The Flavor of Loneliness No One Talks About

How Self-Discovery Can Leave You Hungry for Belonging

[Hi humans! If you want to listen to me read this post, you can listen to the voiceover.]

Friday night, I built a bench. It came out great. I was proud and excited to tuck it along a frequently traveled path in the nearby woods—my way of noticing the opportunities and possibilities that lay in my own backyard and community. I also hoped that something novel appearing in the landscape might give someone else a reason to pause—or, better yet, to sit down and be with nature for a moment.

I am able to entertain myself, getting lost in a story, making myself laugh. This played out as I lugged the bench down the street in the dark, perched on top of a wagon. I dubbed myself the Leslie Knope of the neighborhood, created a new Parks and Recreation Department in my head, and playfully started drafting community guidelines. As I picked up a discarded can of Reddi-wip off the ground, I silently declared: Rule #1—No whippets, only weed. Alone in the dark, I laughed hysterically.

This is who I am when I’m at my best—creative, imaginative, quirky, lighthearted, and a little cerebral. Intentionally creating space at the end of a hard week for these qualities is an example of how I’ve learned to take care of myself. I sent a few enthusiastic live updates to some friends, which were met with amusement and encouragement. Then, I meandered home and parked my little black wagon in the shed.

As I crossed the threshold of my back door and ripped off my headlamp, it happened—my body tensed, my vision blurred, a sense of disconnection crept in, and my thoughts darkened. These sensations have been frequent visitors this past month, so I was more frustrated than scared when they arrived.

It had been a good day, I thought. I took care of myself amazingly. What’s this about?

I must’ve overdone it, I guessed. Maybe all my activity had drained the minimal capacity I had been operating with. But because I had taken care of myself that day, I was able to take one more second to get curious before accepting my first verdict.

I’m not done yet.

The thought popped into my head.

I wasn’t done being excited about my little project. I wanted to keep sharing my fantasy world and keep my little bit going. I wanted to keep talking. But my friends had already responded to my texts, and I had just stepped into an empty house.

I’m lonely.

And just like things do when they are acknowledged and greeted by name—my body softened, my vision cleared, my thoughts lightened.

I thought back to the session with my therapist the day before.

“What are you missing?” she had asked, in a way that made me unsure whether she already knew the answer and was teeing me up or if she, too, was genuinely perplexed after I shared about my shitty week—despite my best efforts to help myself.

“I mean, I guess… connection and physical touch?” I responded, a little unsure.

As I kicked off my boots, I could feel the jigsaw pieces clicking together in my brain. Then, before shame could dig her heels in, I grabbed my phone and sent a quick voice memo of my insights to a friend. I enjoyed a frozen pizza, and my lonely ass slept like a baby.

There’s a part of me that is hesitant about broadcasting my declaration of loneliness to the world because the last thing I want is pity. I imagine people looking at me and thinking, Oh, that poor girl, she lives alone with just those three dogs, she’s dealt with so much loss, she must be lonely. She should get out more. I should drop her a note or reach out.

I am lonely, I could stand to get out a little more, but after digging deeper, this loneliness has a different flavor, and I think the flavor is a secret menu item we don’t talk about enough—one that can only be unlocked by acknowledging your own worthiness.

This flavor of loneliness isn’t about how much I get out or the quantity of the relationships in my life.

This secret menu item is all about intimacy and ease—qualities that aren’t built alone or overnight.

The relationships in my life have more potential than they ever have to allow me to bring my whole SELF to them. Not Maggie playing a role, not Maggie masked, but messy Maggie, brilliant Maggie, all of Maggie.

All of Maggie sometimes includes weighted blanket headgear.

The downside? Intimacy and ease take time, and because of circumstances out of my control, as well as a quest to live more wholly, I accidentally left myself starved for both.

Historically, intimacy has been a little elusive for me (for a long time, my own lack of self-worth got in the way); however, I had enough ease in my relationships that I wasn’t left malnourished.

[For the record, when I’m using the word intimacy, I’m referring to both physical & emotional intimacy, and I believe this can be achieved platonically, not just romantically.]

My parents at least offered ease. I never questioned whether picking up the phone to call them was too much or whether showing up at their house with something to yap about would be an interruption. How they reacted when I did these things was often painful and misattuned, but I was lucky in a way some don’t get: the bond between parent and child removed the fear that I would be completely abandoned or rejected. I always felt like there was room for me. And with that came a sense of safety. Then they died, eight months apart.

Teaching provided me with a community of people I saw daily and some great friendships. However, despite years of trying, the clarity that came with great loss revealed that the environment would not allow me to flourish—so I quit. Over time, distance grew—not in an intentional way, but in the way that happens once you stop playing inauthentic roles, and mutual points of connection dwindle.

Because I lack ease and physical proximity, every need now requires an ask—a phone call, a text, a conversation. I believe wholeheartedly in advocating for ourselves and asking for what we need, but some days, it feels artificial and exhausting. There are times I pause before reaching out because the long-held belief that I am too much starts screaming loudly. Showing up unannounced at a friend's—because they said I always could if needed—feels like the only way to prove to my nervous system and the part of me hurt by broken promises that this time is different. But doing so is its own challenge.

Deep connection requires two people willing to meet each other authentically—who are not only awake to their own worthiness, greatness, and darkness but also to that of others. This can be the painful part of acknowledging your own needs, emotional depth, and value—you also realize that finding others who can meet you in that space takes time and sometimes they can be a bit elusive. It also makes relationships that don’t offer that, or at least the possibility of it, feel unappealing because they require you to don masks and tone down authenticity.

However, this is why I don’t need pity.

This flavor of loneliness—this secret menu item—is one I worked hard to unlock, and in this moment, I have the faith that, in time, it will be fully satiated with abundance.

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