Between 2010 and 2012, most of my close friends got married and slowly started moving to the US. I was still in India, watching my social circle shrink. Slowly, I started feeling a deep loneliness. It wasn’t just the absence of people; it was a heavy, unsettling silence that echoed inside me.

That loneliness didn’t feel like a quiet evening to rest. Instead, it created a voice inside me — a kind of invisible scare. I had sleepless nights and scary nights, but what exactly was I scared of? I couldn’t define it clearly.

Through my own reflection and reading, I understood that these were what psychologists sometimes call phantom threats. When our social support system breaks down, our brain starts scanning for danger, even if there isn’t any real external threat. It’s a leftover survival instinct from when being alone meant being vulnerable to wild animals or enemies. In modern life, this translates to vague fears, restlessness, or a feeling of being unsafe — even in the comfort of our own room.

Then, I got married. Suddenly, I had a partner, someone to share every small joy and every small fear with. That scary loneliness vanished. I didn’t feel that void anymore.

Fast forward to 2019–2025. Life had moved into another gear: kids, family commitments, work deadlines, responsibilities piling up. Ironically, there was no physical loneliness at all — I was constantly surrounded by people.

But deep inside, a new kind of loneliness crept in. This wasn’t the fear of being alone in an empty room; it was the exhaustion of never truly being alone with myself.

Every day felt like a marathon — waking up to attend to kids, squeezing in work calls, family discussions, endless errands. Even at night, when the world finally went quiet, my mind didn’t. It kept replaying unfinished tasks, small conflicts, worries about the kids, tomorrow’s to-do list.

I would close my eyes but feel half-awake, as if there was a hidden guard inside me who refused to let me fully rest. My dreams were crowded — sometimes about work, sometimes about family, sometimes random worries stitched together in confusing ways.

When I woke up, instead of feeling refreshed, I felt as if I had already lived an entire day in my mind. My body was stiff, my head heavy. It was like my brain never turned off, always on “alert mode,” scanning for the next responsibility.

There was no space for me. No silent cup of coffee alone. No lazy morning staring at the ceiling. No blank mental canvas. Just an endless wave of obligations crashing over me, one after another.

This was a loneliness that no one talks about — the loneliness inside a crowded life. You are surrounded by people, yet your inner self is starved for attention.

In June 2025, I moved to Chennai to focus on work, and for the first time in years, I got a lot of alone time. I was worried that the old fears would return, that those phantom threats would sneak back into my nights. But to my surprise, this loneliness felt completely different.

This time, it wasn’t scary. It was warm, healing. It felt like a solitude that I had long needed.

Now, instead of voices and scares, the silence felt like music. The quiet nights felt like gentle hugs from my own mind. I started enjoying small things again — watching the rain, making my own tea, sitting in silence without having to answer anyone.

I realized that this wasn’t loneliness; it was solitude — a conscious, chosen space to meet myself. It was no longer about being left out but about reconnecting inward.

Looking back, I realize loneliness and solitude are two sides of the same coin. One scares you when you don’t feel safe with yourself; the other heals you when you finally do.

As I write this today, I don’t feel the void I once did. Instead, I feel gratitude — for the noisy years, for the silent nights, and for the rare chance to meet my own mind in peace.