I’m Going Alone – A Story About Acceptance

„She didn’t feel particularly lonely. She thought that’s just how life is.Every person, in the end, comes to the same realization.No matter what kind of life you live, you are alone.”

“For her, losing independence was far scarier than death.”

If I had to rename this book, I would call it Going Alone. Acceptance. It is a beautiful, quiet story about aging, self-acceptance, and coming to terms with the past. Like many Japanese novels, it reflects deeply on societal expectations—especially those placed on women. The unspoken rules of how they should behave, what is and isn’t allowed, and how their lives are constantly scrutinized.
”Back then, she still worried about what people would say. She hid herself. But now, Ms. Momoko regretted diminishing herself. Since it happened anyway, she could have turned up the radio louder, opened the shutters, and danced in the light with pride.”

When we meet Momoko, she is 75 years old. Her husband has been gone for years, her children have moved out, and she now lives alone. Her son has cut off contact, which is why, when she receives a scam call claiming that he has embezzled money and needs her to save him, she pays without question. Her daughter never lets her forget it, bringing it up every time she calls, reminding her how foolish she was, accusing her of caring only about her son while treating her daughter as an afterthought.There is a phone conversation between them that perfectly encapsulates their relationship. Momoko carefully chooses her words, making sure she says all the right things, desperate not to upset her daughter, not to push her away. But the moment the conversation shifts to money, she freezes. And in that moment, she realizes—this is how it will always be.

Loneliness and the Stories We Tell Ourselves.

One of the strongest themes of the book is loneliness.
„She didn’t feel particularly lonely. She thought that’s just how life is. Every person, in the end, comes to the same realization.No matter what kind of life you live, you are alone.”
Day after day, she convinces herself that she isn’t lonely, that solitude is something to be embraced. After her husband passed and her children left, she started talking to herself—not out of sadness, but as a way to fill the silence. Over time, it became second nature, and reconnecting with the outside world started to feel unnecessary, almost impossible. “People like me, who find it difficult to form relationships with others, people who are isolated, can still look ahead with hope because they make their own inner world their companion.”

“There is no one beside me, but I am not alone—inside me live countless voices, each thinking differently. “That vision comforted her. Society emphasizes the importance of friendships and relationships, and those who don’t form them are seen as flawed.Ridiculous! The ones who say that are the weak ones.They are weak, so they need a group, a herd!”

I find this story deeply relatable, because in many ways, I see myself in Ms. Momoko—including the part about talking to myself.

“Ms. Momoko was extremely talkative in her mind, but in front of a real person, she couldn’t get a single word out, as if she had lost the ability to speak.” I do the same. I have full conversations in my head, but when it comes to actually speaking, sometimes the words just won’t come out the way I want them to.

The Search for Meaning

Ms. Momoko believes in purpose. In finding meaning in everything, no matter how small.
“Ms. Momoko was always searching for meaning. She longed for significance. And when necessary, she created it herself.When she experienced something painful, something difficult to bear, her first instinct was to find its meaning.She accepted pain and suffering only when she convinced herself she needed them.It was a strategy she had adopted after Shuzō’s death—the only one she had. Anything can be endured, as long as there is a reason for it.”

I strongly agree with this. Purpose makes life easier to bear.
“When you have a goal, the whole day looks different,” she said out loud. “That’s it—I need a goal!”

I need a purpose too—something that keeps me moving, that makes the effort feel worthwhile. But I also need anticipation. I love planning trips, organizing gatherings, looking forward to the things I know will bring me joy. The excitement of imagining what’s ahead—spending time with people I care about, experiencing a place I’ve been dreaming of—gives me energy.

For me, purpose and anticipation go hand in hand. Purpose gives direction, keeps me grounded, helps me push forward. But anticipation adds lightness—it makes the journey enjoyable, gives me something to look forward to, something to hold on to. And maybe that’s my version of meaning—the balance between working toward something and allowing myself to savor the excitement of what’s to come.

Looking Back and Moving Forward

We see Momoko at every stage of her life—reflecting, analyzing, slowly coming to terms with herself.”If she wanted to talk, all she had to do was listen to the voices filling her mind. Ms. Momoko smiled and took another step.Ms. Momoko and all the versions of herself. They all walked together.”She understands herself more with every passing year. Even her love for her husband was not about strength, but about survival.”She found him and started supporting him. Not because she was strong—precisely because she lacked strength. By supporting him, she wanted to reassure herself where her own boundaries were. She needed time to find meaning within herself.”One thought that keeps coming back to me, as a woman in midlife, is this:

“For her, losing independence was far scarier than death.”

I couldn’t agree more. The idea of becoming dependent on others, of losing autonomy, is terrifying. And I encourage everyone to take care of their bodies, to exercise, to stay strong—because we need our bodies to serve us until the end.

Final Thoughts

There is something so gentle yet profound about this book. It’s not about dramatic revelations or major life events. It’s about the slow process of understanding yourself. About embracing the past instead of running from it. About realizing that, in the end, you are the sum of every version of yourself that has ever existed.My favorite quote from the book is:

“Words also die of old age.Everything changes.”
Words, like people, fade over time. The things we once held onto, the beliefs we once had, they change as we grow older. And maybe that’s the whole point. Nothing stays the same—not words, not people, not even loneliness.It reminds me of a game I’ve played since childhood, first with my parents and sister, and now with my friends. You draw a random word, and then you have to sketch it. And so many times, we’re surprised because we don’t recognize the word at all—it has simply disappeared from everyday language. No one uses it anymore. In a way, it has died. But in that moment, through the game, it comes back to life. And when you think about it, we do this all the time. We return to our roots, bringing back things that had once faded into obscurity. Words, traditions, ideas—they may disappear for a while, but they always have the potential to be revived, to be given a second life. It’s very much like the concept of reincarnation in Buddhism—nothing ever truly disappears; it just takes on a new form. We die, but we are reborn. Things we thought were lost—words, customs, emotions—can return in new ways, transformed but still carrying echoes of what they once were. Just as we as people change, evolve, and leave parts of ourselves behind, we also carry traces of the past into the present. In a way, nothing is ever really lost—it simply transforms. Whether it’s a forgotten word coming back to life in a game, an old philosophy resurfacing in a new generation, or even aspects of ourselves that we thought were gone but reappear in unexpected ways, the cycle continues.