Welcoming Loneliness.

The last few months have been busy. The kind of busy that is mostly good—lots of life happening; people, plans, work, places to go, things to do. When I looked back over the months, I realized I had pretty well been in go-mode since May. Some things were exciting and worth pursuing, and some experiences pulled my nervous system away from peace and feeling grounded.

So as summer came to a close, I started feeling this very clear direction for the next month. My calendar appeared less full, and I felt excited about the anticipation of slowing down. I was craving it. I needed the next month to be different. Something in me was asking for less rushing, less doing, more space, and more quiet. When life is busy, it is surprisingly easy to let the outside world determine the shape of our days.

So I decided to listen. And as is often the case when I actually listen, resting taught me much more than I expected. And so I named a month for resting. 

Yet even with the intention in mind, the beginning of the month began to pile up. I launched a business, the next ideas for work came flooding in, and the to-do list of things I wanted to pursue never seemed to get smaller. And even though this came from an inspired state, I kept wondering, what happened to my month of rest?

Thankfully, empty weekends approached, and I was continually confronted with making space for the things that were my present priorities. I cancelled commitments I had made for the future. I made intentional time to re-engage with hobbies I had put aside. And each time I did, I noticed my mind asking —sometimes almost begging me — to get back to the tasks waiting on my list.

So I met myself halfway, and continued brainstorming about my next ventures, thinking about all the things I wanted to create, when I was confronted with the idea of rest again. This time it made me pause.

Do I have an inability to rest? What is driving this?

Perhaps my goals and interests were being driven by a need for success; worth. It’s possible. But it didn't feel entirely true for me at this time.

And then it landed.

And if you've participated in therapy before, you probably know the moment I'm talking about— the epiphany moment, the moment when something moves beyond an intellectual understanding and suddenly connects with the emotional or somatic experience you've been having.

And so it hit me: I have been avoiding rest because rest touches loneliness for me.

And once that landed in my chest, I felt it—and felt it hard.

Logically, I knew I wasn't alone. I know many people in my life want to be part of my space and share in my adventures. But in that moment, my body could not feel that emotionally. So I reached out.

And one of the most cherished people in my life said this to me:

“I think that’s a very natural human tendency.”

And just like that, the wind was gone from my sails.

I wasn't alone in this experience. And common humanity stopped me in my tracks, yet again.

So I stayed with it. I got curious.

Maybe I was struggling to rest because I am aware of how short our lives can be, and I feel vibrant in wanting to experience all that I love, have passion for, or am curious about. But perhaps I also avoid rest because it touches a tender part of me that I would rather not experience.

Maybe it's both, and. 

Maybe there is even more underneath it that I haven't uncovered yet.

A few years ago, loneliness taught me about connection. It guided me to reflect on independence and our connectedness to ourselves and others.

For a long time, I equated independence with not needing other people. If I was an introvert at heart, recharged during alone time, enjoyed doing things by myself, and could take care of myself, then surely loneliness would not be something I would experience, right?

But despite my independence, loneliness found a way to coexist.

I began to wonder whether loneliness might have less to do with our external circumstances and more to do with our internal relationship with ourselves. I wondered if, underneath what we experience as external loneliness, there might also be an experience of loneliness from the self.

We move through life looking for connection, reassurance, belonging, and someone who can make us feel understood. And sometimes, in that search, we miss the quieter invitation underneath it:

Come back to yourself.

We can become so focused on finding connection outside of ourselves that we miss the opportunity to know the person we are actually spending our entire life with. We interpret the discomfort of loneliness as a sign that we need someone else, when sometimes it is asking us to reconnect with ourselves.

Loneliness is not weakness.

Loneliness is information.  It is a feeling asking us to pay attention.

If loneliness can bring us inward, it allows us an opportunity to know ourselves more deeply—to learn to be at home within ourselves.

And perhaps this is what this period of rest was asking of me.

It asked me to pay attention to my “inability to rest” and the possibility that beneath all of my doing was an uncomfortable feeling I had been avoiding. It invited me to return to myself.

And that is exactly what rest is meant to do— to rejuvenate us. To give us clarity. To reconnect us with joy. To bring us back into relationship with ourselves, and with the things that matter to us.

What I've come to understand through this experience is that rest creates the space to listen to what our busy lives make difficult to hear. When life is full, it is easy to stay oriented toward the outside world. We respond to what needs to be done, what other people want, what we've committed to, what is next on the calendar. We keep moving.

And sometimes, we don't even realize how far we've moved away from ourselves.

Rest, and perhaps uncomfortable feelings, interrupt that.

Both allow us the opportunity to get clearer about our inner experiences:

What do I actually want?

What feels good to me?

What does my body need?

Where am I giving my energy, and what is giving back to me?

For me, rest brought up loneliness. For you, it might bring up something else. It might bump up against needs to perform and achieve. It might make us aware of things we have been too busy to notice.

When we slow down enough to hear ourselves, we may encounter things we have been too busy to notice. The task isn't necessarily to eliminate the uncomfortable things, but rather to become capable of staying with them.

But we can let these things exist. If we allow them to show up, sit with them, and accept them rather than immediately trying to change them, this is where the real value begins.

We become aware. We stay curious. We uncover. We process. We learn. We readjust. We move forward.

We create space to notice what gives us energy and what drains it. To become clearer about our wants, needs, and desires. To allow our passions to emerge more clearly and, perhaps, become more aligned with who we actually are.

This is the journey over and over again.

And perhaps this is what rest was trying to teach me all along.

Not that I needed to stop wanting things. Not that I needed to stop being ambitious, or curious, or excited about life. But that I also need to create enough space to hear myself in the process.

Because sometimes, underneath the doing, there is a quieter part of us asking to come home.

Keep listening,

Jen