I’ve been watching conversations about being alone unfold lately, especially with the holidays just behind us. I experienced an episode myself this past New Year’s Eve. It took me a while to gather my thoughts – partly because I’ve walked this road before, and partly because watching everyone’s different experiences reminded me of something I learned the hard way.

Some people are wearing their aloneness like armor. Others are confessing how much it hurts. Some are trying to convince themselves (and maybe us) that they’re fine. Others are terrified they never will be.

And sitting with all of it, I keep coming back to something I wish someone had told me sooner: Being alone is not the same thing as being lonely.

I used to think they were the same thing. It took me a long time to understand they’re not, and knowing the difference has made the hard days a little softer.

How We End Up Here

We all have different stories about how the alone found us. Maybe it was divorce papers on a Tuesday. Maybe it was the silence after years of caregiving ended. The quiet after loss on an ordinary Friday. Friends who drifted when you moved, or couldn’t handle your grief, or just… life shifted, and suddenly the landscape looked different.

Maybe it crept in so slowly you didn’t notice until one Sunday you realized you hadn’t spoken to anyone all weekend. Maybe it arrived all at once, like a door slamming shut.

However it happened, I want you to know something: that question you’re asking yourself – “What’s wrong with me?” – has an answer.

Nothing. Nothing is wrong with you.

Here’s What I’ve Learned

You can be alone and not lonely. I’ve had Saturday mornings with my coffee and the quiet that felt like medicine.

You can be surrounded by people and feel profoundly lonely. I’ve been at full tables where no one really saw me.

You can desperately want connection and still need solitude to breathe.

You can feel grateful for peace one day and ache for someone to talk to the next.

None of this makes you contradictory or confusing. It makes you human.

When loneliness shows up, I know it feels like proof you’re broken or failing at healing. It’s not. It’s just your heart being human, reminding you that connection matters to you. It’s information, not an indictment.

The problem isn’t the loneliness. It’s when we decide loneliness means we’re doing something wrong.

The Fear That Makes It Worse

Can we talk about something hard for a minute?

That fear – the one that whispers at 2 AM that this is permanent, that this is your life now – I know that fear. It sits heavily on your chest during Sunday dinners for one. It gets louder during holidays when everyone else seems… together. It tells you stories about forever, about being forgotten, about time running out.

Once that fear takes hold, being alone stops feeling temporary and starts feeling like a sentence you can’t escape.

But here’s what I’ve learned about “permanent” – it’s a story we tell ourselves, not a truth we can prove. I’ve watched my own life change in ways I never saw coming. People appear. Circumstances shift. Hearts that felt closed crack open again. Seasons end without us forcing them to.

Your aloneness is not a life sentence. It’s a chapter. And chapters are meant to end.

The Difference Between Being Alone and Abandoning Yourself

I’ve noticed there’s a particular cruelty we save for ourselves when we’re alone. We tell ourselves stories:

“I should be over this by now.” “I shouldn’t need anyone.” “I should be stronger.” “Everyone else handles this better.”

Those shoulds? They’re not helping. They’re just making an already difficult time harder.

Being alone in a way that doesn’t hurt as much sounds different. It sounds like:

“This is where I am right now, and that’s okay.” “This is allowed to be hard.” “I can take care of myself AND still want connection.” “This chapter doesn’t define my whole story.”

Can you hear the difference? One is punishment. The other is presence.

You don’t have to love being alone. You don’t have to pretend it’s some spiritual journey you signed up for. You can let it be what it is: sometimes peaceful, sometimes hard, sometimes both in the same hour.

What Loss Taught Me

Loss has a way of forcing aloneness before we’re ready. It doesn’t ask permission. It just rearranges everything; the routines, the rituals, the reliable rhythms of our days. Even the way people look at us changes.

In those early days, the loneliness can feel unbearable. I remember.

But something else happened over time, which I didn’t expect. Beneath the ache, I found something else: I stopped disappearing from myself while waiting for connection.

I learned to be my own companion without pretending I didn’t want others. I learned the difference between solitude and isolation. I learned that being alone didn’t mean I was abandoned, not by others, and more importantly, not by myself.

That shift? It changed everything.

Let’s Try Something This Week

If you’re willing, try something different this week.

Instead of asking, “How do I stop being alone?” try asking, “How do I stay kind to myself while I’m alone?”

Instead of fearing this is forever, try curiosity: “What might this quiet be trying to teach me?”

Instead of seeing loneliness as failure, try listening: “What is my heart trying to tell me it needs?”

Connection doesn’t always arrive when we want it. But self-compassion can start right now, today, in this moment.

If You’re Struggling Right Now

Look, I’m not going to tell you to love being alone. I’m not going to promise it gets easier tomorrow.

What I will say is this: try to stay gentle with yourself. When you notice the difference between simply being in an empty room and feeling that ache of loneliness, that’s huge. That’s you learning your own landscape.

And that fear that whispers “forever”? You can acknowledge it without believing it. You can say, “I hear you, fear. I know you’re scared. But you don’t know the future any better than I do.”

This part of your life, this chapter? It doesn’t get to write your whole story.

Being alone is not a failure. Loneliness is not a flaw. And learning to hold yourself with kindness while you navigate this? That’s not settling or giving up.

That’s courage. That’s strength. That’s you, refusing to abandon yourself even when life feels empty.

You’re not broken. You’re just human, finding your way through something hard.

And you’re doing better than you think.