From Real Life: “I Want to Finally Live for Myself, Not Just for My Family”

I sit in my small, cluttered living room, staring at the faded photographs on the mantel. Each picture tells a story of a life dedicated to others—my children, my grandchildren, my late husband. But none of them tell my story. At 70 years old, I find myself in a deep depression because I never truly lived my own life.

Growing up in a small town in Ohio, my dreams were simple but vivid. I wanted to travel, to see the world beyond the cornfields and small-town diners. I dreamed of becoming an artist, painting the landscapes of far-off places. But life had other plans for me.

I married young, at 19, to a man who was kind but traditional. He believed a woman’s place was at home, raising children and keeping house. And so, I did just that. We had three children in quick succession, and my days became a blur of diapers, school runs, and PTA meetings. My dreams of travel and art were packed away like old toys, gathering dust in the attic of my mind.

As the years went by, my children grew up and started families of their own. My husband passed away when I was 55, leaving me with a house full of memories but an empty heart. I thought maybe then I could start living for myself. But my children needed me more than ever. They were busy with their careers and relied on me to help with their kids. So, I became the ever-present grandmother, always available for babysitting and school pickups.

Now, at 70, I look back and realize that I’ve spent my entire life living for others. My children are grown and successful, my grandchildren are thriving, but what about me? What have I accomplished? The answer is a painful nothing.

I tried to talk to my daughter about how I feel. She listened but didn’t understand. “Mom, you’ve done so much for us,” she said. “You should be proud.” But pride is not what I’m looking for. I’m looking for a sense of self, a feeling that I’ve lived a life that’s mine.

The depression is like a heavy fog that never lifts. I wake up each morning with a sense of dread, knowing that another day will pass without any change. I’ve seen therapists and taken medication, but nothing seems to help. The root of my sadness is not something that can be fixed with pills or talking. It’s the realization that time has slipped through my fingers like sand, and now it’s too late to grasp it.

I see women my age traveling the world, taking up new hobbies, living their best lives. And I envy them. They had the courage to break free from the expectations placed on them. They lived for themselves while still loving their families. Why couldn’t I do that?

The answer is complex and rooted in a lifetime of choices and circumstances. But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to bear. The weight of regret is heavy, and it presses down on me every day.

I don’t know what the future holds for me. At 70, the possibilities feel limited. But one thing is clear: I can’t go on like this. Something has to change, even if it’s just finding small moments of joy in my daily life. Maybe I’ll take up painting again, even if it’s just in my tiny living room. Maybe I’ll take a short trip somewhere close by, just to feel like I’m moving forward.

But deep down, I know that these small changes won’t fill the void inside me. The life I wanted is gone, replaced by a life of duty and sacrifice. And while I love my family dearly, I can’t help but mourn the loss of the person I could have been.