"I'm lonely but I also want to be alone"

A common theme for my recently bereaved clients is an overwhelming ambivalence about being around others. They’re lonely but at the same time, they’re avoiding phone calls and visits from their well-meaning friends and family. They can’t bridge these two feelings of abject loneliness and also real resistance to being around other people; they’re stuck in ambivalence.

Ambivalence is uncomfortable. We’ve all been in that space and you just can’t stay there for long; it feels too bad. I have to borrow from the late, brilliant Stephen Sondheim here for an accurate description: “Sometimes I stand in the middle of the floor, not going left, not going right… am I losing my mind?” Ambivalence is like being paralyzed. How do you move out of it when you just feel stuck?

The answer, as usual, comes with more questions. Sometimes this conversation about being alone but being lonely but not being up for socializing but feeling isolated … leads to this: “which feels worse?” It can depend on the day! Sometimes answering the phone feels like climbing a mountain. Other days, the thought of spending another hour alone in a quiet house is the more daunting choice. Investigating our ambivalence is the ticket out of it. There is always a stronger pull in one direction or another if we allow ourselves to really sit with our feelings.

As with all parts of grieving, your mileage may vary. There will be days when being alone feels horrifying. On those days, use your energy reserve to reach out to someone. Likewise, there will be days when the mere thought of being with others feels exhausting. On those days, you have my permission to relish in your loneliness. Whichever choice you make, loneliness or connection, remember that it is just how you feel right now; it’s not permanent. You only have to get through the next day, the next hour, the next minute. The ambivalence of grief will ebb and flow, like all the other grief feelings. Give yourself the gift of waiting it out. Relief is coming; it may be beyond you right this second but any minute it will be within your grasp. Hang tight.

"The second year is harder" and other difficult truths about grief

I’ve written before about grief not having an end date. It’s a nebulous, unpredictable process. That’s because each of us experiences grief in different ways and on different timelines. That being said, we can expect certain periods to be universally hard during the bereavement process: the first birthday of your lost loved one, for instance, or the first holiday season. After a death (or a divorce or another kind of ending), there is a whole year of firsts to wade through. That first year can feel full of landmines—but also full of the comforts of reminiscing and tradition-keeping. There can be some sweetness in our loss, some celebrating of the birthday or the holiday, a heavy reliance on really marking the tough days. And there is a kind of relief in getting through that first long year.

Then the second year hits.

You would think the second year would be easier. And in some ways it is; time does heal, after all. But in other ways, the second year is a reminder of the finality of your loss. People prepare for that first year to be difficult but they aren’t necessarily prepared for the second year to hit so hard.

This sounds like bad news. But remember, your grieving process is not something to get over. Grief is a reminder of how deeply we loved someone; that love doesn’t just disappear. This holiday season, whether it’s your first or second or tenth with someone missing, don’t hide from your grief. Take some time to honor your losses—in big ways or small, whatever feels natural to you. And remember, you don’t have to do it alone.

Happiest holidays to you, even if they are a little tougher this year.