I have to remind myself that my characters don't have to be tortured or dramatic to be interesting.
My first DND character was a balding, paunchy, post-middle-aged human man whose wife had just left him and whose kids had grown up and moved away.
He quit his menial job and decided to take up music, something he'd never been very good at that didn't pay the bills, and become a bard.
He was bad at it. Really, really bad. His instrument was shit and he'd never had any formal lessons. On top of that, he was pretty tone-deaf.
BUT. He could play very, very bad noises very, very loud.
On our first campaign, he was cornered by a sea dragon and had no weapons, but by making a loud, horrible noise, he was able to startle it badly enough to lose grasp of the boat.
After that, he used it to herd a small crowd of goblins into a trap by sounding far bigger and more numerous a foe.
He never got much better, but he did grow his confidence, and won the affection and respect of his companions, who grew to support him in ways nobody else had before.
I had to stop playing him for a while after that, but last I had him, he was developing an interest in color and flare and fashion that he'd never paid much attention to before.
He didn't lose weight, or grow his hair back, or magically become younger, but he felt brighter, lighter, like he had a new lease on life, like he had something to offer and maybe he deserved to have a bit of fun, now and then, with good company.
He began to wonder if that was what he was missing, before. If perhaps that was why his marriage had wasted away. A lack of drive, of hope, of pride and passion.
I don't know where he would have gone on from there. I don't know if I wanted him to reconnect with his kids, or his ex wife, or his home town. Part of me likes the idea of finding his own way- settling and becoming good friends with his ex, something platonic but warm and fond, and reaching out to his kids and being there for his grandkids and someday passing away bright and loud and loved of old age, asleep in his bed, to be celebrated after by the loudest funeral with the worst music played by the most awful musicians his community had to offer, loud and proud and full of good humor.
Maybe they'd throw a festival, after that. An annual one, with firecrackers and trumpets and clanging pots and pans to scare away the monsters like he did, the roaring hero who came into his own a little later than usual, but wondrously all the same.
A symbol to show that you don't have to bend and squish and contort yourself to fit the space you're in- you can find another space, one that's just your size, and exist there exactly as you are
