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I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’ve often judged people who are lonely, seeing them as sad, miserable or joyless individuals.
You see, for a long time, I saw isolation as a sign of failure or a weakness, a negative mark on a person’s character.
As someone who is outgoing, with a strong sense of self, I’ve never struggled to make new connections and have always been the life and soul of the party. The more friends I had, the more validated I’d feel.
Feeling lonely wasn’t an option. I equated it with being unlovable or undesirable.
Even when I did feel it, I’d never express it to anyone. I was too embarrassed.
Now, I want to break that silence because, as I’ve realised recently, loneliness is part of being human and nothing to be ashamed of.
It was during the pandemic that I noticed how inherently alone I felt. It was hardly surprising, given the circumstances, and I expected these feelings to lift after lockdown ended.
But, if anything, I slipped further and further into a black hole.
Instead of trying to pinpoint where this feeling came from, I started telling myself that it was just who I was now.
I started to joke that I’d turned into a cat lady. I wouldn’t call friends or make plans.
But even when I went out, I was still seeking a connection to other people, even if it was a simple hello to the shop clerk or cooing over someone’s poochie.
There had to be a balance ((Picture: Samantha Renke))© Provided by Metro
I had turned loneliness into my identity but no one is inherently lonely. It’s a product of our external circumstances.
For me, most of my ride-or-die London friends had left the capital because of Brexit or work or family commitments.
Being 38 and single also meant my social mixing pot had drastically reduced. Many of my friends are now married with kids and they don’t have the same time to hang out as they once did.
My line of work doesn’t help foster meaningful connections either. People see me as a means to network or get work opportunities rather than just be pals.
But, the more I thought about it, the more I realised, all of this was simply the cherry on top of a life that has been lonely from the get-go.
Because having a disability is a huge catalyst for isolation.
I always felt left out as a child. I was never invited to sleepovers and was excluded from group activities because of inaccessible infrastructures.
I couldn’t go out onto the playground on my own so I had to wait for my support assistant to finish their lunch before they’d take me outside to play with my peers.
I’d miss classes to go for hydro or physiotherapy sessions and when I had a broken bone, I’d be off school for weeks. A lot of my childhood was spent upstairs in my bedroom, playing with my Sylvanian families or Polly Pockets.
Having a disability is a huge catalyst for isolation ((Picture: Nicky Johnstone))© Provided by Metro
As a disabled adult, this continued – as I’m sure many disabled or neurodivergent individuals can relate to.
We may work from home, may not have the funds for an accessible vehicle or get the support from local authorities to maintain our independence.
As we get older, so do our parents or caregivers. As they pass away, it’s another lifeline to the outside world gone.
It can even be something as simple as friends not having accessible homes. I was meant to go to a friend’s daughter’s birthday recently. The party was supposed to be in the garden, but the weather turned, and their house wasn’t step-free, so I had to cancel. It was completely unintentional, but still disappointing.
Friendships need consistency. For them to flourish, you need to put time and effort into them. But this can be hard, because the sporadic nature of my disability means that my energy and emotional cup varies each day.
I’d always felt excluded from mainstream society, but I’d pushed and fought against this for years. By the pandemic, I guess I was just tired of fighting.
That’s why I’ve felt so lonely in recent years. The anxiety and emotional labour that came from keeping myself included and sociable had taken its toll.
It made me turn to solitude – but that made me miserable. There had to be a balance.
I’ve now changed tack where loneliness is concerned – starting with not judging anyone who suffers from it so harshly anymore.
I no longer view it as something I’ve done wrong, and I no longer feel shame. After all, I’m hardly alone in my loneliness.
Rather, I’ve learned to see loneliness as an asset.
It showed me I needed a bit of a shake-up in my life, so I decided to leave London and return to my hometown where I have more support.
Since moving, I’m surrounded by people most days – my mum, step sister and bff are all round the corner and in good old northern fashion pop over regularly for a cuppa or something stronger.
I’d convinced myself that being around this many people would be too much, but actually I’ve loved each and every interaction.
My loneliness has also allowed me to understand and set boundaries, which I’ve put in place so I don’t start to see socialising as a chore or burden.
And although I’ll still usually say yes to invites, I’m starting to be honest and manage expectations from the off. ‘Yes, I’d love to come, but just in case I’m not up to it on the day, please understand,’ I told a friend recently.
Loneliness is completely natural. But you need to ask yourself, do I feel comfortable choosing to be alone? Or am I being forced into this situation because my voice isn’t being heard?
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing [email protected].
Share your views in the comments below.
Get your regular dose of need-to-know lifestyle news and features by signing up Metro's The Fix newsletter
I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’ve often judged people who are lonely, seeing them as sad, miserable or joyless individuals.
You see, for a long time, I saw isolation as a sign of failure or a weakness, a negative mark on a person’s character.
As someone who is outgoing, with a strong sense of self, I’ve never struggled to make new connections and have always been the life and soul of the party. The more friends I had, the more validated I’d feel.
Feeling lonely wasn’t an option. I equated it with being unlovable or undesirable.
Even when I did feel it, I’d never express it to anyone. I was too embarrassed.
Now, I want to break that silence because, as I’ve realised recently, loneliness is part of being human and nothing to be ashamed of.
It was during the pandemic that I noticed how inherently alone I felt. It was hardly surprising, given the circumstances, and I expected these feelings to lift after lockdown ended.
But, if anything, I slipped further and further into a black hole.
Instead of trying to pinpoint where this feeling came from, I started telling myself that it was just who I was now.
I started to joke that I’d turned into a cat lady. I wouldn’t call friends or make plans.
But even when I went out, I was still seeking a connection to other people, even if it was a simple hello to the shop clerk or cooing over someone’s poochie.
There had to be a balance ((Picture: Samantha Renke))© Provided by Metro
I had turned loneliness into my identity but no one is inherently lonely. It’s a product of our external circumstances.
For me, most of my ride-or-die London friends had left the capital because of Brexit or work or family commitments.
Being 38 and single also meant my social mixing pot had drastically reduced. Many of my friends are now married with kids and they don’t have the same time to hang out as they once did.
My line of work doesn’t help foster meaningful connections either. People see me as a means to network or get work opportunities rather than just be pals.
But, the more I thought about it, the more I realised, all of this was simply the cherry on top of a life that has been lonely from the get-go.
Because having a disability is a huge catalyst for isolation.
I always felt left out as a child. I was never invited to sleepovers and was excluded from group activities because of inaccessible infrastructures.
I couldn’t go out onto the playground on my own so I had to wait for my support assistant to finish their lunch before they’d take me outside to play with my peers.
I’d miss classes to go for hydro or physiotherapy sessions and when I had a broken bone, I’d be off school for weeks. A lot of my childhood was spent upstairs in my bedroom, playing with my Sylvanian families or Polly Pockets.
Having a disability is a huge catalyst for isolation ((Picture: Nicky Johnstone))© Provided by Metro
As a disabled adult, this continued – as I’m sure many disabled or neurodivergent individuals can relate to.
We may work from home, may not have the funds for an accessible vehicle or get the support from local authorities to maintain our independence.
As we get older, so do our parents or caregivers. As they pass away, it’s another lifeline to the outside world gone.
It can even be something as simple as friends not having accessible homes. I was meant to go to a friend’s daughter’s birthday recently. The party was supposed to be in the garden, but the weather turned, and their house wasn’t step-free, so I had to cancel. It was completely unintentional, but still disappointing.
Friendships need consistency. For them to flourish, you need to put time and effort into them. But this can be hard, because the sporadic nature of my disability means that my energy and emotional cup varies each day.
I’d always felt excluded from mainstream society, but I’d pushed and fought against this for years. By the pandemic, I guess I was just tired of fighting.
That’s why I’ve felt so lonely in recent years. The anxiety and emotional labour that came from keeping myself included and sociable had taken its toll.
It made me turn to solitude – but that made me miserable. There had to be a balance.
I’ve now changed tack where loneliness is concerned – starting with not judging anyone who suffers from it so harshly anymore.
I no longer view it as something I’ve done wrong, and I no longer feel shame. After all, I’m hardly alone in my loneliness.
Rather, I’ve learned to see loneliness as an asset.
It showed me I needed a bit of a shake-up in my life, so I decided to leave London and return to my hometown where I have more support.
Since moving, I’m surrounded by people most days – my mum, step sister and bff are all round the corner and in good old northern fashion pop over regularly for a cuppa or something stronger.
I’d convinced myself that being around this many people would be too much, but actually I’ve loved each and every interaction.
My loneliness has also allowed me to understand and set boundaries, which I’ve put in place so I don’t start to see socialising as a chore or burden.
And although I’ll still usually say yes to invites, I’m starting to be honest and manage expectations from the off. ‘Yes, I’d love to come, but just in case I’m not up to it on the day, please understand,’ I told a friend recently.
Loneliness is completely natural. But you need to ask yourself, do I feel comfortable choosing to be alone? Or am I being forced into this situation because my voice isn’t being heard?
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing [email protected].
Share your views in the comments below.
Get your regular dose of need-to-know lifestyle news and features by signing up Metro's The Fix newsletter
