Mornings here start early. I’m usually dragging myself out of bed around 5 a.m., greeted by the demands of the dogs—a crazy duo of energy and affection—eager for their breakfast. The cat, who unquestionably rules the roost, seizes the opportunity of my exit to sprawl luxuriously in the warm spot I’ve left behind. And the chooks? They’ve already begun their clucking chorus, making it abundantly clear that they expect to be let out for the day.
With the kids grown-ish and gone-ish, the morning chaos that once filled the house has faded. In its place is a sound I’m still getting used to. Silence. And silence, I’m learning, has a sound of its own—both loud and quiet in its own peculiar way.
There are some perks to an empty house. The kitchen remains just as neat and tidy as I left it, with no stray dishes lingering on the worktop, waiting to be put in the dishwasher. There’s no daily load of washing to hang out, food stays in the fridge longer than a day, and best of all—I have the TV remote all to myself.
But an empty house has its downsides too. There’s no one to share the small, funny moments of the day with, no background chatter or laughter filling the rooms. Meals feel a little quieter, and sometimes cooking for one doesn’t seem worth the effort. The silence, while peaceful, can stretch a little too long. And while having the TV remote all to myself is a perk, there’s something about debating what to watch that I actually miss.
At the end of the day, living alone is a mix of freedom and adjustment. The quiet can be comforting, but sometimes it echoes a little too loudly. Still, I’m learning to embrace this new chapter—finding joy in the little routines, appreciating the stillness, and savoring the space that’s just mine. Because, as it turns out, a quiet house isn’t always an empty one—it’s just waiting to be filled with new moments, in its own time.