The loneliness epidemic

I famously hate to be alone. In my adult life, I lived alone for six weeks before convincing an old friend to move from Texas to Baltimore to live with me in my one bedroom apartment. I will insist I need a break from my family, only to wander in to whatever room they’re in a half hour later because I was lonely. All this to say, I know of which I write.

As we get older, our lives tend to get smaller. Children grow up and move away; spouses get sick or die; same with friends. The prevailing issue I hear from my clients, especially those who are widowed, is that they’re simply lonely.

Loneliness, in fact, was cited by the US Surgeon General last year as one of the biggest issue to face older adults, especially post-pandemic. We were already fairly disconnected from each other before the spring of 2020. Those weeks and months before we could safely gather were devastating for most of us but particularly difficult for older people who lived alone or with little informal support. We’re still recovering from those months (years?) and some things have changed permanently. Some people have never recovered from being alone so much.

After all, it’s really hard to have a robust social life when you’re older: you’re retired, the kids are grown and flown, sometimes even the grandchildren have launched into the world. Some folks don’t drive anymore or only drive during the day when there’s no weather. Friends and family have their own health issues that prevent them from visiting. The list goes on.

However! It is not impossible to remedy some of the loneliness. What I mostly hear from people is that “no one calls, no one invites me,” but when we look a little deeper, my client hasn’t made any calls or extended any invitations. Or they got turned down once and gave up. It feels bad to be rejected, even kindly, but what feels worse is to wait around for people to read your mind and know that you want to hear from them.

So: pick up the phone. Send a text or an email or a card (getting actual mail is the best feeling!). The odds are, the person you’re reaching out to is also lonely and will be thrilled to hear from you. It takes a little vulnerability and risk, but you don’t have to be lonely if you don’t want to be. Give it a try.

"I'm lonely but I also want to be alone"

A common theme for my recently bereaved clients is an overwhelming ambivalence about being around others. They’re lonely but at the same time, they’re avoiding phone calls and visits from their well-meaning friends and family. They can’t bridge these two feelings of abject loneliness and also real resistance to being around other people; they’re stuck in ambivalence.

Ambivalence is uncomfortable. We’ve all been in that space and you just can’t stay there for long; it feels too bad. I have to borrow from the late, brilliant Stephen Sondheim here for an accurate description: “Sometimes I stand in the middle of the floor, not going left, not going right… am I losing my mind?” Ambivalence is like being paralyzed. How do you move out of it when you just feel stuck?

The answer, as usual, comes with more questions. Sometimes this conversation about being alone but being lonely but not being up for socializing but feeling isolated … leads to this: “which feels worse?” It can depend on the day! Sometimes answering the phone feels like climbing a mountain. Other days, the thought of spending another hour alone in a quiet house is the more daunting choice. Investigating our ambivalence is the ticket out of it. There is always a stronger pull in one direction or another if we allow ourselves to really sit with our feelings.

As with all parts of grieving, your mileage may vary. There will be days when being alone feels horrifying. On those days, use your energy reserve to reach out to someone. Likewise, there will be days when the mere thought of being with others feels exhausting. On those days, you have my permission to relish in your loneliness. Whichever choice you make, loneliness or connection, remember that it is just how you feel right now; it’s not permanent. You only have to get through the next day, the next hour, the next minute. The ambivalence of grief will ebb and flow, like all the other grief feelings. Give yourself the gift of waiting it out. Relief is coming; it may be beyond you right this second but any minute it will be within your grasp. Hang tight.