On Loneliness

Loneliness is one of those quiet words that lands with a thud. Heavy. Tender. Often wrapped in shame. Many people tell me they feel lonely and then almost immediately apologise for it, as though loneliness is something they should have outgrown, fixed, or transcended by now. As though feeling lonely means they’ve failed in some personal way.

But loneliness isn’t a personal deficiency. It’s not a weakness of character or a flaw in resilience. Loneliness is a signal. It’s your nervous system speaking in the only language it has, saying, quite simply, “I was not meant to carry this alone.”

We can feel lonely in rooms full of people. We can feel lonely in relationships. We can feel lonely as parents, at work, in communities, and even in moments that look, from the outside, like they should feel full. Loneliness is not about how many people we have around us, but whether we feel emotionally met, seen, and safe enough to be ourselves with them. As the writer Jeanette Winterson once put it, “What you risk reveals what you value.” Loneliness often reveals what we’re longing for most.

From a therapeutic perspective, loneliness is not only an emotional experience, but a physiological one. When connection is missing, the nervous system often shifts into a state of low-level threat. The body becomes more watchful, more guarded, sometimes more withdrawn, sometimes more desperate for contact. Over time, this can feel like heaviness, numbness, agitation, tiredness, or a constant background anxiety that doesn’t seem to have a clear cause. Your body is working overtime to protect you in the absence of felt safety. Loneliness is not weakness. It is a body doing its best to survive without the nourishment of connection.

There’s a cruel irony in the modern world that we are more connected than ever, yet so many of us feel profoundly alone. We have constant access to one another through screens, messages, and endless digital noise, and still the ache of disconnection persists. That’s because what we’re wired for isn’t contact, but meaningful connection. We aren’t hungry for likes or replies. We are hungry to be known. We are longing for presence, for curiosity, for someone to sit with us in our truth without trying to tidy it up too quickly. Brené Brown says, “True belonging doesn’t require you to change who you are; it requires you to be who you are.” And that level of belonging is rarer than we often like to admit.

Loneliness frequently arrives in the quiet aftermath of change. Becoming a parent. Ending a relationship. Losing a loved one. Leaving a job. Moving to a new place. Burning out. These transitions don’t just rearrange our diaries, they rearrange our identities. Who we were no longer quite fits, and who we’re becoming doesn’t yet feel fully formed. In that in-between space, loneliness often takes root. It isn’t a sign that something has gone wrong. It’s often a sign that something has changed faster than our sense of belonging can keep up with.

And then there’s shame. Shame is the part that keeps loneliness hidden. The voice that says, “Everyone else seems fine. I should be coping better than this. I don’t want to be a burden. What’s wrong with me?” So we smile. We nod. We show up. We carry it quietly. But loneliness thrives in silence. It loosens its grip the moment it is named, even softly. Even once.

For many people, loneliness also awakens the inner critic. That harsh internal voice that whispers, sometimes shouts, that you are too much, not enough, unlovable, forgettable. This voice can feel vicious, but it is not the enemy. It is often a frightened protector, shaped by earlier experiences of rejection, loss, or emotional neglect. It learned that needing others was dangerous, that wanting too much led to hurt. When we meet that voice with compassion rather than criticism, loneliness begins to soften at its edges.

One of the most confusing versions of loneliness is the kind that exists alongside love. You can be deeply loved and still feel profoundly alone. This is especially true in seasons of caregiving, parenting, and emotional responsibility, where so much of your energy flows outward that your own inner world becomes quietly unseen. You can be needed everywhere and met nowhere. Poet Rainer Maria Rilke wrote, “The point of marriage is not to create a quick commonality by tearing down all boundaries; on the contrary, it is a high inducement to the individuals to become something in themselves.” Loneliness can sometimes be a signal that our own becoming has been set aside too long.

We often assume loneliness means we need more people. Sometimes that’s true. But often what we really need is more permission. Permission to be honest. Permission to be imperfect. Permission to have needs. Permission to stop performing okayness and start telling the truth. You can have a busy social calendar and still feel emotionally starved if there is no space for vulnerability within it.

And loneliness doesn’t always look like sadness. Sometimes it looks like busyness that never stops. Sometimes it looks like scrolling long into the night. Sometimes it looks like numbing, anger, restlessness, or a low-grade irritability that follows you through the day. Sometimes it looks like saying yes to everything and feeling connected to nothing. If silence feels unbearable, or stillness feels exposing, loneliness may be sitting just beneath the surface.

Connection, too, does not always require words. For some people, eye contact is too much. For others, feeling questions feel intrusive. Sometimes connection happens quietly, side by side. On a walk. Washing up together. Watching the same programme under a blanket. Creating something. Sharing space without pressure. There is no single correct way to feel connected.

A few therapeutic tips for meeting loneliness gently

One of the most important things you can do with loneliness is name it without shaming yourself for it. Even saying quietly, “I feel lonely today,” to yourself can bring a surprising amount of relief. Naming moves the feeling from something overwhelming into something held.

It can also help to work with micro-moments of connection, rather than waiting for loneliness to disappear completely. A warm exchange with the barista, a voice note to a friend, sitting beside someone rather than opposite them, these small nervous-system experiences of contact matter more than we often realise.

If loneliness feels heavy in the body, working somatically can be gently regulating. Placing a hand on your chest, slowing your breath slightly, feeling your feet on the floor, these are subtle ways of reminding your body that you are here, held in this moment, not disappearing.

Another quiet reframe that can be powerful is this: loneliness does not mean you are failing at connection, it often means you value it deeply. If you didn’t care about closeness, loneliness wouldn’t hurt. That ache speaks of your capacity to love and be loved.

And finally, if loneliness feels chronic, overwhelming, or tied up with earlier experiences of abandonment, loss, or shame, you don’t have to untangle it alone. Therapy can offer a space where your inner world doesn’t have to perform connection, it simply gets to experience it.

A few gentle prompts to sit with

You might like to take one of these into a notebook, the notes app on your phone, or simply hold it quietly in your mind on a walk.

You could begin by asking yourself: When do I feel loneliness most sharply? Is it in busy rooms, at night, after certain conversations, or in moments of transition? What seems to stir it? Not to judge it, just to notice its shape.

Another place you might explore is this: What do I wish someone knew about me right now that they don’t? Often loneliness sits beside something unspoken, something we’re quietly carrying alone.

And finally, a softer question: What kind of connection do I actually long for? More people or more depth, honesty, safety, play, or tenderness? Sometimes naming the quality of connection we crave can feel more grounding than chasing the idea of “not being lonely”.

Loneliness, at its core, is not a verdict on your worth. It is a call. A signal. A gentle, sometimes aching request for more safety, more truth, more softness, more belonging. Writer Anne Lamott wrote, “Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining.” Loneliness is the part of you that longs to be seen by something that shines back.

If you are feeling lonely as you read this, nothing has gone wrong with you. You are not behind. You are not broken. You are not failing at life. You are human in a world that often forgets how deeply we need one another.

Loneliness does not mean you are unlovable. It often means you are longing honestly.

And longing is where reconnection begins.