The Crushing Kind of Loneliness
Loneliness comes in different flavors. You can feel lonely situationally — when you're physically alone, when no one shares your views, when your “next best idea” gets blank stares.
But there's a different kind of loneliness. A more insidious kind. The kind that comes from being fundamentally unseen.
This loneliness is chronic and pervasive. It builds over time, slowly and silently. Especially for people like me (and maybe you, if you found this) who had to mask in our own homes, navigating trauma dressed up in silence, secrets, and smiles.
It hits you in the gut and knocks the wind out of you. It can’t be cured by a friend or a partner — you can be in a room full of people who love you and still feel completely alone. Because it’s not about proximity. It’s about being witnessed.
It’s the loneliness of having a voice no one ever heard — not because you weren’t speaking, but because no one knew how (or wanted) to listen. It’s the ache of having layers no one sees, needs no one understands, and a whole inner world that’s never been mirrored back.
It’s the death by a thousand cuts. A comment here. A silence there. A need ignored. A truth dismissed. Until one day you realize you’re bleeding out, and no one even noticed.
I’m noticing now.
I see it everywhere:
In the way I say “it’s okay” when it’s anything but.
In the way I say “I’m fine” when I’m dying inside.
In the way I anticipate my own dismissal before anyone else even has the chance.
I swallowed my feelings for so long I forgot they were mine. Eventually, I stopped sharing at all. Eventually, I made myself so small I became the architect of my own unwitnessing. Not because I wanted to disappear — but because disappearing was safer than being unseen again.
This blog is my response to that kind of loneliness. It’s a map. A mirror. A witness.
I'm not writing this because I have it figured out. I'm writing this because it's the first time I'm saying it out loud. And that makes it real.
If you found this, you're not alone — not anymore. Even naming the ache is an act of resistance. This isn’t the end of your story. It’s the beginning of reclaiming your voice.
