The Loneliness No One Talks About — And Why Logging Off Won’t Fix It

We’re More “Connected” Than Ever—But No One Seems to Feel Seen. Why? And What Now?

Hi, all.

I am just returning from a mother-daughter outing to Savannah, GA with my daughter’s new school. It was an amazing time, full of jam-packed activities and new people in a new place.

There was a moment, at lunch, when Sophie and I were sitting with three teenagers we didn’t know. In true fashion, I went into “asking questions” mode—anything to avoid the awkward silence that comes from meeting new people. At one point, one of the kids started texting another kid at the table, and they began laughing back and forth.

Immediately, I saw the discomfort on Sophie’s face. And more shockingly, I felt the discomfort in my own body too. It took me right back to being a kid, when I would simply be myself and get made fun of for it.

I was utterly shocked to find that that little kid still existed inside me. Then I reminded myself that I was 43, not 13, and it is never my job to worry about what someone thinks of me… especially kids who are just trying to make their way too.

It did remind me of how hard childhood can be to navigate though, and that was before cell phones or social media or filters even existed. Back then, I got made fun of relentlessly—for my name (Diarrhea French Fry), for being a good student (I was salutatorian of my high school and valedictorian of my college, and I am DAMN proud of it!), for raising my hand too much (I loved learning), for being “a show-off” (people would ask me to do back handsprings at recess and then tell me I was a show off after).

I learned early not to trust kids too deeply. Not to let them all the way in.
Because they could turn on me. They could hurt me.

So, what did I do?

I learned to love myself the most. To boost my own confidence. To not “need” anyone too much. I sought out deep, one-on-one friendships and avoided groups or situations where I could be singled out.

But inside, I stayed watchful. Guarded. A little bit alone.

Now, as an adult living in a hyperconnected world, I often notice when that loneliness revs. While we are now surrounded by more people and community than ever before… we are also lonelier than we have ever been.

Why?

This year, the U.S. Surgeon General declared loneliness a public health crisis.
In Japan, they have a word for people who withdraw completely: hikikomori.
In the U.K., they literally appointed a Minister of Loneliness.

Though we appear connected, what we rarely admit—even to ourselves—is that in the dead of night, or even at the center of a crowded room, we sometimes still feel alone.

Not just because of our phones.
Not just because of the lingering effects of the pandemic (or childhood).
But because we’ve forgotten how to be truly, deeply reachable—to each other, and mostly to ourselves.

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Why logging off isn’t enough

People like me will tell you: Put down the phone for a while! Delete the apps! Take a screen-free walk!
And those things help, sure.
But they don’t get at the deeper wound—the part of us that just wants someone to be there with us and for us.

To bear witness to who we really are… not who we present ourselves to be.

True connection has always required something scarier than a DM:
Presence.
Slowness.
Witnessing.
Messiness.
Grief.
Silence.
Love that doesn’t depend on a reply, an emoji, or a quick platitude.

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What if loneliness is not a personal failing—but a cultural design flaw?

We’ve built lives that look full but feel empty.
We’ve confused visibility with intimacy.

And in that space between how close we seem and how distant we feel…
is where the loneliness lives.

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What now?

You don’t fix loneliness by becoming more likable.
And you certainly don’t fix it by growing your following.
You don’t even fix it by throwing your phone in a river.

You start where you are.
You sit with yourself.
You figure out how you actually feel.
You tell someone the truth.
You let someone tell you theirs.

One quiet encounter at a time, you remember:
You were never meant to walk this life alone.

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This week’s invitation:

Pick up the phone, schedule an in-person meeting, or write a letter to someone you’ve thought about but haven’t reached out to in a while—not because you need anything from them, but because you want to remind them (and yourself) that connection is still possible.

You don’t have to say the perfect thing.
You just have to say something real.

We can’t eliminate loneliness completely, but we can choose to stop pretending it isn’t there.
And in that choosing, we make a little more space for each other.

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If this resonates, please forward it to someone who needs to feel less alone this week.
If you want to share your own story of loneliness (or connection), hit reply.
I read every single email.

You don’t have to go it alone.
Not here. Not ever.

— Rea