.
Gingerbread cookies. In September.
As if the supermarket follows a sadistic calendar:
“Let’s remind her she needs to organize a holiday while she barely feels human.”

You want to give your kids a celebration.
A memory. A bit of magic.
But how do you do that when you’re running on autopilot, with a battery that’s been stuck at 3% for months?

It’s raining.
Not the poetic kind — but the kind that reminds you of wet socks and the fact that you don’t want to go outside at all.
It’s cold.
Not “cozy blanket” cold, but “I already feel empty and now I’m damp too” cold.

You sit inside.
And you feel sick with loneliness.
Not metaphorically. Actually sick.
Your body protests. Your mind spins. Your heart whispers, “Am I still here?”

I know that feeling.
I’ve sat there.
On that couch. In that silence. With that rain.
And I want to tell you: you’re not crazy. You’re not weak. You’re not alone.

You’re a single parent.
And that’s not a status — it’s a superpower.
One that drains you.
But also one that shows you just how incredibly strong you are.

So today: breathe. Drink that coffee. Ignore the gingerbread.
And know: I see you.
Not literally — that would be creepy — but in words. In feeling. In recognition.

With love,
Marlies