Learning to Sit with My Loneliness

There was a time I used to fill every silence with noise. Music, chatter, background TV shows — anything to drown out the stillness. I told myself I hated quiet because it was boring, but the truth was more fragile: I was afraid of being alone.

Loneliness wasn’t just a passing emotion for me. It was a shadow that followed me through the brightest days. It didn’t shout or knock. It whispered. It hovered in my peripheral vision. And I tried everything not to look directly at it.

I grew up in a home that was always full — full of people, of arguments, of celebrations, of interruptions. Even in my room, I could hear footsteps outside the door, the clinking of dishes, someone calling someone else. There was rarely time to be alone, and even when I was, I never felt lonely. There was comfort in proximity.

But life has a way of quieting itself when you least expect it.

The shift came when I moved away for college. A new city, new faces, and a tiny apartment where the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator. At first, it was freedom. The kind of peace I thought I wanted. But by the third week, the silence began to crawl under my skin.

I would wake up and not speak a single word for hours. No one called. I didn’t know who to call. I would go to campus, sit in classes full of strangers, smile when necessary, nod when needed — then return home to the echo of my own breath.

That’s when I realized: loneliness isn’t about the absence of people. It’s the absence of connection.

I tried everything. I joined clubs, swiped through dating apps, said yes to every coffee invitation. But none of it filled the hollow. Small talk wore me out. I would come back from social outings feeling more disconnected than before.

One evening, I sat on my bed, phone in hand, resisting the urge to text someone — anyone. Instead, I did something strange. I put the phone down. I turned off the music. I turned off the lights. And I just sat there. In the dark. In the quiet.

At first, it felt unbearable. Like my skin was too tight. My thoughts raced. I questioned what I was doing. But somewhere between the unease and the silence, I began to notice something else.

My breathing.

The soft hum of my heartbeat.

The way the breeze moved the curtain ever so slightly.

I began to realize that the world doesn’t disappear when it gets quiet. It just softens.

So I made a habit of sitting with my loneliness.

Every evening, for a few minutes, I would light a candle and sit on the floor with nothing but myself. I didn’t meditate. I didn’t try to silence my thoughts. I just let them come. Like guests arriving at a dinner table. Some brought sadness. Others brought memories. Some brought pure nonsense. But I listened. And I stayed.

Something shifted.

I stopped seeing loneliness as a punishment and started seeing it as a practice.

Being alone wasn’t something to fix. It was something to understand.

I wrote more. I read more. I took walks without my phone. I began to notice the details around me — the lady with the silver braid who walked her poodle at 7AM, the bookstore owner who whistled jazz as he rearranged shelves, the way the sun made the sidewalks glow gold at 4PM.

I began to notice myself.

There was sadness, yes. Still moments where I wished someone would call just to ask how I was. But there was also strength. A quiet, unwavering strength in being able to sit with my own heart and not run from it.

Over time, that loneliness became less like a shadow and more like a companion. Not always welcome, but always honest.

I found that in moments of solitude, I could be the most authentic version of myself. Not the version curated for friends or filtered for social media — but the version who cried during movie trailers, who danced when cooking, who laughed at her own bad jokes.

Loneliness taught me how to be whole, even when no one else was watching.

It didn’t mean I stopped needing people. We’re wired for connection, and I still craved love, friendship, community. But I no longer needed them to feel valid. I didn’t feel incomplete without them.

In fact, learning to sit with my loneliness made me a better friend. A better partner. A better listener. Because I no longer showed up to others hoping they’d fix something in me. I showed up full, ready to share, not consume.

Now, years later, I still make time for silence. For sitting alone, not because I’m broken, but because I’ve found peace there.

If you’re afraid of being alone, I see you. I’ve been you. But I promise — the silence won’t break you. It might actually rebuild you.

Sit with it. Stay with it. Listen.

Sometimes the most important conversations we have are the ones we have with ourselves.