A few nights ago, I felt lonely—really, truly, devastatingly lonely—for the first time in a very long time.
Being alone has never bothered me. In fact, I quite like it, and it’s usually how I spend most of my time. In my teenage years, I took myself on countless outings, and now, in my post-college years, I’m always more than thrilled when I have the opportunity to travel by myself and budget in a way that allows me to create a home environment that’s just for me. When my former partner left me earlier this year, I was heartbroken, but I quickly settled back into solo living.
Last week, though, loneliness crept up behind me; the uninvited and unwanted guest at the dinner party who forces their way in the door anyway.
It’s a strange feeling for me, being lonely, and I recognize it’s a privilege to be able to say so. For some reason, I just don’t get lonely. Inevitably, whenever I explain this to a stranger, they ask me how it’s possible that I don’t get lonely given that I’m alone most of the time. I’ve always maintained that being alone is different than being lonely, and I do still believe that, but I think for me, there’s more to the story.
For a couple of years, I’ve been working with my therapist on making adjustments to my life to make it more sustainable. In college and for a few years after, I stacked things on my plate higher and higher and higher until I burned out and everything came crashing down around me. For example, during one semester in college, I took a full course load, worked as paid staff on a political campaign, facilitated thirty LGBTQ+ education panels in classrooms and residence halls, sang in a demanding choir, and served on the executive board of our campus’ feminist organization. It didn’t stop when I graduated: after college, I worked a strenuous job, served on the board of directors for two nonprofits, sang in a master chorale, continued my blogging and speaking work, and dated someone long-distance. That particular situation ended with me dropping everything but the blogging and speaking work to move to live with my former partner, a decision I still regret.
What I’ve realized recently, though, through continued work with my therapist, is that my drive to do all the things and be all the things is a trauma response. I just used to think that my identifying as “fiercely independent”—a term I don’t claim for myself any longer—was a product of my traumatic histories, but as I continue to learn about myself and move through my healing process, I’m discovering that my independence is also connected to how much work I allow myself to take on.
I’ve gotten much better at taking things off my plate, slowing down, and approaching any new work or project with intention, but I’ve been busier in the past few months than I have been in quite a long time. Without even realizing it, after my partner left me in August, I took on project after project, perhaps to fill my newfound time, perhaps to fill a void I didn’t recognize was there, perhaps for reasons I have yet to unearth. Whatever the reason, now that things are somewhat slower for the holidays, I find myself sitting around my house, unable to rest peacefully in the quiet any longer, something I valued deeply in the time I didn’t have so much on my plate.
These lessons are difficult ones to learn, but I’m trying to be grateful for any opportunity that affords me more knowledge about myself than I had before. Through exploring loneliness and loss, I’m learning more about love, too. In working on kicking my “fiercely independent” identification to the curb, I’ve also attempted—with less success, to be honest—to retire the idea that I don’t need anyone, that I can do it all by myself. This is the trauma response I revert back to most often, and it’s worse in those rarest of moments when I am lonely. If I can do it all by myself, if I don’t need anyone else, why am I so lonely? What’s wrong with me?
The truth is that I can’t do it all by myself. I do need other people. We all do. And more than that, I want other people. I’ve always cherished my family, my friendships, and my communities, but at the same time, I would tell myself that I shouldn’t have to ask for help, that if I needed to, I could get by on my own. It was this strange paradox, this duel between my deep love for others and the trauma response that told me I didn’t—and shouldn’t—need anyone else. This year, this gut-wrenching, traumatic, painful year, blew that idea out of the water.
After my partner left, my best friend asked me if I wanted to form a COVID pod with her and her partner. At the time, I had no idea just how much that act of kindness and care would teach me about love, healing, and chosen family, but after a few months, I realized that, to me, at least, that’s exactly what we are—chosen family. During the summer and fall, every Friday night, we ordered from our favorite Italian restaurant in Boston and watched the Great British Bake Off, a tradition I treasured. We spend holidays together, pile onto the couch to watch scary movies and eat tiramisu, and I get to see the love my best friend and her partner have for each other up-close, and I find it beautiful.
A little over a week ago, we all decorated their tree together, a tradition my best friend knew was important to me and that I was heartbroken to miss with my parents this year as we continue to remain apart for safety’s sake. I’ve always considered my closest friends to be like family, but during our tree decorating, eggnog-drinking silliness, I had a poignant realization that in that exact moment, I felt joyous and free for the first time that I can remember in many, many months. As someone who has lived with depression for over half their life and generally isn’t a happy person, those moments can be rare and fleeting, especially lately, but it happened last weekend—and it happened because I allowed myself to trust that it’s okay to seek love and connection and receive love and connection in return.
I found connection in other ways this year, too. The Smutathon Committee, which I joined last year, organized virtual smut slams in lieu of in-person events, including a Halloween slam and a festive slam even after Smutathon itself was over. I deepened my friendships with the incredible folks on the committee, and with their encouragement, I started writing erotica, something I never thought I’d be talented at but which is actually quite thrilling and fun. I also wrote a book this year, and in doing so, found a wonderful community of writers in my area. (I haven’t talked about this at all on my blog or on Twitter. Surprise!) While I would love to publish one day, my book is something that, for now, is just for me.
This is clearly all a work in progress, but right now, I’m thankful to be able to expand my understanding of how I connect with others while I also foster a space for myself at home. Just last night, I saw a spider creating her own home in a small alcove in my bathroom, weaving her web from wall to wall. When I was younger, I might have taken the spider outside, or, on instinct, even killed her, but now, whenever I see a spider in my home, I remember what my mom told me a year or so ago: that if the spider isn’t venomous, there’s nothing wrong with allowing her to coexist in your home and create an ecosystem of her own. In fact, it’s an act of compassion and love. From chosen family to tiny arachnids, it’s okay to get by with the help of our friends.
It only seems fitting that I wrote this on the winter solstice, a time to reflect and release. Unlike my typical routine, I wrote in the quiet and stillness, no music or white noise machine in the background, a single candle lit in front of me. I hope to carry this ritual with me into the new year, and with it, a return to approaching my work and my relationships to others and myself with intention.