we're all a little bit starving

some of us for quiet. some of us for closeness. most of us for something we won’t admit.

Photo by @jartcokstudio via Pinterest.

I grew up in a house with eight people. A full table, a shared bathroom, a door that never stayed closed for long. The soundtrack of my childhood was constant motion—pots clanging in the kitchen, overlapping voices in the hallway, someone always needing something. Privacy was a myth. Stillness, a foreign language. Even when I wanted to be alone, I rarely was.

In college, the chaos simply scaled up. My university was massive, and my roommate count multiplied. There was always a hallway party, a group study session, a friend on my bed as I got dressed for class. I was never without a witness, even if just a passive one. It’s funny to think how deeply embedded I was in community, how that kind of closeness used to feel like air.

And then I joined the Peace Corps.

Suddenly, I had all the alone time in the world. My nights slowed to a hush, broken only by crickets, the occasional goat in the distance, and the soft tap of rain against a thatch roof. I remember staring at the ceiling some nights (and days), wondering if it was possible to dissolve into the silence. It was disorienting at first—this new rhythm. But over time, I learned to breathe with it. I stopped flinching at the stillness. I listened to my own thoughts, even the loud ones. I met parts of myself I had previously drowned in busyness.

Now, years later, I live alone by choice. I like the quiet. I make dinner with music playing low, talk to myself while folding laundry, go on solo walks without needing to explain where I’m going. If a friend stays over for more than three nights, I start to short-circuit. I’ve curated my home into a space of soft boundaries and personal ritual. I am, in many ways, the most grounded I’ve ever been.

And yet., there are moments where it feels like the loneliness sneaks up out of nowhere. Like the other night when I went to a bar alone with a book, something I’ve done countless times before. I was halfway through a chapter when I looked up and saw tables full of people—friends sharing fries, couples leaned in close, laughter spilling into the air. And all of a sudden, I didn’t feel charming or mysterious or self-possessed. I felt…out of place. Like a ghost at a party.

Here’s what I think people get wrong: they confuse solitude with immunity. As if being good at being alone means you never ache for someone else’s nearness. But I’ve found that the two can (and do) coexist. You can love your own company and still sometimes wish for another body on the couch. You can enjoy quiet and still crave the hum of someone else’s presence. You can be proud of your independence and still long to be chosen.

But I’ve known people, too, who keep their calendars so full they never have to sit still. They’re masters of the group chat, serial relationship-hoppers, brunch planners, back-to-back weekenders. And on the surface, it looks enviable—community, connection, a buzzing phone and a bustling life.

Sometimes I wonder if they ever actually rest. If they ever turn their phone off and sit in the quiet, without anyone else’s noise to drown out their own. Because I’ve seen what happens when they’re alone, even briefly—they spiral. Not because something’s wrong, but because they don’t know how to be in their own company.

Their loneliness is frantic. Mine is still. Theirs whispers, “Don't slow down.” Mine says, “Will anyone come find you?”

There’s this great irony: people who fear being alone often feel empty when surrounded, because they’re never truly seen. They’re performing connection. Just like people who’ve mastered being alone can feel invisible in rooms full of people because they’ve stopped expecting to be chosen.

And so we keep passing each other—one sprinting toward people, the other slipping into the background. Both aching. Both misunderstood. Both convinced the other has it easier.

Maybe the truth is that loneliness doesn’t belong to one kind of person. It’s not reserved for the solitary or the social, the introvert or the extrovert, the single or the partnered. It’s just part of being human. We all want to be known. We all want to be wanted.

Some of us try to outrun the ache with noise and motion. Some of us try to outgrow it with self-sufficiency. Neither is foolproof. Both leave us a little hungry.

So if you’re feeling it, whether in a crowd or in your quiet apartment, whether after a full weekend or in the middle of an empty one, just know: you’re not broken. You’re not alone in your loneliness.

You’re just someone with a heart that still wants. And that’s not something to be ashamed of. That’s something to honor.

xo,

liv

P.S. I don’t have all the answers. But I do know this: we’re all out here trying to figure it out—like some sort of emotional scavenger hunt. If you’ve ever felt like you’re one step away from either becoming a hermit or being the life of the party (and neither feels right), welcome to the club. We’re all just winging it.