Loneliness as a Single Mother: What No One Talks About

⭐️ The Loneliness No One Talks About

A few years ago, I heard a woman say that when she became a mother, she finally understood the deep loneliness of being a single mother — the kind her own mother must have felt while raising her alone. At the time, I didn’t fully grasp what she meant. I do now — not in theory, but in my everyday life.

There’s a specific kind of silence that settles in the home of a single mother. It’s not loud or dramatic — it’s simply the background noise of responsibility. Being the only adult in the room means every decision is yours. Every meal, every plan, every reaction to a bad day or a difficult moment falls on you. There’s no one to share the “what now?” glance with. No one to say, “I’ll handle this one.” You are the planner, the provider, the protector, and the emotional anchor.

But this loneliness isn’t always visible. From the outside, it often looks like independence. People see a woman who is doing it all and assume she’s strong — and she is. But strength doesn’t erase the feeling of being alone. In fact, it can mask it. When you become the one who always “has it together,” others stop checking in. They stop asking how you really are. You become the person they go to for help, not the one they think might need it.

What people often don’t understand is that being alone doesn’t always mean feeling lonely in the conventional sense. It’s more about the mental load — the constant internal dialogue that never gets shared. The second-guessing. The pressure to never get sick, never lose control, never have a bad day, because there’s no backup plan. You are the backup plan.

Solitude or loneliness by choice?

There’s also the social aspect. People sometimes assume that single mothers become lonely because others exclude them. But in my experience, I’ve withdrawn by choice. Not because I dislike people, but because I simply don’t have the time or emotional space to build new friendships or maintain old ones the way I used to. My energy is limited, and after giving so much of it to my child, my work, and the daily logistics of life, there’s very little left. Conversations become short. Invitations are quietly declined. Over time, connections fade — not because they didn’t matter, but because I’ve been surviving.

Having a partner?

Still, I’ve come to terms with that solitude. I’ve stopped seeing it as something to escape, and instead started using it as a filter. Because while it’s true that doing life alone is hard, it’s also true that not everyone deserves a place in this life I’m building.

People often suggest that having a partner would make things easier. In some ways, it would. But I’ve become extremely selective about who I’d let into this space. My daughter’s emotional wellbeing comes first. I’ve built a calm and stable environment for her, and I won’t risk that for the sake of companionship.

The older I get, the more I value emotional maturity, consistency, and self-awareness in others. I don’t have time for games, or for people who bring chaos into my life under the excuse of passion or spontaneity. I’ve learned the hard way that peace is priceless — and that not everyone is compatible with the kind of life I want for myself and for my daughter.

That selectiveness deepens the solitude, of course. It narrows the field. But it also brings clarity. I don’t waste time on maybes. I no longer compromise for the sake of not being alone. And strangely enough, that gives me a sense of freedom. I’d rather be alone in truth than accompanied in frustration.

What people often fail to see

Single mothers are not just “doing it all” — we’re also constantly reflecting, recalibrating, and adjusting. We’re aware of our limits. We know when we’re burned out. But we also know what’s at stake if we drop the ball. So we keep going — not because we want a medal, but because there’s no other option.

I don’t need pity. I don’t need someone to rescue me. What I need — and what many single mothers need — is recognition of the reality we live. It’s not glamorous. It’s not easy. But it’s real. And within that reality, we carry a quiet kind of dignity. One that doesn’t shout or seek approval, but simply shows up, day after day.

Sometimes, that means feeling invisible. But other times, it means being proud of how far we’ve come, even without applause. It means knowing that the structure we’re building — for ourselves and our children — is solid. And that’s worth something. ❤️

💬 Your Turn
Has solitude shaped your standards or your sense of self?
Let me know in the comments — I always read them.

🍵 Tonight I decided to go back to the TV series and i will watch “House of David.”
I’m curious about this one — let’s see where it leads.

And since I’m trying to avoid alcohol, I went with something holier: linden tea.
Perfect match for a biblical drama. 😇

Bye-bye! 💋