On Loneliness

Loneliness is an epidemic, but that doesn’t make me feel any less alone. 

I found that sentence scribbled onto a journal page from a time when my depression was at its worst and I had quietly withdrawn from nearly everyone in my life. Reading it now, I still see the paradox: loneliness may be widespread, but it is experienced in profoundly personal ways.

In an attempt to fill the empty space, I tried saying “yes” to every plan—showing up to rooms filled with laughter and conversation, hoping proximity would help me feel connected again. Instead, I felt myself fading into the background. I listened as others talked about their families, their weekends, their ordinary joys, and I nodded along while my mind drifted elsewhere. Alone in a crowd. I get it now. I’m here, but I don’t belong. 

It began with small thoughts: I don’t have anything to offer right now. I will just bring everyone down. No one wants to be around me when I’m struggling. But small thoughts snowball quickly. They made it harder to be present, then harder to show up at all. Eventually, I began declining invitations.

Then the invitations stopped coming.

When I finally recognized how severe my isolation had become, I turned to research for answers. What I found were facts and statistics outlining the ways chronic loneliness is linked to depression, cardiovascular disease, weakened immunity, and cognitive decline. Advice urging people to “avoid isolation” only made me feel more hopeless. If so many others were struggling, I wondered, how are we supposed to find one another?

With time, I’ve come to understand how easily I don’t belong can turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy. How a deep fear of rejection can lead us to preemptively withdraw. And how damaging it is to believe we must only show up when we feel bright, useful, or easy to be around.

Loneliness is rarely about the absence of relationships; more often, it stems from the absence of authenticity. Connection requires being seen, yet many of us learn to hide the parts of ourselves that feel vulnerable, heavy, or unlovable. It is difficult to experience belonging when we are masking the very truths that would allow others to know us.

I can’t take away your loneliness, but I can offer you this:

You bring value to the world in both your strongest moments and your most fragile ones. You do not need to be healed to deserve connection. You do not have to feel light to be worthy of love. Your presence matters—not the polished version of you, but the honest one.

Vulnerability can feel risky, but masking is far more isolating. When we choose to show up honestly, even in small ways, we create space for someone else to recognize themselves in our stories and say, me too. That shared truth is not a cure, but it can soften the sharp edges. In honesty, we begin to build bridges toward one another. By healing out loud, we may all feel just a little less alone.