8.20 | What is loneliness, anyway?

One month in, I reflect on the highs and lows of spending time alone. Typed from the train back to London from Paris, with fingers swollen from a long weekend of gluttony.

I escaped London’s gloom for sweltering heat in Paris for a few days to take a break from work and feel summer with friends. I planned to send this week’s post early, for a change — but now here I am, typing away on a fully-booked Eurostar train back to London with minimal air conditioning.

Ran into the Eiffel Tower on the walk along the Seine back to our Airbnb from a dinner of filet au poivre and profiteroles one evening in Paris. Photo snapped by Lucy, a most incredible friend and major MVP for being the first to visit me in Europe.

Deadlines — of any kind — are both my friend and my enemy. In high school, I’d spend every minute possible with an exam, even if I finished it in fifteen minutes. I’d deliberate every answer, check my work — sometimes I’d literally take the test for a second time. Often, having too much time would backfire: I’d doubt my first choices and attack my Scantron with an eraser, substituting incorrect answers.

Once I declared my English major in college, exams turned to papers and essays. Finally, my overthinking mind was an asset: it helped me to analyze texts, draw connections between works of literature and build compelling arguments. But no matter what, I needed a deadline to actually put fingers to keyboard. I’d spend all day in a study hall the day a paper was due, staring at a blank Google Document ahead of an 11:59 p.m. deadline. I’d only start actually writing once the anxiety kicked into overdrive, sometimes only a few hours before the deadline.

Journalism has cured me of some of this procrastination. Unlike an essay, you can’t pull a reported story out of the back of your mind. Stories require time: days to hunt down a public record from a dusty corner of the internet, hours to track down an expert to help you understand the document, weeks to research the subject matter so you’re enough of an expert to talk to the expert, minutes to build a rapport so that said expert trusts you enough to actually talk to you.

But here on Substack, it’s just you and me. So it’s been hard to impose deadlines on myself. Knowing that there are a few people out there who actually enjoy reading this has helped. (I’m mostly talking about my mother’s friends, who I’m told are kvelling over this blog.)

My water bottle’s nearly empty. I’ve consumed so much sodium in the last few days —the salty, crackly skin on a delectable poulet rôti; bread smeared with thick layers of du beurre demi-sel; the best hand-cut pommes frites I’ve ever tasted; the most perfect croissant au beurre in all of Paris — that my thirst cannot be fully quenched, no matter how much water I guzzle. I’m also realizing my throat must be scratchy because of all the nonstop talking I’ve done, now that I’ve spent a few consecutive days with people I know and love. This is definitely the most time I’ve spent continuously chatting and laughing since I left New York. Combine the parched, sore throat with bottles of wine, minimal sleep, secondhand cigarette smoke, scorching temperatures — and, of course, staying in an Airbnb with no fan or AC — and you, too, would find yourself in my current state: hungover, sweaty, nauseous, exhausted but wired, unable to fit any rings on your swollen fingers. Only now will the words flow. Sigh.

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I’m lonely.

But I also love being alone.

I sent a voice memo to a friend last week while I was in Glasgow, updating her on my travels and feelings at this stage of the trip. She plucked out this bit:

A text from the ever-perceptive and supportive Arielle.

Opting for Vietnamese food instead of another classic pub dinner in Glasgow. Skipping all the religious art at the Kelvingrove Art Gallery to explore a small V&A exhibit on Mary Quant. Twice.

I chose to do these things because I felt like it, even if my desires clashed with recommendations of “should-see’s” and “must-eat’s.” I didn’t suppress what I wanted to accommodate others’ preferences, tastes or interests.

One of my many solo meals in the last month. Here I am awaiting dinner one night in Glasgow, Scotland. And yes — that is a wool sweater I’m wearing. In August.

Being on your own allows you to be completely and utterly selfish. It’s incredibly freeing. But the thrill of being alone can quickly morph into loneliness. And feeling lonely is the worst.

Yet, loneliness is just a feeling. Being alone is a condition. The two are not the same, but they’re inextricably linked. In one of his many genius songs, Isolation, John Lennon croons:

“People say we got it made
Don't they know we're so afraid? Isolation
We're afraid to be alone
Everybody got to have a home, isolation”

I think the possibility of loneliness — this “isolation” Lennon sings of — is why many people steer clear of spending time alone in the first place. It’s scary. But no matter how it may feel, loneliness is not a unique experience.

I recently subscribed to Lonely Robot Theme, a Substack dedicated entirely to exploring cultural representations of loneliness. I particularly enjoyed this line in a post from May: “Through our exploration, we seek to remind ourselves that loneliness is not a character flaw but a deeply human experience that requires empathy and understanding.”

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Sometimes, loneliness will make you do things that surprise you. It will force you to engage, to seize opportunities for company.

I recently treated myself to dinner at The Barbary Next Door before seeing the theatrical production of A Little Life at the Savoy Theatre. The tiny restaurant’s bar seats were clustered in twos, which made me immediately feel insecure: In a sea of pairs, I would be sitting alone. I was reminded of that grade school scenario where the teacher tells everyone to “grab a partner” to work on a group exercise, and you’re the odd one out. Anticipatory embarrassment washed over me. But then the hostess filled the seat next to me. For a few minutes, this guy and I purposely ignored each other. Then he struck up conversation.

At first, I was mildly annoyed. Believe it or not, I’m kind of an introvert. I wanted to read my book, not engage in meaningless small talk. But then my mouth started running away from my mind, asking him questions and telling him about my work until we’d finished our meals. My dinner companion was a software engineer from Mexico, who had decided to stay a few extra days in London after a vacation elsewhere in Europe with his girlfriend. After we each paid, we shook hands and went our separate ways. I instantly forgot his name. But after our conversation, my loneliness had completely retreated. I was shocked.

When I feel lonely, I will remember that the feeling can be remedied with the smallest of connections. Whether it’s an imperceptible nod of acknowledgement from a stranger on the street, small talk exchanged with a barista, or an unremarkable conversation with a stranger, human connection is the antidote to loneliness. I’ll also remind myself that, while a twinge of loneliness every now and then is inevitable when daring to be alone, the benefits of flying solo make it all worth it.

One day, years from now, when my life is different, and I’m trying to shake off my screaming children and throw together dinner, I’ll think back to this time in my life. I’m sure I’ll give anything for just one more day in a new place with no plan. One more solo meal at a bar. Just one more minute with no one to worry about but myself.

Love,

Chloe

P.S. How do you feel about spending time alone? What are your thoughts on loneliness? Leave a comment below. I’d love to know.