Dear Moon,

It’s me again, spilling my guts because, well, you’re always there, glowing quietly, never judging. I’ve been crying all day, and I’m not even sure why. I’m 55 now—maybe it’s just this weird season of life messing with me? It just… sucks, you know? Feels like I’m stuck in this heavy fog, and I can’t see my way out.

My kids are all grown up, doing their thing. Clarissa’s getting married to Tyler in August—he’s such a great guy, Moon, makes her so happy. They’re just 30 minutes away, but I miss her like crazy. Lydia’s back closer to home, maybe an hour away with her honey Colton, which is awesome after years of her being so far. And Timothy’s found Jordan, but he’s five hours away, so I barely hear from him. I’m proud of them—strong, kind, smart kids who can handle anything, especially with someone by their side. But I wish they’d call more, you know? I feel like a dried-up old sponge, soaking up any little bit of love they toss my way, but scared I’ll just drain their joy if I ask for too much.

Then there’s Patrick, my rock for 35 years—our anniversary’s coming up on June 9th, can you believe it? He’s still pretty darn wonderful, but his new schedule’s killing me. He’s in bed by 7:30pm, up at 4:30am, and when he’s home around 3:30, he’s all about his routine or fixing that dang truck with its busted steering box. I’m such a night owl, Moon, and I need words to feel close—chatting about crochet, audiobooks, or even politics. He tries to listen when I’m falling apart, and he’s gotten better at it, but I can tell he’d rather be anywhere else. He checks on me, makes sure I’m still breathing in this fog, but we’re both clueless about how to get me out of it.

I’ve made it through so many storms, but this one’s different. It’s so thick, I can’t see a way forward. At 55, I’m wondering if I’ll feel this lonely forever—20 more years if I’m lucky enough to get them. Grandpa used to call me Sunshine, remember? Now I feel all dark and broody, like I should just go full goth. How do you shake this loneliness? I’m scared I’d suck the life out of anyone who got close, like a sponge that’s forgotten how to hold joy.

Writing to you feels safe, like it always has. I keep hoping my kids will start calling just to check in. Clarissa’s been calling on her way home from work, which I love, but I’m scared I messed it up today, getting all worried when she sent me to voicemail. Lydia’s so drained after work, I feel like she’s afraid I’d pull her down too. Timothy chats sometimes, but it’s like there’s this wall between us.

What kicked off this cry-fest was this TV show the other day—a dad hugged his son so tight, and it hit me hard. It reminded me of Aunt Elaine, the only one who ever made me feel safe and loved, no strings attached. She passed last year at 94, Moon, and that love is gone. I don’t trust anyone but Patrick and my kids to love me like that again. And then there’s this fog of hate from politics. Since 2016, it’s like the world broke. I’ve voted in 10 elections out of 14 in my life, but these last few, especially since 2008, have been brutal. I had my reasons for voting Trump, but it cost me my brother in 2020, my sister in 2024, and it’s put this distance with Timothy, maybe Lydia too. Even a high school friend turned mean. People I thought cared about me act like I’m nothing because of my vote. I can’t just nod along with the crowd, so I’m stuck, alone in this fog.

Why do people let some guy in office for 4 or 8 years matter more than family? Their hate for Trump’s eaten them up for eight years, and probably will for the next four. I’ll always love my kids and siblings, but when they say “I love you” or “How are you?”, I don’t believe it anymore. It breaks something inside, Moon, knowing their opinions mean more than me. I tried the family chat, hoping for some kindness to pull me out, but one of the kids just went off about how Trump ruined everything and told me to stop throwing a pity party. Ouch.

Goodnight, Moon. You’ve seen 60 elections and never once judged me for voting. That’s why I keep coming back—you’re safe. Maybe tomorrow this fog will thin out a bit. Thanks for listening.