The Weight of Loneliness

Loneliness has been a constant companion in my life, though I’ve spent years pretending it wasn’t there. I hid it behind the noise of a demanding job and the role of a mother, but now, with no work and my son needing me less, the void feels exposed.

I’ve realized this isn’t a new feeling. It’s always been there, woven into the fabric of who I am. And when I look back, I see how much of my life has been shaped by two truths: the fear of abandonment that came with being adopted and the shame I felt growing up as someone who was physically different.

A Mask for Survival

For most of my life, I wore a mask. I became what I thought people wanted—an expert people-pleaser—because deep down, I believed that was the only way to be loved. As a child, I didn’t even know what I wanted for myself; I only knew that if I could mold myself to fit others’ expectations, I might belong.

I thought my adoption hadn’t affected me until I became a mother through adoption. Listening to other adoptees, I saw myself in their stories: the unshakable void, the fear of rejection, and the relentless need to be good enough to keep people close. Layered on top of that was the silent weight of my intersex identity—knowing I was different, though I didn’t yet have the words for it.

These twin shadows taught me to give and give, to sacrifice my own needs in exchange for scraps of connection. I believed that was all I deserved.

Repeating Patterns

When I was diagnosed with cancer, I broke up with my boyfriend of nine years. Not because I stopped loving him, but because I didn’t trust him to be there for me the way I needed. He proved me right. He visited the hospital once and let me go without a fight.

We stayed in touch. Well, I did. And over the years I reached out or we commented on each others’ socials. But when I reached out, at a particularly low point, I realized it was always me giving and him taking. and when he got what he needed, he faded away again.

In my marriage, it was no different. Deep loneliness inside a marriage is, unfortunately, not uncommon. I just tried harder, giving more and getting less. But after years of doing this, I stopped feeling like I deserved the decency of basic respect.

Eventually, I stopped trying, and it was then I saw the imbalance. It came to a head this year when my husband couldn’t even leave his gaming night when I broke my wrist and spent 15 hours in the ER with my frightened, exhausted son. He didn’t ask a single question when I faced a possible cancer diagnosis. His silence screamed louder than words: I wasn’t someone he’d show up for.

By this point, though, I was used to it. Looking back, it’s been a lifetime habit to give more than I received, clinging to relationships that only deepened the loneliness. I thought if I gave enough, loved enough, I could fill the void. But it never worked.

Naming the Void

Without the distractions of work or the constant demands of motherhood, the void is impossible to ignore. It’s sharp and heavy, and it asks questions I’ve spent years avoiding: Am I lovable? Do I matter to anyone in the way I long to?

I recently watched The Leftovers, maybe not the best watch when you’re in an existential crisis. At the end of the finale, I was left with two thoughts: I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who would search for me the way Kevin searched for Nora. Sigh. And more shockingly, I think I am like Patti, staying in bad situations because I didn’t believe I deserved better.

I’ve done a fair bit of therapy, so it’s no revelation that I’ve accepted less than I deserve, but seeing it played out in Patti’s backstory was the shock. (, my story is not like Patti’s, just the willingness to stay even when I was capable of leaving.)

I don’t have answers, but I’ve come to understand this: the loneliness I feel now is a reflection of the stories I’ve carried my whole life. Stories that told me love had to be earned, that I was only as worthy as what I could give.

Finding My Way Forward

This isn’t about fixing things or tying my story up neatly. It’s about sitting in the discomfort and not turning away, even when it feels unbearable. I don’t want to keep giving myself away to people who won’t see me.

I’ve been living with this discomfort for so long, and it keeps demanding answers, begging for a plan to make it all make sense. But I know that any answer from this place would just be survival, just another mask to wear.

I don’t want that. I want an answer that comes from somewhere wild and limitless, a place I haven’t even glimpsed yet. A place that respects every scar and shadow, that breathes something new into me. A place where shame can’t follow, where even the air feels different.

I’m not there yet. But maybe, just maybe, I can trust myself to find it. Not because I’ve figured it all out, but because I’m still here, breathing through the ache, waiting for something I can’t yet imagine.