The kids moved out in the spring, and for a while I told myself the empty evenings were the hard part. That once I adjusted to the quiet, I'd feel like myself again.
Twelve weeks later I started walking after dinner. Twenty-five minutes, same loop past the old school and back. Not for the scale, mostly just to have somewhere to be that wasn't the kitchen.
That's when it got uncomfortable. I wasn't miserable because the house was quiet. I was miserable because I'd been spending two hours a night standing at the counter, eating things I didn't really want, and calling it unwinding.
Cooking for one has been strange. I made a pot of lentil soup Sunday and ate it four days straight. Nothing photogenic about it. But I noticed I felt more like a person and less like a grazer.
The medication helped with appetite. It didn't help with the routine I'd built around being needed all day. That part showed up in the silence.
Anyone else find that the quiet is where the real habits finally introduced themselves?