The loneliness is so real, isn’t it? Everyone I know who is still taking Covid seriously is struggling right now. It doesn’t matter if you’re married, have children, or are single—the loneliness of our day-to-day lives is impacting all of us. One doesn’t have to be alone to experience loneliness (as many an unhappy wife can attest)—one just has to feel isolated, alienated, abandoned, or just perpetually bored. And I think, to some extent, it’s understandable for all of us to feel those things right now. (That said, single people, I am especially empathetic for you). 

Even before the pandemic, three in five American adults considered themselves lonely. Factors that contributed to this number explicitly included the changing nature of work—that people are working remotely, and that they have to be “always on.” Again, this index was released before the pandemic, which has only increased all of those things, not to mention robbed people of the ability to shut off their work brains and be together in person. It’s no wonder experts are calling loneliness the second epidemic. 

For me, part of the loneliness stems not from being unable to see other people in person, but rather, from not having other people see me. I was nine months pregnant this time last year, and it was impossible for me to go anywhere undetected. My big belly caused strangers to smile, offer their subway seats, and ask me rude questions, like if I was carrying twins. But now, aside from Zoom and video chats, the only people who see me are my husband and now almost 1-year-old, and like a scratch on a wall you hardly notice anymore, I am beginning to feel like I just blend into the background. 

This is where I am: Last week, I made a dermatology appointment and realized I was excited to be seen in person by someone who didn’t live in my house. I long to be awknowledged and examined by a total stranger. Heck, I’m even happy to see the inside of a different building. 

It doesn’t make it any easier to know that so many of us are struggling right now. The other day, I posted on Instagram about loneliness, and I expected a few heart emoji responses, but my DMs were filled with messages echoing my feelings. “It’s so hard and so bad, even if you’re not dealing with the worst of what could be happening,” wrote one friend. “It’s like every day is the same. A horrible-ass Groundhog Day,” wrote another. One friend even said “we’ll sew our jackets together when we can finally hang out.” The intention of these messages was to help me feel less alone, but at the same time, they just made me want to see these people even more. I hate that the people I love are sad. I hate that I can’t hug them and help them feel better. This is what that hurts the most, I think—that we can’t show up fully for the people we love. Our friendships may be stronger than ever before, but that’s why it’s so impossible to be apart.