The Author is Crying in the Target Parking Lot, Feeling Lonely and Disconnected from Her Past Self
I’m sitting in my van, parked outside the Target store, surrounded by the hum of quiet desperation. My two youngest daughters sleep in the back, oblivious to the turmoil brewing inside me. I’m not sure what’s more overwhelming – the exhaustion of being a mother, or the crushing loneliness of feeling disconnected from the person I used to be. As I sit here, staring blankly at the Target parking lot, I realize that I’m not alone in this feeling. The statistics are staggering: one in five adults in the United States reports feeling lonely, and this number is on the rise. But it’s not just a number; it’s a lived experience, one that can be both suffocating and isolating.
It started with the podcast. My favorite hosts, Michael Hobbes and Sarah Marshall, announced that they were breaking up their act. It was a sudden and unexpected move, one that left me feeling lost and disconnected from the community that had become my lifeline during the pandemic. The end of my weekly pelvic floor therapy sessions didn’t help either. I had grown to look forward to those hour-long sessions, not just for the physical therapy, but for the human connection and the sense of purpose it brought me. And then, there was the opening of “Barbie: Big City, Big Dreams.” As I watched the movie, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia for the carefree days of my youth, when I was young and full of hope and ambition.
But this meltdown, as it turns out, was not just about the podcast, my physical therapist, or a cartoon Barbie. It was about the indescribable distance I feel from the version of me that moved to the big city with big dreams of my own. The version of me who was full of life, full of laughter, and full of hope. The version of me who was not yet a mother, but still had a sense of purpose and direction. That version of me feels like a distant memory, a relic of a past life that I can barely recall.
As I sit in the Target parking lot, I pick up my phone and text a friend who knows me from a different time. “I think I’m losing my mind,” I type. And then delete. “I feel like I’m not a person anymore.” Type; delete. “Are you ever just massively lonely?” Type; delete. Type again. Sit with the load of this implicit confession. Send. My friend responds with a single message: “Every. Damn. Day.” In that moment, the lonely lifts a bit. This is it, I think. This is what I am lonely for – acknowledgement without judgment, no context needed. We have both been there. Two decades ago, we bonded over frozen margaritas and skinny cigarettes. We were young and wild, living life on our own terms. We were the kind of friends who would stay up all night, talking about our dreams and aspirations, and then stumble into the morning, bleary-eyed and exhausted.
But life moved on, and we grew up. We got married, had kids, and settled into our respective careers. We lost touch with that carefree, reckless, and wild version of ourselves. We lost touch with the people who knew us before we became the mothers, the wives, and the professionals. And we lost touch with the sense of purpose and direction that once drove us. We became isolated and disconnected, living lives that were full and privileged, but somehow, still empty.
But my friend remembers. She remembers the time we nearly got into a bar fight with members of the British Navy because we said they sounded like Shrek. She remembers the time we had coffee with Rider Strong at a cafe in the East Village, and he was wearing a leather jacket just like he did on “Boy Meets World.” She remembers the time I bought that lucky off-the-shoulder striped tunic for seven dollars at H&M and wore it absolutely everywhere. She remembers the time we stayed up all night, talking about our dreams and aspirations, and then stumbled into the morning, bleary-eyed and exhausted. She remembers me, the old me, and the new me, and everything I have been in between.
And in that moment, the lonely lifts a bit. I feel a sense of acknowledgement and connection with my friend, with myself, and with the person I used to be. I realize that I’m not alone in this feeling, and that it’s okay to feel lonely, even in the midst of a privileged life. I realize that it’s okay to acknowledge the invisible struggle, to admit that I’m not okay, and to ask for help. And I realize that it’s okay to remember the past, to hold onto the memories, and to learn from them.
The Weight of Loneliness
Loneliness is a complex and multifaceted issue that affects millions of people worldwide. It’s not just a feeling of isolation or disconnection; it’s a lived experience that can be both suffocating and isolating. According to a recent study, loneliness can have serious physical and mental health consequences, including increased stress levels, decreased immune function, and even premature mortality.
But loneliness is not just a personal issue; it’s also a societal one. We live in a world that values productivity and busyness, where people are encouraged to constantly be “on” and connected. We’re constantly bombarded with social media, emails, and messages, making it difficult to disconnect and relax. We’re expected to be constantly available, constantly responsive, and constantly connected. And when we’re not, we’re often labeled as lazy, unproductive, or unimportant.
But what about those of us who are already struggling with loneliness? What about those of us who feel disconnected and isolated, even in the midst of a privileged life? What about those of us who are desperate for acknowledgement and connection, without judgment or context?
The Power of Acknowledgement
My friend’s response to my text was more than just a sympathetic ear; it was a reminder that I’m not alone in this feeling. It was a reminder that loneliness is a universal experience, one that can affect anyone, regardless of their circumstances. It was a reminder that it’s okay to feel lonely, and that it’s okay to ask for help.
But acknowledgement is not just about feeling understood; it’s also about feeling seen. When we’re acknowledged, we feel like we matter, like we exist, and like we’re important. We feel like we’re not invisible, like we’re not alone, and like we’re not forgotten. We feel like we’re part of something bigger than ourselves, something that connects us to others and to the world around us.
And that’s exactly what I felt when my friend responded to my text. I felt seen, I felt heard, and I felt understood. I felt like I was part of something bigger than myself, something that connected me to my friend, to myself, and to the world around me.
The Journey to Connection
As I sit in the Target parking lot, surrounded by the hum of quiet desperation, I realize that I’m on a journey. I’m on a journey to acknowledge the invisible struggle, to admit that I’m not okay, and to ask for help. I’m on a journey to connect with others, to feel seen and heard, and to remember the past. I’m on a journey to reclaim my identity, to find my purpose, and to rediscover my passions.
And I’m not alone in this journey. I’m not alone in this feeling of loneliness and disconnection. I’m not alone in this search for connection and meaning. I’m part of a community, a community that’s struggling with the same issues, the same feelings, and the same doubts.
The Verdict
Loneliness is a complex and multifaceted issue that affects millions of people worldwide. It’s not just a feeling of isolation or disconnection; it’s a lived experience that can be both suffocating and isolating. But it’s also a universal experience, one that can affect anyone, regardless of their circumstances.
And it’s okay to feel lonely. It’s okay to acknowledge the invisible struggle, to admit that you’re not okay, and to ask for help. It’s okay to remember the past, to hold onto the memories, and to learn from them.
As I sit in the Target parking lot, surrounded by the hum of quiet desperation, I realize that I’m not alone. I’m part of a community, a community that’s struggling with the same issues, the same feelings, and the same doubts. And in that moment, the lonely lifts a bit.
