The one person who truly saw me – who valued me, who cared – is gone. And in the hollow space they left behind, I question whether I am still worthy of love, still deserving of belonging. Because right now, all I feel is the ache of their absence, the sharp edge of loneliness.

But I accept that their time was then, in the past, and mine is now. Even as I grieve, life continues to shift and unfold, carrying me forward whether I’m ready or not. Their presence shaped me, their love held me – but they were a chapter, not the entire story. And as much as their absence wounds me, I remind myself that love, belonging, and meaning still exist beyond what I have lost.

Grief does not mean I am broken beyond healing, nor does loss diminish my worth. Instead, it reflects the depth of my love – the way it still lingers in the spaces they left behind. I am allowed to hurt. But I am also allowed to hope – for love, for connection, for something meaningful again.

And yet, as time slips away, indifferent to my loneliness, I find myself trapped in its passing – watching, waiting – longing for something just beyond my reach, aching for a resolution that never comes. Watching others form new relationships, finding joy similar to the love I once had, hurts like hell. It is a reminder of what I’ve lost, of what I crave but cannot grasp. All I have left are memories – fragments of a love and life that once were.

Losing someone I loved is already a heavy burden, and when efforts to rebuild fall flat, it feels like the universe is indifferent – leaving me to navigate without a map. This led me to question whether life follows a grand design or is simply a series of unpredictable events.

Ecclesiastes 9, with its emphasis on time and chance, presents a stark view of life’s uncertainty. I found an interesting parallel between factorials and Solomon’s reflections. Factorials show how possibilities multiply rapidly – starting simple but expanding into staggering complexity. Similarly, time and chance create an uncontrollable web of events, much like the exponential growth seen in factorials.

This realization ultimately led me to embrace humanism, which values reason, ethics, and human potential over divine influence. Humanism doesn’t necessarily reject Christianity outright, but rather shifts the focus while leaving room for personal interpretations of divinity. Wanting to put humanist principles into action, I chose to become an organ donor – a meaningful step toward living out that philosophy.

Moving forward after loss takes immense effort, and when things refuse to fall into place, hope can feel like it’s slipping away. The struggle weighs on me. Feeling stuck is one of the hardest emotions to endure, especially when I’m trying and getting nowhere. But hopefully, stagnation isn’t the end of the story – just a frustrating chapter.

The cruel comedy of life’s little stings!

I stopped by my favourite coffee shop today, eager to indulge a craving, only to find they’d just run out of fish and chips. And as if fate wanted to twist the knife, the waitress made a show of parading the last order past me, delivering it to its rightful owner with a smirk and a taunt: “Look, Mason! Look at what you can’t have.”

I felt that in my soul – because sometimes, it’s not just about the fish and chips. Sometimes, life itself plays the role of that teasing waitress, dangling what I want just out of reach.

At this point, I should probably just ask if disappointment comes with a loyalty rewards program – because I seem to be racking up points.

No one understands, and that stings.

People don’t want to hear my problems – they flinch, they look away, they wait for the conversation to shift. My pain is a nuisance, an unwelcome guest they won’t entertain.

When it comes down to it, no one gives a damn. I’m not worth the effort. I see it in their eyes, in the hollow responses, in the silence that stretches too long. Knowing that – really knowing it – is the deepest cut, the kind that never stops aching.

I wish there were an easy way out. Something quick, clean. No mess, no pain, no regrets. Just a quiet exit, leaving nothing behind, slipping out like I was never here.

But I don’t. I choke it down, bury it deep, swallow every scream until it rots inside me. I pretend to be okay, to be fine, to be functional. I try so damn hard to act like I don’t feel what’s killing me.

A sexless life is like a bird with broken wings – grounded, gutted, gasping for the sky it will never touch again.

Sure, it will live. But what is survival without freedom? What is existence without flight, without the reckless thrill of the wind ripping through its feathers, without the limitless stretch of open air? It will watch others rise, twisting through the clouds, reveling in what it can never reclaim. It will stay earthbound, mocked by memories of what once was, tormented by the bitter truth that sex was never truly its own – just a fleeting illusion, a cruel loan with interest paid in loneliness.

I was made for sex – an undeniable part of who I am – meant to pour out of me freely, to consume me entirely, to ignite me in its raw intensity.

But without a companion, without someone to reflect that sexuality back at me, I am that ruined bird – trapped beneath a sky that turned its back, abandoned by hope, sentenced to suffocate under the weight of something I will never have again.

I briefly dated someone who disclosed my medical information without my consent, a violation that left me feeling upset and betrayed. My medical information, whether real or assumed, is mine alone, and no one has the right to use it against me.

I value honesty and believe in being open with my partners so they can fully understand my reality. At the same time, I deserve boundaries that protect my privacy and dignity.

She repeatedly disregarded those boundaries, turning personal moments into casual gossip rather than something meaningful. At times, it felt like I was dating not just her, but all of her friends as well, since they knew every detail of our time together.

In contrast, I once gave a waitress a gift, and she thoughtfully asked for my permission before discussing it with her co-workers. That small gesture left a lasting impression on me, demonstrating genuine respect.

Moving forward, I will prioritize relationships with people who respect my confidence and value my trust, knowing it will make a meaningful difference in my life.

As a widower, I find it frustrating when women unnecessarily mention their boyfriend or husband when I’m just being friendly. I think they’re setting boundaries, but it feels excessive – turning interactions into status reinforcement rather than genuine conversation.

After losing my spouse, some married friends pulled away, treating me as a threat to their relationship. On top of grief, losing friendships makes things even harder. It’s understandable that people might feel uncertain about how to navigate changes, but pulling away doesn’t help anyone – it just adds to the isolation. Staying connected, offering support, and treating widowers as the same people they’ve always been can make a world of difference.

Here I am, adjusting to my new life, yet somehow triggering relationship panic with mere polite conversation. Who knew widowhood came with an unintended talent for unsettling commitments?

I was married for over six years, and now, more than six years after my wife’s passing, I have been widowed longer than I was married. Reaching this milestone stirs up a complex mix of emotions – wonder at my resilience, frustration over my stagnant dating life, and a deep sense of isolation as I watch others move forward while I feel stuck.

The loneliness has taken an emotional toll, leaving me questioning whether I will ever find love again or if I am destined to go through life alone. The gym has been my anchor, providing structure, an emotional release, and a steady path to renewed confidence – redefining progress while reinforcing my self-worth. Pushing through workouts embodies resilience – showing up, improving, and finding strength even on the toughest days.

But while the gym has been a source of strength and growth, it cannot silence my yearning for companionship. I’m not looking for someone like the one I had. At that time, they were exactly what I needed in my life. But as a result of my experiences, I’ve changed and grown, moving beyond the person I once was. I want someone who aligns with the person I am today and the stage of life I’m in. And, naturally, I miss the physical closeness of a relationship.

At least with the gym, I know if I show up consistently, I’ll see progress. Too bad dating doesn’t come with a straightforward rep scheme.