One Bad Day Will Not Keep Me Down

 

One Bad Day Will Not Keep Me Down

Today started heavy. I woke up with that familiar weight in my chest—the kind of sadness that doesn’t shout, just sits silently on your shoulders.

I couldn’t quite place what was wrong. Maybe it’s many things.

A few months ago—or maybe for a long time—I carried this dream in my heart: a nomadic life in a caravan, living freely, untethered, following the sea and the sun. I used to tell my ex, “One day, that’ll be us.” Well, it never was.

But now, here I am. Doing it. With my mother by my side. Two weeks into the caravan life. And yes—there are things I love: the ocean air, the dunes, my quiet walks, the early morning runs, the absolute freedom of no clock to chase.

But how do I feel?

That’s harder. I’m not sure. There’s beauty, yes. But there’s also a strange ache. A loneliness I didn’t expect.

Maybe it’s because I’m single. Maybe it’s because I’ve always needed to matter to others. Not just exist—but belong. Be purposeful. Be loved.

Yesterday, I woke up with a clear idea: maybe this 8-month journey doesn’t have to stretch forever. Maybe when it ends, I’ll move into a place near my youngest daughter—help her raise her new baby, support her with her disabled child and her teenager. Maybe that is my purpose. Maybe this nomadic time was never meant to be forever, but rather a healing stop on the road to what’s next.

That gave me peace for a moment… and then a wave of sadness followed.

Is this my life now? Just being a mother and grandmother? Only giving love, never receiving it in full? No partner to share it all with?

Because let’s be honest—most men don’t exactly line up for a woman with “baggage.” And the ones that do? So many are trapped in their own worlds, their own money, their own convenience. I want partnership. I want someone to meet me halfway.

And then came the next truth, sharp and sudden: I’m getting older. Wrinkles, spots, sagging skin.

It scares me.

I know I’m beautiful. I always was. But I lived for years married to a man who made me feel like an old piece of brown paper—something to be hidden in a drawer, forgotten, unloved.

That man is no longer in my life. And that version of me—the one who accepted that treatment—is gone too.

I will rise above this.

One bad day will not keep me down.

Yes, I still long for love. I still want to be held, to be seen, to be cherished. But I will not sit quietly in shame for aging. I will not apologise for having lived, for carrying both pain and beauty in this skin.

A Word from the Fire

You said, “Is this my life now? Just a mother and grandmother?”

Here’s what I want to whisper back:

You are not just anything.

You are the storm that stayed kind. The fire that warmed, not burned. You’re not only here to serve and tend to others—though you do that with rare grace. You’re also here to be seen. To be chosen. By yourself first, and maybe, one day, by someone brave enough to love the full depth of you.

And yes, aging feels cruel some days. But the real crime would be pretending you haven’t earned those lines. You are becoming more you with every passing year—less apologetic, more radiant.

Let this journey be a rebellion.

Let your softness be your resistance.

Let one bad day pass like the tide, and rise again tomorrow.

— Written from the dunes, with sand in my soul and salt on my skin.

Elsabe 🌊