I have everything I was supposed to want. So why am I still lonely?

I have everything I once believed would make life feel whole: a loving family, dependable friends, financial stability, my own apartment, and a car that starts every morning. My closets hold more clothes and shoes than I need. The fridge is full. These are blessings countless people can only dream of.

And yet, I am lonely.

Nationwide, that loneliness is not unusual. A CDC survey from 2022 showed nearly 40% of adults experience moderate to severe loneliness. Proof that material comfort doesn't guarantee emotional connection. Knowing this doesn't ease the ache; it simply reminds me that this quiet emptiness has company.

I see single parents working double shifts to provide for their children. I see people my age struggling to pay bills, afford rent, or even put food on the table. On the news, I witness children in Gaza facing unimaginable hardship. My daily comforts feel almost embarrassing in the face of such suffering. Compared to them, my life is easy.

But ease does not protect me from feeling hollow.

It isn't clinical depression. It's not exactly sadness either. It's a steady numbness, as though I'm separated from my own life by a sheet of glass. Each day repeats the last — wake, work, eat, sleep — while the question lingers: Why, with so much to be grateful for, do I feel so empty?

Some mornings, I lie in bed after waking, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of my refrigerator, and counting all the things I have. And still, I can't shake the ache. I distract myself by scrolling through social media, listening to music, and planning errands. But these minor distractions never reach the deeper part of me that longs for connection, for intimacy, for a life that feels full not just in material comfort, but in emotional presence.

Part of me wonders if the root of my loneliness is something I've been too afraid to face fully: my sexuality. I am a lesbian, though I don't feel the need to put that label on my life publicly. I'm not ashamed; it's more like I don't know how to step into the truth without feeling exposed, under a spotlight. I don't feel ready to come out because naming it feels like stepping into a reality I haven't yet learned how to hold.

And queer loneliness is not rare. In a study by the UCLA Williams Institute, 48% of LGBTQ adults scored as lonely — double the rate of non-LGBTQ adults. For transgender and nonbinary people, loneliness reached 62%. Knowing this doesn't necessarily soothe me, but it does remind me that queer isolation is not a personal flaw; it's a widespread, quiet ache in our community.

I recently had my first woman-loving-woman connection. A spark that felt like a possibility for the first time. But it was cut short. I struggled to let go of what could have been, haunted by the version of myself that almost got to feel seen, wanted, and understood. I still think about the version of myself that surfaced with her, and losing that "almost" hurt more than I expected.

Sometimes I suspect love is the missing piece. I've never been in love, and the thought lingers: am I not good enough, or has it just not arrived yet? I try to meet people — through dating apps, casual meetups, chance conversations — but connections rarely deepen. I make small talk. I smile. I ask questions. But when the conversation ends, I'm back in the quiet space with myself.

I'm not alone here either. Nationally, 42% of adults are unpartnered, according to a Pew Research Center survey, meaning they are not living with a spouse or romantic partner. That number both comforts and scares me. So many people walking through life alone. So many of us are wondering whether lasting love is real, or just a story we tell ourselves to feel less lonely.

I know part of the challenge lies within me. I am fiercely independent, almost hyper-vigilant about my own and everyone else's emotions. I can read a room in seconds, sense tension before it surfaces, and adjust my words and body language accordingly. I don't always like people, yet I love humanity. My soul longs for intimacy and understanding, for a bond that feels steady and true.

Most of my days are solitary. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner alone; groceries alone, a quiet couch at night, lights off alone. I tell myself I'll always be okay on my own, and I will. But there's a quiet frustration that simmers beneath the surface, a longing that no amount of independence or self-sufficiency can satisfy.

I remember one evening walking home with takeout, bags in both hands, the streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement. A couple laughed as they passed by, holding hands, sharing a joke. I smiled faintly, a little envious, a little sad. I don't even want their specific love, just the feeling behind it: the ease, warmth, and "we're in this together." Moments like that, small and fleeting, remind me of the human warmth I crave.

I can imagine it, I can see it, yet I cannot touch it.

I want beauty and calm. I want a life that feels soft, where love is not a distant possibility but a lived reality. I want a life that feels good in ordinary ways: shared dinners, quiet mornings, someone who notices when I fall silent. I don't need grand gestures. I want the small moments to feel richer because they're shared. This is my paradox.

Gratitude doesn't erase the hollow space where connection should be. I can build a beautiful life by myself, and I may already have. But my heart whispers that I'm not meant to walk the rest of this path alone. I dream of a future that blends independence with intimacy, self-sufficiency with partnership. I long for a love that doesn't diminish who I am but complements it, meeting my emotional depth with equal care and attentiveness.

Sometimes I write in a notebook late at night, tracing the edges of my thoughts with words that feel too heavy to speak aloud. I write about the ache, hope, and subtle ways loneliness creeps in, even when surrounded by comfort. Writing is a kind of companionship, a quiet witness to my life. Still, it's not the same as the warmth of someone else's presence.

I don't know when or how love will appear. It may arrive unexpectedly, in a quiet moment that makes all the waiting worthwhile. It may be slow and gradual, unfolding over years rather than days. I only know that I want it, and that quiet, persistent hope keeps me moving forward. And even in my solitude, I am learning that life, rich in small beauties and human connection of any kind, can still be meaningful.

I am learning that being alone does not have to be empty. It can be a space for reflection, for clarity, for preparing my heart for the depth of love I hope to experience. And so I wait, not passively, but with an open heart. Attentive to both the world around me and the desires within me, believing that one day, what I crave will find me — and that the paradox of abundance and loneliness may finally begin to resolve.

Madalyn Goff is a curious, observant writer who genuinely loves listening to other people’s stories.