Who Am I Without Us?

My life has been turned upside down.

I’m sobbing. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I’m staying with a coworker while I figure out my move-out plan—my exit strategy. I want out as quickly as possible, so I’ve given myself less than a week to pack up my entire life. A friend in another city offered her spare room while I try to land on my feet.

Okay. That’s the beginning of a plan.

But I feel nauseous all the time. I don’t want a life of my own. I wanted a shared life—with him.

That first week was filled with anger and despair. I wasn’t waking up beside my partner or my sweet dog anymore. I wasn’t eating my usual bowl of cereal in silence at our dining room table. A million small details of my daily routine disappeared overnight. Without my partner, my dog, my apartment—everything changed.

It’s exhausting.

Everyone who loves me keeps reaching out. Talking to them is exhausting too, even if it’s a welcome distraction. Hobbies that once filled my solo time now feel unbearable. I can’t sit through a single YouTube video. A movie feels like too much of a commitment. My brain insists I have bigger problems to solve: I’m single. I need a new apartment. Maybe a new job. Maybe even a new dog so I’m not alone and don’t lose my mind.

A million thoughts race through a brain that’s been starved of food and sleep.

I know I need some semblance of routine. Thankfully, my job let me switch to working remotely while they look for my replacement. I feel guilty about that, too—like I’m inconveniencing everyone just by falling apart.

There are almost too many possibilities now. I’m used to filtering everything through him—his feelings, his preferences, what movie he’d want to watch. Now every decision is mine. That kind of freedom feels heavy. Uncomfortable.

So I focus on distraction. I shift from being nauseous because I haven’t eaten to being nauseous because I forced myself to. My favorite meals aren’t appetizing anymore. I dread the thought of never ordering from my favorite local takeout spots again. I dread never stepping foot in the grocery store that became so familiar over the three and a half years we lived together.

So much of my energy—all of it, really—was focused on him. Now all of that energy is just… here. For me.

And that feels strange.

But beneath the grief, there’s the faintest glimmer of relief. Because it’s exhausting to pour yourself into someone who doesn’t pour back into you. It’s exhausting to chase connection that no longer exists.

Maybe this space—this painful, nauseating, disorienting space—is where I finally get to ask:

Who am I when I’m on my own?