We rather be alone than lonely…
There is a loneliness in what we call love nowadays that can destroy the strongest of us. I would not consider myself a lonely person; I have friends and family that surround me, love me, and support me, and yet I have developed mechanisms of loneliness.
Throughout my years of being a big city dweller, a nomad and traveller, I have experienced different forms of love and connection. Many people, all looking for any hope, shape, or form of something to fill the gaps they feel within themselves. Sometimes with genuine care, empathy, with open hearts and generosity, but more often than not, with greed, numbness, detachment, and an apathy that visibly stems from pain. And slowly but surely, my own generosity was met with greed, my vulnerability with numbness, detachment, and apathy. Slowly forming in me a lonely soul, one that struggles to meet generosity without suspicion, that struggles to feel seen in the softest of spaces, my once-naive openness aching every inch of my body. And having experienced unfiltered love, feeling detached is emptier than being alone.
Love often feels more like a transaction than a genuine connection. It became diluted, measured in matches, replies, likes. I’ve found myself in rooms full of people, in warmth, in caring conversations, and still often felt completely unknown. As if my body was present, but the rest of me wasn’t. People want connection, I truly believe that, but many are so afraid of the weight it asks them to carry. It’s easier to act close than to be close. To say the right things, to mimic affection, while keeping the heart hidden and protected in some safe underwater. And I can’t pretend I haven’t learned to do the same. I hold back more. I scan for danger even in kindness. I doubt sweetness. Loneliness, in this form, doesn’t come from being without people. It comes from being around them and still feeling like you're not there.
I have found myself studying this topic a lot, and in this search I found some beautiful, brilliant women, who talk and study everything on my mind; Brené Brown talks about the power of vulnerability in connection, and how we’ve been taught to fear it, mistaking it for weakness when it’s actually our greatest strength. She says that “vulnerability is not winning or losing; it’s having the courage to show up and be seen when we have no control over the outcome.” I remember being in parties in Berlin, where “love is free” and people are “open”, I had misunerstood some offer and as soon as I realised what was about to happen I said no, I guess my sense of love and sexuality wasn´t always turned on, I didn´t (and still often do not), directly associate certain behaviours as romantic or sexual, but that moment, this misunderstanding made everyone around me call me stupid and naive, which in turn made me feel hurt and unseen. That’s where I’ve often felt stuck. Wanting to be seen, but afraid of what it means if I truly let people in. Esther Perel, in her exploration of modern relationships, often reflects on this contradiction; the public’s praise of freedom, openness, and exploration, and yet the way vulnerability is so quickly met with judgment. In her book The State of Affairs and in her podcast Where Should We Begin?, Perel speaks about how we are more open than ever in our sexual and emotional lives, yet when we show up in our raw, vulnerable forms, we often face shame. The ideal of "freedom" in love and sexuality, she argues, is frequently conditional, we praise for exploration, but only if it conforms to the acceptable boundaries of what groups deem appropriate. Perel also discusses the way we perform vulnerability as a form of connection, but how that can easily slip into a shallow version of intimacy, where real softness and imperfection aren’t welcomed. It's as if the very openness that’s celebrated in theory doesn’t allow space for the messy, real human parts of us, our mistakes, misunderstandings, or simply our different ways of existing.
But coming back to my own formed lonely mechanisms, I find myself in endless loops of war between opening and closing. In my relationships, I try to be as real as possible, expressing and reflecting on my strengths and weaknesses. And still, it’s very difficult to find relationships that rely on softness and empathy. Most people get instantly defensive (including myself). Nobody is perfect, and instead of meeting each other where we are, openly talking and sharing experiences and creating safe spaces, we get offended by each other’s imperfections. We expect comfort but provide judgment, and get offended if we receive the same in return. The cycle only spirals down until we end up single again, or alone again, and each time with a bigger struggle to let new people in. Brené Brown says that “we’re emotionally starved in a world full of self-protection.” We wear armor to shield ourselves from disappointment, but that armor also keeps out the very connection we long for. But like Esther Perel reminds us, true intimacy doesn’t come from perfection, but from our ability to repair, to stay engaged even when things are messy. Closeness asks for humility, the willingness to be wrong, to learn, and to stay soft even when it's uncomfortable.
And maybe that’s part of the broader issue today. We’ve become so attached to our individual truths and strong opinions that we forget how to truly listen. We listen to respond, not to understand. And without that, frustration grows on all sides. The potential for unity dissolves into division, and the chance to grow through difference disappears. But if we dare to hear each other out, even when it’s hard, even when it challenges us, we can begin to rebuild something more meaningful. As Brown says, “People are hard to hate close up. Move in.” The more we listen, the more we might see ourselves in one another.
Maybe the work is not in being right or perfectly healed, but in being willing to meet in the middle, with curiosity, with grace, and with the courage to stay open just a little longer.
