The Loneliness of Wanting Someone

On loving my solitude, longing for companionship, and making peace with uncertainty.

I've been meaning to write. Life has been busy. Too busy at times.

Sometimes it gets so overwhelming that I forget to make time for the things I genuinely enjoy doing. Writing, for example. But I'm working on that going forward, especially since I pay a monthly subscription for this website. At the very least, I need to get my money's worth.

Now that I've gotten that admission off my chest, I should probably warn you that this piece is about to get very personal and vulnerable. Dare I say, emotional? (Some people seem to think I'm void of emotions, so I just want to put it out there that I do, in fact, feel.)

And lately, I've been feeling quite a lot.

Loneliness, mostly. Sometimes an overwhelming amount of it. You can throw in a dash of sadness, too, for a little razzle-dazzle.

I've been struggling to find the right words to describe the particular brand of loneliness I've been experiencing, primarily because it doesn't stem from a lack of love.

ScienceDirect describes loneliness as an unpleasant or distressing experience arising from a perceived deficiency in one's social relationships, particularly when there's a disparity between the relationships we have and the ones we desire.

And I suppose that last part is where things start to make sense.

Because I have love. Quite a lot of it, actually.

I have wonderful friends and family, and a very overbearing niece who has my whole heart (I hope my other nieces don't read this). I have people who check on me, celebrate my wins, listen to my complaints, and show up for me in ways that matter. I know that I am loved by the people who mean the most to me, and I love them just as fiercely.

But sometimes, after a particularly long day, I come home, close the door behind me, and it's just me.

And there's something about that silence that can feel incredibly loud.

Which is such an odd thing to admit because, on the flip side, there are days when I'm absolutely delighted that I have no one but myself to come home to. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, without having to consider another person's preferences, moods, or general existence. I can sit in silence, walk around half-naked, eat breakfast for dinner, or spend an entire evening doing absolutely nothing.

And I love that freedom.

Until I don't.

I don't think my feelings about this will ever be linear, and perhaps that's just part of being human. Two seemingly contradictory things can be true at once. I can love my solitude and still wish I had someone to interrupt it.

Companionship!

Yes! I think that's the word I've been searching for.

More specifically, emotional companionship. The kind that comes from having a person. Your person.

Someone with whom you share a connection that goes beyond the occasional conversation or planned outing. Someone who knows the mundane details of your life because they're part of it. Someone who doesn't need an invitation to show up because, in some way, you've already made space for each other.

I suppose what I'm experiencing is emotional loneliness, which refers to the absence of a close, meaningful emotional bond, often with a romantic partner.

Because even though I have this beautiful life filled with people who love me, I can't say that I have someone to share it with in the way that I want to.

And at this stage of my life, I'd very much like to have that.

I miss having that.

"But you hate men!" I can hear the crowd roar. Please. That's a story for another time.

Besides, hating men has never stopped me from enjoying lying in the arms of a decent one. I contain multitudes.

But alas, here I am.

"I am 27 years old, I've no money and no prospects. I'm already a burden to my parents. And I'm frightened."

A little Pride and Prejudice for the cultured among us. Although I'm not 27, and I'd like to think my prospects are slightly better.

Still, the sentiment resonates.

Because, quite frankly, this sucks.

I look around and see my peers, some happily in love, getting married, raising children, buying homes, travelling together, and generally building lives with their partners, and I find myself thinking, I'd really like that.

And not necessarily the grand gestures or elaborate declarations of love. Although, to be clear, I would absolutely appreciate those too. I'm not above a little romance.

It's the ordinary things I find myself longing for.

Someone to complain to about how horrible traffic was that morning. Someone to tell about the cutest toddler I saw heading to school in an oversized uniform, clutching an umbrella and wearing water boots. Someone to send a ridiculous meme to in the middle of the workday, or call when something wonderful happens, or lean against when the day has taken more out of me than I'd care to admit.

Someone to make plans with. Someone to do absolutely nothing with.

Someone who knows how I take my tea, remembers the little things I mention in passing, and notices when I'm quieter than usual.

Someone who chooses me, not just when it's convenient or exciting, but in the ordinary, unremarkable moments that make up most of our lives.

And, perhaps most importantly, someone I get to choose right back.

I don't think that's an unreasonable thing to want.

Yet sometimes, the longer you go without it, the more unreasonable it starts to feel.

Of course, whenever I express any variation of this sentiment, someone inevitably offers the timeless piece of wisdom:

"It'll happen when you least expect it."

Well, my God. I've been least expecting it for six years now. How much longer must I continue? Should I expect it even less? Is there a level of non-expectation I haven't unlocked yet?

And then there's my personal favourite:

"Maybe your standards are too high. You should lower them."

To which I say, ABSOLUTELY NOT.

As a matter of fact, I'm not even convinced my standards are high enough. If we're being entirely truthful, I'm probably on a discount right now and have been for quite some time.

Which, in hindsight, might explain a few things. But I digress.

I don't think wanting someone who is emotionally available, kind, thoughtful, consistent, and genuinely interested in building a life with me is asking for the impossible. Neither do I think wanting mutual attraction, intellectual stimulation, affection, shared values, and a healthy relationship is particularly outrageous.

I'm not asking for perfection. God knows I'm far from it.

I'm asking for compatibility, reciprocity, and a love that doesn't require me to constantly negotiate my own needs.

And surely, somewhere in this great big world, that exists.

Right?

There's also something about this time of year that makes the feeling particularly intense. The holiday season has always had a way of amplifying whatever loneliness I've managed to keep at bay throughout the year.

Perhaps it's the emphasis on togetherness. The family gatherings, the couples making plans, the matching pajamas, the Christmas dinners, the general sense that everyone is heading home to someone.

And then there's me, trying to decide what I'm going to eat for dinner and whether I have the energy to wash my hair.

I almost always feel this way around the holidays, and the feeling tends to intensify until I take a few days to visit my family. Being surrounded by them helps. The laughter, the noise, the familiar chaos of being around people who have known me my entire life.

It fills a gap.

But it doesn't necessarily address my current conundrum.

I have no man, and I would like one.

One who is mine and not anyone else's, just to make that abundantly clear. I don't do shared custody arrangements where romantic partners are concerned.

And before anyone mistakes this for a cry for help, let me be clear: it isn't. (have to capture this is bold before people start thinking that I'm available for just any ole thang)

I'm not desperate. Lonely, yes. Occasionally dramatic about it, absolutely. But desperate? No.

Because while I might be on discount, I will never be for sale.

I'm not going to convince myself to date someone I'm not attracted to simply because they're available. I'm not going to accept dates for the sake of saying I'm dating, or entertain connections that offer very little beyond temporary attention.

I've spent enough time learning about myself to know the difference between wanting companionship and needing validation.

I've done the work. I've been to therapy. I've reflected on my patterns, acknowledged my shortcomings, and made a conscious effort to become a healthier version of myself.

Am I emotionally stable? Most of the time. Let's not get carried away.

But I know myself well enough to recognise that this feeling isn't necessarily an indication that something is wrong with me.

Sometimes you can be perfectly content with who you are and still be unhappy with a particular aspect of your life.

And I think we need to make more room for that conversation.

There's an almost reflexive tendency to respond to single women expressing loneliness with reminders that they need to love themselves first, enjoy their own company, or stop looking for a relationship.

But what happens when you've already done those things?

What happens when you genuinely enjoy your own company, have meaningful friendships, pursue your interests, invest in yourself, and build a life you're proud of, but still want someone to share it with?

Why must the desire for romantic companionship automatically be interpreted as a deficiency in self-love?

I don't want a relationship because I believe my life is incomplete without one.

I want a relationship because I believe my life is worth sharing.

There's a difference.

And while I'm fully aware that the love of my life is unlikely to break into my home and propose to me (unfortunate, really, because that would save me a considerable amount of effort), I also recognise that there are things I could do to better position myself to meet someone.

For starters, I could probably leave my house for reasons other than work, groceries, and the occasional social obligation.

I could be more intentional about putting myself in environments where I'm likely to meet people with similar interests and values. I could be more open to conversations, introductions, and opportunities that might not ordinarily fall within my routine.

And perhaps I could make more room in my life for the very thing I keep saying I want.

Because that's another uncomfortable truth I've had to confront.

I've become so accustomed to doing everything on my own that I've built a life around not needing anyone.

And trust me, I have truly built a life around not needing anyone, because I would hate to be seen as an inconvenience.

So much so that when I had my last car accident (not my fault, by the way), I drove myself to the police station, then the doctor, then the insurance company, and eventually to work, just so I could have somewhere quiet to cry.

Because sometimes you really just need a good cry, and it makes sense to do that on the clock.

The interesting thing is that I didn't call anyone.

Not because there weren't people I could have called, but because I genuinely didn't think anyone would have made the time to come. And rather than put myself in a position to find out, my natural instinct kicked in. There were things that needed to be done, and I was going to get them sorted as quickly as possible.

The crying could come later.

And it did.

Looking back, I think that says quite a bit about how I've learned to navigate life. When something happens, my first instinct isn't necessarily to reach for someone. It's to figure out what needs to be done, do it, and deal with whatever I'm feeling afterwards.

I don't know whether that's something to be proud of or something I should be working on. Perhaps a little of both.

My routines are mine. My decisions are mine. My time is mine. And while there's something incredibly empowering about that independence, I sometimes wonder whether I've become a little too comfortable behind it.

Not because independence is a bad thing, but because companionship requires a certain degree of openness. A willingness to be inconvenienced, to compromise, to be seen, and to allow another person into the spaces you've grown accustomed to occupying alone.

And perhaps that's something I need to be more intentional about.

Not lowering my standards or abandoning my boundaries. Not making myself smaller or more palatable in the hope that someone will choose me. Just being open.

There's also another truth I've had to come to terms with, and it's that I might never meet that person.

And strangely enough, I've made a certain level of peace with that possibility.

Not in a dramatic, "I'll die alone surrounded by cats" sort of way. Although, knowing me, there would probably be books instead of cats. But in a very real, very practical sense, I've accepted that romantic love isn't something I'm guaranteed to experience again, regardless of how much I want it, how much work I've done on myself, or how deserving I believe I am of it.

And that's a difficult thing to reconcile.

We're often told that there's someone out there for everyone, that our person is coming, that everything happens in its own time. But the truth is, none of us actually knows that. Some people go through life without ever experiencing the kind of partnership they hoped for. And while I sincerely hope that won't be my story, I have to acknowledge that it could be.

Maybe my soulmate died yow.

But I think accepting that possibility has brought me a certain level of peace. I've stopped treating every passing year as evidence that I'm falling behind, and I'm certainly less inclined to force connections simply because I want a relationship.

At the same time, I wonder whether that peace has also helped to keep me in my shell.

Because somewhere between accepting that I might never find love and learning to be content on my own, I've become quite comfortable with the life I've created. Comfortable enough that I don't always feel compelled to venture beyond it.

It's safe here. Familiar. Predictable.

There's no rejection, no disappointment, no trying to decipher someone's intentions, and certainly no having to explain to a grown man why basic communication matters.

But there's also very little opportunity for something new to happen.

And again, I suppose that's where I have to challenge myself.

Because while I've accepted that I may never meet my person, I don't want to become so resigned to that possibility that I inadvertently help make it my reality.

I want to be at peace with the possibility of being alone without closing myself off to the possibility of being loved.

And I haven't quite figured out how to balance those two things yet.x

What I do know is that I still want to love someone.

I want to be thoughtful about another person's happiness. I want to learn their habits, celebrate their achievements, support them through difficult seasons, and build the kind of relationship where we both feel safe enough to be entirely ourselves.

I want to remember the little things that matter to them. To be excited about their good news. To have someone whose happiness feels, in some small way, connected to my own. To care about whether they've eaten, how their day went, and what's weighing on their mind.

I want the opportunity to show up for someone, too.

Because sometimes loneliness isn't just about the absence of someone loving you. It's also about having all this love to give, with no romantic relationship in which to place it.

And I think that's the part we don't talk about enough.

So, where does that leave me?

Well, for now, still single. Still occasionally lonely. Still rolling my eyes whenever someone tells me that love will find me when I least expect it.

But also trying to be a little more honest with myself about what I want and what I might need to do to make space for it.

I don't know when I'll meet someone. I don't know how it will happen, or whether the next person I date will be the person I eventually build a life with.

I also know that there's a possibility none of those things will happen.

Some days I'm hopeful. Other days I'm frustrated. And sometimes, I'm simply sad about it.

I'm allowing myself to feel all of those things without turning them into a referendum on my worth.

Because I can be grateful for the life I have and still long for the life I hope to build with someone.

I can be happy alone and still wish I weren't.

I can be independent, accomplished, loved, surrounded by wonderful people, and still experience loneliness.

None of those things cancels out the others.

And maybe that's all I really wanted to say.

I have a good life. One that I've worked hard to build and one that I am genuinely grateful for.

But sometimes, at the end of a long day, I wish there were someone waiting on the other side of the door.

Not because I need rescuing or because I'm incapable of being alone. But simply because, after spending so much of my life being my own person, I'd really like to be someone's person, too.

And if that never happens, I know I'll find ways to continue building a life that brings me joy. It might not look exactly how I'd imagined, and there may always be moments when I wish things were different, but I don't intend to spend the rest of my life waiting for someone to arrive before I allow myself to enjoy it.

I suppose the challenge now is learning how to remain open to love without making its arrival a condition of my happiness.

And until I figure that out, well...

Maybe I should just get a dog.