Ducky Mommy

This morning, a tiny headline in the local newspaper stopped me:
“A lady is looking for someone to receive her letter.”

At first, I smiled to myself, imagining something playful, maybe a sweet attempt to find a pen pal, or even a lighthearted search for companionship. I almost turned the page. But then I noticed the photo beside the title, and it made me pause.

An elderly woman, surely in her nineties, was sitting at a small table. She wore a soft green sweater decorated with delicate embroidered flowers. Her short hair was brushed neatly, glasses resting gently on her nose, and she held a sheet of paper with both hands—as if it were something precious. There was such tenderness in the way she looked at it that I felt myself leaning in, wanting to know more.

Her story unfolded quietly. She had lost her husband and children many years ago. The only person she still exchanged letters with was her sister, who lived far away in another region of France. They wrote to each other from time to time, little paper bridges that kept them connected. But a few months ago, her sister passed away. And suddenly, her letters had nowhere to go.

The nursing home where she now lives decided to share her story with the newspaper, hoping that someone out there might want to be her new correspondent. A simple wish: to write, and to be read.

At first, you might think this is just one of those gentle but sad stories life often brings. Yet, it touched me deeply. Maybe because just yesterday, I had a call with my mom. She’s in Bangkok with my sister, and she mentioned softly—almost as if it were just a passing thought—that she rarely calls friends anymore.
“So many are gone,” she said.
And when she does talk with someone her age, the conversations tend to circle around health problems, medications, or whose funeral they attended recently.

The truth is, very few people at 80+ can keep up with how fast the world is spinning now. New technologies, new ways of communicating—everything moves at a pace that leaves the older generation standing at the station while the train keeps rushing ahead.

Solitude becomes part of their daily life. And yes, sometimes it hurts.

But here’s what I realized, sitting with this story: Solitude is not always a dark, heavy thing. It is not an enemy nor punishment. It can also be a companion. One that arrives gently, without asking for anything, and stays quietly by your side.

I don’t have a magical solution to make loneliness disappear. None of us do. One day, no matter how full our lives are right now, we will all face moments when the world feels too fast, too loud, or simply too far away. 

But instead of fearing that moment… maybe we can learn to welcome it. Not with resistance, not with sadness, but with softness. Solitude does not have to be a heavy shadow. Sometimes, it can be a warm, quiet space we carve out for ourselves. A place where we can rest, a place where we can simply be.

In the coming weeks, I’ll share how we can gently turn solitude into a comforting friend. If you’d like to walk through this with me, just join our little community here. You’ll be notified when the next article is ready.

See you soon,