I've forgotten much of my childhood, but I remember lunches in eighth grade clearly. A pack of us ate together, sprawling across sidewalks and tables, discussing manga and classes and life. We were the misfits, the kids with hard home lives that pooled together in that concrete wasteland to form our own community. I remember laughing a lot, but also the deep loneliness that gripped so many of us. Jokes mixed with self-deprecation, blurred into talk of suicide, and then something made us laugh again.
For so many years, I wondered how even amidst the laughter, we all felt lonely. We were a community. We were friends. But we still felt deeply, achingly alone. Then, while listening to Unlocking Us with Brené Brown recently, I finally found an answer.
As Brené talked to Dr. Vivek Murthy, he mentioned three types of loneliness:
Lack of intimate, close connections, like best friends or partners or family you can be yourself fully with.
Lack of friendships, the people you spend your time with and feel connected to.
Lack of community, a bigger group and purpose you feel a part of.
Crucially, he pointed out that it's still possible to feel lonely, even if you only have one of those types of loneliness, and even in moments that are also ones of great joy.
I thought back on those lunchtime sprawls. We were a community, we were friends, but most of us were too afraid to trust each other, or lacked models of healthy vulnerability, and couldn't become truly close. I remember reaching out again and again to lackluster or lacking reciprocity outside of the space of lunch hours. I had friends. I had community. But my life lacked closeness, as so many of ours did.
Still, looking back, those lunch gatherings hold a sacred space in my heart despite it all. We built our own joy amidst loneliness and pain, and even if things still hurt while we laughed, we laughed amidst tragedy. And we laughed together.
