When loneliness becomes a path back to ourselves.
There can be times when loneliness feels vast and unnameable. Not simply the absence of others, but a deeper, more pervasive sense of being outside of life itself.
A kind of exile.
It is possible to be surrounded by people. Friendships, families. Life unfolding all around. A child’s laughter.
And yet, there can be a sense of standing just beyond it. Like standing outside, looking in through a window. Close enough to see it, to sense it… but not part of what is happening inside. As though we do not quite know how to enter.
This kind of loneliness is not only emotional. It can feel existential.
A deep grief. A longing. A yearning for something that feels like home, without knowing where home is, or whether it exists at all.
It can be difficult to find words for it.
And perhaps because of this, it so often remains unspoken.
When someone asks, “How are you?” how often do we say, “I feel lonely”?
Over time, something may begin to shift. Not all at once, and not in any linear way, but gradually.
The sharpness of loneliness can soften at the edges. The constant reaching outward may begin, slowly, to turn inward.
And in its place, something quieter can begin to emerge.
Aloneness.
Not as isolation, but a different way of being with oneself.
There may be a stillness here. A sense of space, presence, even moments of unexpected contentment, like a soft exhale that has been held for a long time.
There can still be moments where anxiety moves through. Moments where old longings stir, where the body remembers what it has known.
And within this aloneness, a new question may begin to arise. Not the same question as before. Not “why am I alone?” but something more subtle, and perhaps more vulnerable.
Can I meet another from here?
By Serena Maren