Reclaiming the Quiet: The Space Between Loneliness & Solitude

…it was more like $85,000 that she got scammed.
My breath caught in my throat. I thought I had misread the text. Eighty-five thousand dollars. Gone.
A few days prior, I had learned about my friend’s neighbor, who was scammed out of $40,000. The amount had now climbed to $85,000. It happened quickly. She had lost her husband of 50+ years the year prior, and through social media, a man (using the term loosely) befriended her, making her feel less lonely. He preyed on her vulnerable state, appearing kind and attentive. And to be honest, her husband had been a controlling manipulator, and after years of emotional abuse, she was starved for attention.
It sounded like a TV drama. One I had seen on Dr. Phil while waiting at the dealership for an oil change. At the time, I thought it was just for show, thinking how on earth could this happen. Watching those stories, never imagining that I would one day recognize the face of someone who lived it.  I had met this woman before—she is warm, generous, the kind of person who would give you the shirt off her back. And essentially, she did.
I started to put myself in her shoes, trying to imagine how alone she must have felt. How deep does loneliness have to go before someone clings to the first hand offered, no matter how deceptive? It wasn’t about the money, but the loneliness that made her so vulnerable. I understood the ache. I’ve known what it’s like to cling to crumbs of affection, just for the feeling of being wanted.
Loneliness can creep in like that, subtly, silently, convincing you that your existence doesn’t make a ripple. In hearing her story, I began to find myself drifting into darker corners of my mind, to a time when I felt very alone.

When Solitude Shifts
As children, solitude is a playground of imagination. I was an only child until I was almost 9. By that, I learned how to spend time alone. I think it is a first-born trait to learn to entertain yourself. I had no trouble when I was young just spending time in solitude enjoying my music, books, dollhouse and dreams. I believe that’s when my soul felt the most free. Those early moments of life when I believed anything in my imagination was possible. But somewhere along the way, solitude shifted from a world of possibility to perceived inadequacy. When did time alone stop feeling like an adventure and start feeling like failure?
As adults, being alone becomes a measure of our worth; are we loved, are we wanted, do we belong? We are taught that connection comes from external validation, our job title, our social circles, our relationship status. We strive to fit in, but sometimes, we still feel like outsiders in our own lives. Loneliness doesn’t always come from isolation; it can exist even in crowded rooms, among friends and in marriages. What must 50 years of loneliness in a marriage feel like? If she was equipped with the idea that she was whole even when alone, might it have been different? Was she isolated so much in her marriage that when she became a widow, she had no close relationships to lean on? That must feel like a thirst that can’t be quenched.
And as far-fetched as it might have seemed at first, the more I sat with her story, the more familiar it began to feel.
I’ve never been scammed for money, but I’ve absolutely craved that kind of attention. Even something as simple as a “good morning, beautiful” text? I understand why it matters. I’ve had moments—especially in the early days of being alone—where one kind word, one unexpected compliment, could crack me open.
It wasn’t about wanting someone in particular—it was about wanting to feel wanted. To feel seen. And when someone comes along offering exactly what you’ve been starving for, it’s easier than you think to overlook the red flags. Especially when you’ve been conditioned—by life, by relationships, by your own self-doubt—to believe you’re not enough on your own.
One little text, ‘Good morning, beautiful,’ and a chemical reaction is set off, the brain lighting up in ways that hadn’t happened in years. It’s not about the scam itself; it’s about the feeling of being noticed, desired, worthy. And for a moment, that feeling is worth everything.
Her story stayed with me—not just because of the loss, but because of what it revealed about our relationship to loneliness and attention. It made me reflect on my own journey into solitude and defining the difference of loneliness. 

Experiencing True Solitude
If we were to trace the typical timeline of a life, it might look something like this: we grow up in a family, maybe with siblings or a full house, then move through childhood surrounded by friends. We go off to college, often with roommates, then into our first jobs, building new circles. Maybe we find a partner, get married, have children. Our days are full—of people, of motion, of noise.
When I look at my own timeline, I realize there was never a season when I truly lived alone—until I was 49 and newly divorced. It was the first time the house was quiet in a way that felt unfamiliar. It wasn’t just the absence of others—it was the sudden presence of myself.
At first, the silence was deafening. There were no voices calling my name, no footsteps down the hall, no dinner conversations or background noise of everyday life. No one was waiting for me.  Just me. The walls felt like they were listening. And in that stillness, I began to hear things I hadn’t made space for in years, my own longings, my doubts, my dreams, and my grief.
This new solitude became a turning point. Not because I chose it—but because I chose to meet myself there. What I feared would be empty space became sacred ground.
So what if, instead of running from solitude, we lean into it, trusting that on the other side, we’d emerge wiser, clearer, and more whole? What if we are taught at an early age, that while we are hard wired for connection, we are complete and whole even if we are alone. What if we saw solitude is an invitation to something greater?
In every great story of transformation, solitude plays a role. Throughout history, solitude has not been seen as loneliness, but a necessary part of life's journey.  Jesus withdrew to the wilderness for 40 days, facing trials and temptations, emerging with renewed clarity of purpose. The Buddha left his royal life and wandered alone before finding enlightenment beneath the Bodhi tree. And others, such as, Moses, Marcus Aurelius, John Muir, Nietzsche, Thoreau and Emerson – viewed solitude not as loneliness, but as an essential path to wisdom, transformation, and creativity.
Similarly, I find that being alone isn’t about suffering—it’s about stripping away distractions so I can truly see myself. Solitude returns me to my faith, to what is essential. I’ve come to not just accept time alone, but to crave it. Whether it’s my quiet morning routine at home or a solo weekend surrounded by nature. Solitude is not an escape from life; it’s a return to myself.
But I want to be transparent: this isn't always easy. There are still moments when something catches me off guard—a happy couple walking by, a song, a memory—and I’m reminded that I’m alone. However, I’ve learned that those moments don’t define me., they’re just part of my human experience. What matters is how I return—again and again—to what grounds me.
Over time, I’ve come to treat solitude not as absence, but as presence. Not as punishment, but as pilgrimage. And in case you’re seeking this too, here’s what I’ve learned about creating a more nourishing relationship with solitude:

• Solitude doesn’t have to mean a silent retreat or a cabin in the woods (though it can!). It might just be a quiet cup of tea without your phone. Five minutes of stillness in the morning. A solo walk without a podcast.
• Start a ritual. I have a morning routine that anchors me every day. It includes prayer, meditation, reading and movement. It’s my way of tuning in before the world tunes me out.
• Time in nature has a way of settling the soul. I am in nature as much as possible. I plan regular getaways, even short ones, where I can hike, breathe, reflect. These times restore my spirit like nothing else. God speaks to me through nature.
• Writing helps me process what bubbles up in solitude. I don’t edit, I don’t judge. I just let the words come. Over time, I begin to hear my own voice more clearly. If writing is not your thing, start with just writing down your daily GJP – What brought you Gratitude? What brought you Joy? What brought you Peace?
• Solitude is a clarifier. It helps me notice what I’ve been carrying that isn’t mine to hold. It reveals what matters. What’s true. What needs to stay—and what needs to go.
• Loneliness, grief, fear—they all have something to teach us. Rather than push them away, I try to sit with them like wise teachers. This is a tough one. Welcome the hard feelings. Just don’t let them set up camp.

In many ways, solitude brought me back to that wide-open space of my childhood—where the imagination was endless, and I felt connected to something bigger than myself. I know that being alone is not the same as being unloved. I know I belong to something sacred—even when no one is waiting. And that… is how I reclaim the quiet.

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