That first summer after college, I moved to New York with nothing but a backpack and big dreams. I got off the subway on the Upper West Side and everything felt alive―cars honking, people rushing to brunch, neon signs flickering. But inside me, it was quiet. I rented a tiny apartment with just a desk, a chair, and an old laptop. At night, while the city buzzed below, I’d sit against cold walls and feel completely alone.
Loneliness isn’t just being by yourself. It’s feeling cut off even when you’re surrounded. I’d wander through Central Park at dusk, leaves crunching underfoot, kids laughing somewhere off in the distance. Their joy made me miss having someone to share my own thoughts with. I’d pop in my earbuds and play soft piano music just to drown out the empty space in my head.
Eventually, I realized I’d let work stress and new surroundings keep me from reaching out. I told myself I’d wait until things settled, but that “waiting” stretched on forever. One night, I stared out my window at a sea of apartment lights and thought: “All these people probably feel the same way sometimes.” That hit me hard.
So I started writing in a journal—just me and my pen, noting small wins and frustrations. I signed up for a painting class at a local community center and met some folks who loved art as much as I did. Weekends turned into museum visits and coffee hangs, swapping stories about why we picked up brushes in the first place. I even started smiling at strangers in the park; a simple “Hey” could lift the cloud of loneliness just a bit.
These days, I still feel lonely now and then, but it doesn’t feel like a trap anymore. It’s more like a nudge to notice what I’m missing—connection, understanding, a kind voice on the other end of a text. And little by little, I’ve found that sharing what’s on my mind is the first step to feeling less alone.
