leaning into lonely
Feel it. Hurt. Drink the wine, eat the guacamole in bed, listen to the song that hits you in the gut over and over again, cry, yell, stomp the ground, and sit with it, because it’s real.
I’ve never known a life outside of my introverted, loner tendencies. Eating a meal alone, hunkering down for days on end, solo-road trips—I can do it all. However, I’ve recently become intimately familiar with the soul-crushing loneliness that accompanies singlehood.
I find myself craving affection, desperately desiring the closeness of another human. Not romantic dinner dates. Not sex. Not flirty text messages. Not someone to share my bottle of wine with. But the unspoken, inexplicable feeling of comfort that comes from snuggling close to someone on the couch. The flutter in your belly when someone touches your shoulder as they slip past you in the kitchen. The little moments that you don’t realize make your blood rush as you occupy the same space as another person who desires to occupy that same space with you.
This feeling of closeness is so overlooked when it’s there, and when it’s gone, it’s easy to feel like there’s no possible way to combat the hurt that comes with the want to have it back.
Today all I can tell you is that the feeling is uncomfortable, painful, and hair-ripping frustrating, and maybe the best way to solve it, is to not. Instead of seeking the solution, lean into the lonely. Feel it. Hurt. Drink the wine, eat the guacamole in bed, listen to the song that hits you in the gut over and over again, cry, yell, stomp the ground, and sit with it, because it’s real. It’s so freaking real.
What good does trying to fight it bring to you? How does pretending your body doesn’t ache make the ache go away? It doesn’t.
If you are here with me, know first, that you are not alone, and second, that you are allowed to feel this way. You have permission to be uncomfortable. This is where you are right now, and it’s where you’re supposed to be—not because you don’t deserve to feel the things you desire, but because it’s not time yet.
Just as we open ourselves up to all the fantastic possibilities that life has for us in work, in love, at home, at play, we must open ourselves to all the possibilities to grow. Glennon says that pain is not a hot potato that we pass off as quickly as it is handed to us. Instead it is a traveling professor that knocks on our door. We must ask him to come inside, sit at our table, occupy our heads and hearts, and not allow him to walk out that door until we’ve learned what we need to learn.
I can’t take away the hurt, and you can’t will it away. What I can tell you is this:
You will not feel this way forever. Everything is temporary.
The dark exists to help us be braver, stronger, bolder, and smarter—not to torment us in these quiet moments with ourselves.
There’s a better version of you on the other side of this. I promise.
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