It started innocently enough.
It was Thanksgiving several years back, and I was up in the Northeast. I was catching up with my cousin, as we waited for the grand meal to be served.
My cousin was full of questions.
How’s life in Texas? How’s your job? What do you do for fun?
I answered everything with grace and candor. But when my cousin asked if I had a dog, the conversation veered in a new direction.
I did not, in fact, have a dog. I explained to my cousin that I spent long hours at work and traveled on occasion. I didn’t feel I had the bandwidth to care for a house pet.
“Don’t you get lonely?” she inquired.
“No,” I responded.
My cousin’s eyes got wide. She looked stunned.
To be honest, I was even surprised with my own response.
But it was the truth.
I’ve lived alone for nearly a decade.
No pets. No roommates. No girlfriends. Just me.
At first, I found the experience terrifying. When I signed the lease on my first apartment, I was fresh out of college. I had limited skills when it came to household maintenance and cleaning protocols. Plus, I knew none of my neighbors — or anyone in the city I had just moved to.
Over those first few months, I played it safe. I often picked up food from the drive-thru, or cooked boxed meals on the stove. I watched a lot of television. I withdrew from the world.
But gradually, I came to a surprising realization. I liked living alone.
I welcomed the silence that greeted me when I came home after a hectic day at work. It helped me relax and find some needed peace.
I cherished the solitary adventures that came with the territory. I could experiment with a new recipe in the kitchen — knowing that if I messed it up, no one would have to eat my mistakes. I could read a book, watch TV or sit on the balcony if I so desired, free of judgment.
And I embraced the responsibility that came with having my own domain. No one was telling me to run the dishwasher or clean the bathroom. I would need to build those routines on my own. And I ultimately took pride in doing that.
None of this is logical. Living alone is not cost-efficient at all. In those early days, I made so little money that my parents felt compelled to help me with the rent. Years later, a significant portion of my income still goes to household costs and bills.
Plus, we are culturally wired to share our living spaces with others. To mingle. To marry. And ultimately, to raise children under our roof. Living alone long-term can fly in the face of all that.
Yet, as I have grown and gained sophistication in my experiences, one thing has remained constant – my desire to live independently. It’s a core part of my identity.
So yes, I’ve lived alone for a long time. And no, I don’t get lonely.
That much is constant. But lately, everything around me has shifted.
Part of my joy in living alone comes from contrast.
While others might stick to the dominant narrative, I can relish the alternative one.
While others shack up, I can fly solo. While others go out, I can stay in.
I can choose to connect with society as much as I want. And I can withdraw whenever I so desire.
This sense of control has been critical. Living alone has never meant confining myself to my apartment indefinitely. I come and go as I please.
But in the wake of our recent health pandemic, all that has changed.
With a deadly virus spreading rapidly around the world, just about everyone is being compelled to stay home.
Millions are now living my reality. And the sense of contrast I long relied on has evaporated.
This abrupt transition has been difficult. Many outgoing people have been ravaged by pangs of loneliness as they navigate the changes. But even the introverted have struggled at times.
We are all as alone as we ever were. That point is as stark as ever.
There are many ways to define loneliness. But I associate it with a sense of longing.
A longing for connection. A longing for nostalgia. A longing for familiarity.
In the pandemic era, all three of those elements are gone.
We are living in a new reality. A terrifying dystopia where the very fabric of our connection is suddenly an existential threat.
We rely on this connection for more than emotional fulfillment. We depend on it for our livelihoods. And we need it to access the supplies that sustain us.
Because of this, there’s just about no one on the planet who wholeheartedly embraces our new normal. A longing for our former reality — now dearly departed — remains omnipresent.
So, in a way, we’re all lonely now. It’s a fate that none of us wanted to share. A burden that no one wanted to carry.
But carry it, we must. Separately, yet together.
As someone new to this sensation, I don’t quite know how to reconcile it. I find myself torn between a grim acceptance and despair.
To be sure, hope is on the horizon. But the present is painful. And that pain surrounds us.
There is no way to hide from it.
Where do we go from here?
That’s a tough question to answer.
Sure, technology can help to ease the burden. Videoconferencing has skyrocketed recently, both for personal and professional purposes. Voice calls and text messaging are surely up as well.
These options don’t remove the physical distance between us. But they do still bridge some of the emotional void. They raise our spirits and brighten our days.
That’s a start. But it’s not a full-fledged solution.
For the core of loneliness — the yearning connection to the familiar — doesn’t dissipate with an hourlong videocall with loved ones. As the fight against the pandemic intensifies, our world evolves in strange new ways. Those changes are all too present as soon as we disconnect from the videocall.
We must embrace this hardship. We’re in for a long slog, and the world as we knew it might not return.
Yes, at some point, our period of isolation will end. This much is nearly assured.
But the scars of our experience will linger. And our interactions are likely to look different than what we’re all used to.
With that in mind, let us take this time to redefine connection. Let us embrace secondhand connection methods with the same vigor as we do in-person interactions.
Let us endeavor to create art, literature and cuisine that can be enjoyed by those who are geographically separated from us. Let us form innovations that can inspire those we have never met, and may never meet.
Rolling up our sleeves like this can distract us from the situation at hand. It can keep us engaged, even as the rules of interaction ebb and flow. It can save us from despair.
So, let us commit to this choice. Today, tomorrow and for the long haul.
We are all alone now. But we don’t have to be condemned to loneliness.
Life is what you make of it. Let’s make the most of ours.