I feel the most lonely when I’m with other people.
Not all people. But the ones I have to minimize myself around. The ones that require a version of me that is quieter, smaller, more edited than what’s true. The ones where I find myself wearing something like a mask without ever consciously deciding to put it on.
That is where loneliness lives for me. Not in solitude. In the performance of connection.
Because real loneliness isn’t about being physically alone. It’s about being unseen. It’s the particular ache of being in a room full of people and feeling like not one of them is actually meeting you. Like the version of you that showed up tonight isn’t really you at all, and the real you is somewhere else entirely, waiting to come back out when it’s safe.
And for me, safe has always meant alone.
When I am by myself I can sing at the top of my lungs. I can dance without thinking about it. I can follow a thought all the way to its edges without worrying about whether it makes sense to anyone else. I can be completely, uncomplicatedly myself in a way that still surprises me with how good it feels.
That is not loneliness. That is freedom.
I didn’t always understand this. For a long time I absorbed the story that most of us are given — that being alone is something to fix. A symptom of something missing. A temporary condition to move through on the way to the real destination, which is always, apparently, other people. And so I treated solitude like a waiting room instead of a destination. Like something to tolerate rather than something to inhabit fully.
Healing changed that.
When you start to genuinely like yourself — and I mean really like yourself, not as a affirmation you repeat but as a felt experience in your body — something shifts in your relationship with solitude. You start to want your own company. You become curious about your own mind. You find yourself looking forward to the quiet not because you’re withdrawing from life but because that’s where some of the most interesting living happens.
Solitude becomes a form of self-inquiry. An ongoing, unhurried exploration of who you actually are when no one needs anything from you. What you think when you’re not performing thinking. What you feel when you’re not managing feeling. What brings you alive when there is no audience.
That exploration is some of the most meaningful work I’ve ever done. And it happens most naturally, most honestly, when I am alone.
There is so much space in solitude. Space for ideas to form slowly. Space for emotions to move through without being interrupted. Space for the quieter parts of yourself — the ones that can’t get a word in edgewise when life is loud — to finally speak.
We are not taught to value this. The cultural narrative around aloneness is almost entirely negative. We conflate it with isolation, with failure, with something that needs to be solved. But I want to offer a different story.
Being alone is not the problem.
Being with people who require you to disappear in order to belong — that is where the loneliness actually lives.
And when you heal enough to know the difference, solitude stops feeling like something is wrong and starts feeling like one of the greatest gifts you can give yourself.
The gift of your own honest company.
The gift of being exactly who you are with no adjustments required.
That is not lonely.
That is whole.
30 Seconds With Beth
Take a slow breath and get honest with yourself.
Ask: When do I feel most lonely — is it when I’m alone, or when I’m with certain people?
Then ask: When do I feel most like myself?
Notice where those two answers lead you.
Sometimes the most loving thing we can do is protect the time and space where we get to be completely, unapologetically ourselves.
That time is not selfish. It is essential.
About The Author
Beth Inglish is an artist, leader, and transformational speaker who creates spaces where people feel seen, supported, and invited to grow. Through her abstract paintings and keynote experiences, she helps people reconnect to themselves, regulate their nervous systems, and move forward with clarity and confidence. Her work blends creativity, emotional intelligence, and storytelling to create meaningful moments of reflection and change. Whether on stage or in the studio, Beth focuses on helping people feel grounded, aware, and empowered in their lives. Visit her online gallery to explore her work and learn more about the stories behind each piece.