I have never spent a night alone. Ever. Not in college, not as a grown-up, not ever. But this past summer I’ve been forced into aloneness more than ever before—as we all have been. It struck me poignantly one warm evening as I sat against the light all by myself on our deck overlooking our spacious yard. My family members were away on a three-day hike and my other daughter was sick. I’m used to hours and hours by myself as a mom, it’s become my norm. But because any hint of illness in a family is suspicious these days, I kept to myself. Self-isolation being the new buzzword, I reached out to no one. And thus felt my aloneness heavily sink in. Normally I have my people, my plans, my to-dos, even if I have to create them. But on a calm summer night with only myself, I had none of that. As I sat with it all, I felt weighted down by the unexpected sadness and melancholy, almost despondency, that crept over me. I looked over my large home, the gardens, the lawn, the flower beds, our labors of love, and I was unimpressed. None of it meant a thing to me without my people beside me.
My overarching sense was how normal this was for so many of my friends. This emptiness, this longing for company, this desire for someone to notice that I was on my own, was manageable and endurable. But only, I think, because I knew it wasn’t my normal. Ordinarily this would not be my life. But, I considered, it could be. And it probably will be at some point. I contemplated how distressing that would—will—feel. And I vowed in that moment to be a more aware friend, grateful for the peek into an existence other what I’m accustomed to.
Over the years I’ve had bouts of aloneness, as everyone has. I think what this moment did for me was awaken me to the fact that it could very well become my reality sooner than I might think. And it hit home that I’m at a place in my life where I can make a difference to those who are living this way every day. I don’t know why it never occurred me this solidly before; I think maybe because up until recently my life has been so full that any downtime was a relief, not something to mourn. These days every day is downtime and instead of looking for solitude, I’m looking for company. My current life already feels slow and independent and detached as my family goes about its activities for hours and hours and hours without needing me; I felt appreciation for what others endure every day.
Of course, this reflection caused me to recall flashes, times as a younger adult when I’d been completely on my own: moving into the dorms without parents or siblings for hundreds of miles, knowing no one on campus, my roommate not showing up for days later, feeling completely overwhelmed by my independence. Later as I’d move into each new apartment I’d feel the same trepidation. As I did when I had my first baby and was packing to move across the country. I was on my own during those long hushed days, such a transition from busy college student and full-time employee, so much quiet and solitude with hours stretched out before me without concrete plans or duties except to keep my son alive. Arriving in the midwest without connection, again, for hundreds of miles, we knew absolutely no one. Todd began vet school right away, leaving me on my own to meander through hours that yawned into days and months and years.
But a person forgets all that as soon as the intensity lessens. In every scenario, details changed, roommates showed up, I met the people around me, I began classes and work and had more kids. My life flipped upside down and all I dreamed of was alone time; loneliness, isolation, that quiet desperation for connection all a distant and rarely recalled memory.
Fast-forward twenty years and I’ve come full circle, kids all but gone, few friends in my phase of life with as much discretionary time. “You’re so busy, you have so many friends,” others knowingly but erroneously tell me. I try to call them out on it, to tell them they have no idea. Obviously, everyone’s surrounded by people, it looks like we all have a full schedule and a lovely social life, but no one knows for real what my days are like. It’s actually amusing, and unfortunate, that we might not know how life really feels like in another’s shoes.
Of course—of course—I make an effort. As we all do. Obviously, it’s all been a little strained lately as we tentatively extend ourselves, constantly trying to guess another’s comfort level of intimacy. I had the virus in mind, but that’s always the game we play, isn’t it? I’m like you, I text, I find excuses to see people, I check-in, I call, I write. It’s not that I don’t have projects, a yard, a house, kids, and a stack of books to busy myself with, I could be more proactive and productive for sure. But despite all the distractions, I still feel alone much of the time.
I have keyed in to this hot topic, the pandemic of loneliness, more keenly recently. As we all know, the ramifications are brutal. “Social disconnection turn[s] out to be worse for health than big-name problems like obesity, alcoholism, and pollution. ‘The medical community had never considered that social factors could be even more important than biological factors like high blood pressure, obesity, or high cholesterol levels. Our findings showed that it had more of an impact.’ In other words, people who don’t have a strong social support mechanism—think trusted friends and family members—persistently experience poorer outcomes, including inflammation, cognitive decline, depression, reduced immune function, and earlier death. Epidemiological proof of innate value of human relationships… revealed—that [relationships] are not just good for us spiritually or emotionally; they’re good for us physically” (BYU Today, Summer 2020). I don’t think any of this is a surprise as we innately feel the heaviness and pull loneliness has on us; it’s not a stretch to see the connection between it and diminished health.
And yet, as the researcher pointed out, “I don’t know if there’s anyone who has never felt lonely.” I hear it all the time actually when I talk to women over the phone, as I receive warm and grateful expressions of love in the mail, as requests for visits petition me to return soon. I sense the earnest desire for connection.
As I contemplate what my own experience with aloneness felt like on my deck that beautiful but still evening, as I think back to my own alone-times, as I'm drawn to all the friends I love so much who are living their days on their own, I wonder what to do with it all. I don’t believe it’s always necessary or even beneficial to avoid discomfort, so at the time I simply sat with it and allowed it to wash over and through me. It helps to feel some adversity on occasion; I actually want that for my kids because it’s precisely what propels us to increased compassion and empathy. I can’t think of a more valuable way to hone into what another person’s struggle might feel like than to taste it ourselves. And so, moving forward, I’m still thinking about what it felt like to be alone, to have no one to greet me or talk about my day with, to have no expectations and nothing to look forward to. I’m still wondering how I can be a more mindful and more attentive friend. In that moment, it would’ve made such a difference to see even a text or to have someone ask me over even if I couldn’t, just knowing that anyone was aware of and thinking of me. I felt like everyone around me had a purpose, a plan, a vacation, a family, an invitation, a place. I felt the lack of all of it intensely. I vowed then to change, to care more. And it made me want to provide warmth for others, not because I pity them, but because I know what it feels like. And I want to love them better.
