This morning, I awoke to the news that a friend had died yesterday. I do not know how she died or why. The truth is, we hadn’t been in touch much lately. As I try to do with all of my friends, I kept tabs on her on social media—checking out her beach photos with fondness and rejoicing that she had finally found a lasting love. Yet we hadn’t really spoken since 2022, when we were going through similar health issues and she reached out to me to make sure I was okay and to see if she could be a resource during my testing phase.
We met shortly after I moved back to North Carolina. She was a member of a church we attended on occasion, one at which L would preach when their pastor was away. For a time, we were both working for agencies that provided direct support to people with HIV/AIDS. Reeling from a difficult breakup, she spent a lot of time at our home—we shared meals, laughs, and stories. I would meet her for lunch sometimes, or we would simply call or text randomly. Our last photo together was taken ten years ago—the two of us in the basement of the Ronald McDonald House where we were wrapping Christmas gifts for families in residence.
Then, the pandemic happened, and most of us lost sight of each other. We sheltered in place and learned to thrive in isolation—baking bread, cooking from new recipes, knitting, doing puzzles, binge-watching The Tiger King. It became easier for us to cocoon, drawing our immediate families closer and neglecting our friends and acquaintances. In a UC Health article, Stephen Rush, MD, discusses the loneliness epidemic that has swelled since 2020. While I feel far from lonely, I absolutely do resonate with Rush’s claim that social isolation has become “integrated into people’s defense mechanisms,” and that it protects us from things that are scary and out of our control. It has “become a habit that is really hard to break.”
I so get this. Since 2020, I’ve found myself more and more content to stay home and practice avoidance behaviors. Having once tested as an off-the-chart extrovert on the Myers-Briggs scale, I now crave solitude—or at least the company of just my husband and my dog. It is enough to make sure we carve out quality time for our parents and our son.
We have the best intentions. I am constantly saying to people, “Oh, it’s been forever! Let’s make solid plans.” And then we don’t. “Let’s do lunch sometime!” And it never happens. “We miss you!” And we do, but those feelings rarely result in physical time together.
Dr. Susan J. Noonan, in a 2024 Psychiatric Times article, “The Benefits of Solitude,” espouses the importance of short-term alone time. Noonan says, “it is soothing and rejuvenating, allows time for self-reflection, and can be helpful when you are overwhelmed.” But when are we not overwhelmed these days? We are inundated with as-it-happens news of near-daily mass violence, overt -isms, the ever-increasing wealth gap, a political divisiveness in the US that truly has reached biblical proportions, and leaders who seem reticent to do their jobs in favor of infighting and protecting party over people. Personally, I am leaning into the inclination to stick my head in the sand and make it all go away. If you can’t see me, then it isn’t happening.
But this tendency toward solitude for self-protection can have dire consequences. We lose sight of those we love. Those we held, if only for a few years of our lives, dear. We forget that we are all in this together and that we can, and should, rely on one another to get through the dark days. We need to make those plans. Do lunch. Have friends over for dinner (we love to collage after Mexican food with another couple who just enjoys hanging out—no heavy conversation required!). Take a walk with friends. Meet for ice cream. Or call.
Because you might wake up one day and find out that it’s too late to send a text to say, “Hey buddy, I’m thinking of you. I hope you are okay. Let’s get together. How’s Thursday for lunch? I’ve missed you.”