I Have A Full Life. And Yet I Am So Lonely

The loneliest moments are not always those when we're alone.

By

Anonymous

 
Published September 18, 2026
Illustration of a lonely person standing in the center, surrounded by thought bubbles showing a beach vacation photograph, a letter and envelope, a basketball, a happy man reading at the beach and a happy couple
Megan Mulholland

The beach is my safe place.

You know when they (whoever “they” may be) tell you to “close your eyes and go to your happy place?” I always go to the beach. A Caribbean beach, to be exact. Soft white sand beneath my feet, warm, turquoise water in front of me, and all of my responsibilities and stress somewhere far out of reach. Yet there I sat on a shaded lounger in the Bahamas, feeling anything but peaceful. I felt disconnected, uneasy, sad, and what I can only describe as lonely.

It seemed almost impossible. I was in paradise with someone I love. The ocean I had imagined countless times was right in front of me. And still, I felt a heaviness I couldn’t shake. My boyfriend and I had escaped for a week, something we don’t get to do very often. I left my kids at home; they sent me on my way with kisses, hugs, and well-wishes. As my boyfriend talked to me about our plans for the evening, I struggled to concentrate. I wasn’t fully present. Part of my heart was thousands of miles away, thinking of my teenagers at home. I felt immense guilt for leaving them, and there was a pit in my stomach that I couldn’t shake.

“I miss the kids,” I told my boyfriend. “Maybe I shouldn’t have left them.”

“Didn’t you just talk to them?” he asked.

When I told him yes, and that they were happy and carefree, he responded, “So everything is fine. There is nothing to worry about.”

And he was right. Everything was fine. But that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t worry that was consuming me. It wasn’t fear that something bad had happened. It was something much harder to explain. It was a longing. A missing. A feeling of being pulled toward something I couldn’t reach. It was loneliness.

We picture loneliness as an empty house, a person dining alone in a restaurant, or a heartbroken widow. We act as if loneliness belongs to people who have no one. But what if that isn’t true? What if loneliness can exist in a crowded room? Or a home filled with laughter? Or right beside someone holding your hand? Maybe loneliness is not necessarily about the absence of people or love or laughter. Maybe it is about the absence of feeling fully seen, fully understood, or fully known. Maybe it is about somehow living a life that isn’t entirely true to your authentic self. Or maybe it is about a longing for more — despite all the love and family surrounding you.

That is what I was feeling on that beach.

For years, I have lived my life in separate spaces. My role as a mother exists in one world, and my romantic relationship exists in another. My kids know about my boyfriend, but they have chosen not to ask questions or meet him. I have respected that boundary. It has worked this way for years. But sometimes, living between two worlds is so damn lonely. Because there are parts of myself that never seem to exist in the same room.

When I am with my children, I feel the incredible love and connection of being their mother. When we are laughing together, watching movies, singing in the car, or simply sharing our everyday lives, I know how lucky I am. But there are moments, too, when the weight of responsibility falls entirely on me. When I have to make the decisions, solve the problems, pay the bills, and carry the invisible mental load of keeping everything moving; and in those moments, regardless of who is in the room with me, I feel completely and totally alone. And I long for a life where that isn’t the case.

Then there are moments with my boyfriend when I experience the comfort of partnership. The ease of having someone beside me. Someone to decide where we will eat or how we will spend the day. Someone to fall asleep next to at night. There is a beautiful freedom and comfort in not always having to carry everything alone. And yet, even in those moments, I often feel the pull of the life waiting for me at home, guilt for being away from my kids, or a keen awareness that my boyfriend doesn’t quite understand the emotional pain of this pull.

Twenty-four hours a day, I feel like I am missing someone. I am always being pulled in different directions. Always partially in one life and partially in another. And somewhere in between, I lose the feeling of being completely myself.

I feel alone when responsibilities fall solely on my shoulders. I feel alone when I sit down to pay the bills by myself, when unexpected expenses arise, when I have decisions to make that no one else can make for or with me. I feel alone when the people I love don’t fully understand the emotions I am carrying around. I feel alone when I keep these thoughts inside while presenting a life that, from the outside, looks full, happy, and complete.

Webster’s Dictionary defines loneliness as “being without company” or “sad from being alone.” But I think loneliness is far more complicated than that. Loneliness is standing in a room full of people you love and still feeling like you are the only one carrying the weight of your life. It is laughing at dinner while quietly missing someone who isn’t there. It is lying on a beach you have dreamed about, looking at the ocean you believed would bring you peace, and realizing that peace does not always travel with you.

The loneliest moments are not always the moments when we are alone. Sometimes they’re the ones when we are surrounded by love but long for more — the ones when we feel unseen or misunderstood, or just can’t fully be ourselves despite the love.

I'd like to say there's a lesson in all of this. Perhaps my loneliness is teaching me to live differently, to be brave and hand the weight of my life to the people who love me. Maybe it is. And maybe I will, indeed, learn. But right now, mostly what I feel is curious. I can't help but wonder what everyone else's loneliness looks like, because I'm fairly sure we (Webster's Dictionary included) have gotten it all wrong. Loneliness is universal. But guess what, girlfriends? We have each other to lean on. And for that, I am grateful.

Do any of you feel like the woman above? Do you sometimes feel very lonely? Let us know in the comments below.