How to Eradicate the Loneliness Epidemic

How befriending an elderly neighbor, attending a book talk, and starting a Substack give me hope

We moved from Sunnyside, Queens, New York City, into our neighborhood in Asheville, North Carolina, in March of 2021, a full year after our world was turned upside-down by COVID and by parenthood.

My first-born had her first birthday party in this small, old home of ours the following month, and I vividly remember waving to our elderly neighbor from our front porch as we took pictures in the pouring rain during what was a most monumental occasion. It was the first time that both sides of our families got to spend significant time together, “post-COVID,” with our greatest joy: our first-born.

My oldest daughter’s first birthday present from the heavens, April 2021

Within a few weeks time, our neighborly street conversations turned into porch conversations, as we began to trust one another and felt safe enough to shorten our physical distance. By socializing “in-person,” I sensed that we were all feeling desperate to catch up on lost time.

“Mr. Lindsey,” as my girls so lovingly called him, quickly became a great-grandfather-figure to them and a grandfather-figure to my husband and I, two individuals in their mid-30s who had no living grandparents.

His sharp wit and bright smile made us feel like we were home again. And after living in new-parent survival-mode for nearly a year in stark isolation and crippling anxiety, our family finally began to see the sprouts of community, of a sense of belonging, of place, once again.

A month after my oldest daughter’s first birthday celebration, I found myself pregnant with our second child. Although unplanned, we were over-the-moon happy and excited to meet our second child who would surely become our second joy.

Mr. Lindsey was there, “reading” our developing family story from his son’s porch as our unit grew from three to four. Our pride and joy were palpable, and he relished in it with us as an outsider-turned-friend, grieving widower, and survivor of the unprecedented “COVID times.”

Every evening around 5:30, Lindsey would sit out on his front porch, drinking Scotch on-the-rocks and eating his favorite snack: whole-wheat sesame sticks. My daughters conned their way into “sharing” his snack of which they fell in love with (to Mr. Lindsey’s delight). They would chomp and giggle with glee in response to his uninhibited laughter, believing that they were getting away with something. But, instead, they were giving away something: medicine for an old man’s loneliness. It was a welcomed, joyful interaction—maybe even a necessary one. 

In between his chats with the girls, he would recount the most fascinating stories of his past: growing up in New York City in the 1930s and 1940s, serving in WWII, traveling the Eastern Hemisphere as a Foreign Service officer, interacting with notable governors and presidents, and retiring in Santa Fe, New Mexico, with his late wife, Berry, where he enjoyed photography and nature for many, many years.

The small yet remarkable moments shared between myself, Mr. Lindsey, and my girls warmed this lonely heart of mine and theirs, too. Becoming a mother when the world “closed”–both literally and figuratively—wasn’t the experience that I could have ever predicted or imagined, and yet, I did.

“Mr. Lindsey’s porch-sittin’ sessions” alchemized into a source of joy, healing, and love that benefitted all parties, despite the gaps in age. I will always remember fondly and cherish those impromptu lovefests that miraculously occurred in a world that didn’t feel very loving at the time, coming off the tail-end of a global pandemic and a political and social firestorm.

***

Last month, I attended a book talk for Jeanette Wall’s new novel, Hang the Moon. I was by far one of the youngest members of the audience and wondered why that was as I sat in anticipation of her talk. The Glass Castle was one of the first books I’d ever read where I felt like someone was speaking my language of origin. Thus, I’ve always felt a closeness to Walls as an author. She is more than just a writer to me; she’s a survivor of the same category of catastrophe that I also survived.

Walls gave the audience a generous hour of her time, gifting us a steam-train run-through of Hang the Moon’s origin story, her reasoning for moving towards fiction and away from nonfiction, of frequently-asked questions about her New York Times’ bestseller The Glass Castle, and of why storytelling is of utmost importance for our society’s survival. 

Walls’ lightning-speed chatter electrified the room and struck us all in such a way that left us feeling closer to one another in her wake—an unexpected but well-received by-product of her word-storm. This fragile-appearing, middle-aged woman, who experienced enormous pain and suffering throughout her upbringing stood before us: tall, strong, and so sure of herself with an unalloyed smile plastered on her face. She was a stalwart truth-teller, and I ate from her table of truth. Shoot, I gorged and left feeling satisfied and inspired to continue the work, despite my fears and hesitations, that I feel so called to do, which is this.

Towards the end of her talk, she implored us to tell our own stories—no matter how painful they were or how alienating they may seem—because storytelling helps us to better understand one another. Stories yield empathy. And in today’s world, filled with malice and strife, empathy is now a requirement. We must be there for one another because we need one another in order to survive this doomful world.

She closed her talk with a quote from the protagonist of her new book, Sallie, (and I’m paraphrasing here): It takes complete darkness for us to really see the stars. In other words, in order for us to really capture and see and appreciate the beauty of life, we must endure dark days. These words validated this nebulous feeling I’d been having since weaning my second daughter and beginning to dream again in this new body and new mind of mine.

I have, and I would argue every human being has lived or will live through dark days in their lives. But, in this new chapter of my life as a mother, I’m realizing that there is balance that occurs in the fold, allowing plenty of room for “light” days—the days that you just want to soak up, savor, and just be “in” for as long as you can. The joy, wonder, and bliss experienced with one’s children and partner are tragically fleeting, but they are absolutely wonderful.

After Walls signed my copy of The Glass Castle, she entertained my adrenaline-fueled, nerves-driven questions about memoir writing. And, I left thinking about the power of storytelling and how it is a form of letting others “in” and how if we could just keep telling our stories—sharing our traumas, our fears, our triumphs, our joys (written or spoken)—then maybe, just maybe, we could end this “loneliness epidemic” that we have found ourselves in.

“We all have a story” -Jeanette Walls

***

Since the COVID-19 quarantine in New York City, I’ve ruminated on the loneliness that our society has faced indoors, behind screens, in grief—alone. And also of my own personal experience with loneliness: becoming a new mom at the inception of a global pandemic in a physically and emotionally shut-down metropolis with no support from the outside.

Moreover, since becoming a mother, I have also experienced a new echelon of loneliness—one rooted in shame due to childhood trauma, insurmountable and complicated grief, and the comings-and-goings of depression and anxiety.

Presently, with the inundation of alarming news from all corners of the world, and even in our own backyards, the collective loneliness of our society has formed and plumed, leaving us feeling both polarized and paralyzed.

How do we recover? How do we find connection with one another—again?

I ask myself these questions at least once a week, and at least once a week, I am left feeling disheartened and diffident to some degree.

***

Last month, I read Amber Tamblyn’s Substack piece “How to Fight Back Against an Epidemic of Loneliness” and shared it with my best girlfriends from college, wherein I expressed my gratitude for their friendship and love for nearly twenty years.

They’re the “real ones” who have witnessed my own identity’s construction, fruition, deconstruction, and now, reconstruction.

Apparently, having friends is an “important predictor of happiness and life satisfaction,” as identified in a 2018 study conducted to answer the question, “How many hours does it take to make a friend?” Additionally, Jeffrey Hall, a communications professor at the University of Kansas, Hall found that: “on average, [it] takes about 50 hours of time with someone before you consider them a casual friend, 90 hours before you feel comfortable upgrading them to just “friend,” and around 200 hours of quality time before you’d consider the two of you to be close.” 

My college girlfriends have logged way beyond the 200 hours required to be considered “close friends,” but as I find myself in a new city, in a new body, and in a new identity, I have struggled to find friends, mostly due to both friend and foe: time. 

To fight loneliness and to find a place in our communities requires time, and time is something that, I presume, will always be a high commodity for all nuclear families, especially those with little ones like me. Trying to decide who to invest your time with often becomes a dizzying and defeating activity.

When is the appropriate time to be vulnerable? Immediately? After 50 hours? After 90 hours? After 200? 

(Sidebar to Brené Brown: I need more information than what’s included here!)

***

In early March, Erik and I attended a memorial service via Zoom for “Mr. Lindsey,” who passed away peacefully in his son’s home, just across the street from us, on January 9, 2024. He was 97.

I joined the call as the photo slideshow started because of course my daughters were hangry and required yet another snack right as the call began. 

Second sidebar: The amount of food an almost four-years-old and two-years-old inhales will never not astound me. 

My camera was off and my earbuds were in, and although I was a bit embarrassed by my tardy entry, those feelings quickly dissipated as I was immediately struck by the beauty of the long, adventurous, and well-lived life of this man, whom I had only known in his final three years of life.

The old photos carouseled across my screen and gave a ten-minute glimpse into the many milestones and accomplishments of Lindsey’s life: his childhood, his service at the end of WWII, his attendance at Deep Springs College on full-scholarship, his service in the Navy, his studies in Chinese history at Cornell University, and his career in the Foreign Service where he served our country for many years in various locations of Asia. 

During his memorial service, many of his close friends and family spoke very highly of him and remembered his signature traits: his hospitality, his generosity, his sense of humor, his kindness, his willingness to listen to all opinions on various issues (no matter their political affiliation), his love for nature and his family, and his genuine interest in other people’s lives.

Their testimonies were so poignant and genuine. It was a beautiful sight to behold.

The fact that I had been included in this small group of lovely people—that I had been “let in”—was overwhelming, and my tears served as proof of my overwhelm. How special it was to be let “in” to such a healthy, respectful, and intimate ceremony. 

The experience was foreign as someone who grew up in an unhealthy, dysfunctional, and lonely home. I sat there on the call in heavy grief—not only for the loss of a dear friend but also for the loss of a “normal” childhood.

This arresting display of being let “in” reminded me of Lindsey’s final voicemail I’d received around the holidays. His voice was shaky and muffled by small, suppressed coughs from the beginning of his message, and as he spoke, his coughs built and escaped into much larger, forceful ones right before he ended the call—an audible exhibit of his battle with bronchitis and age.

His message was this: “Hi…this is Lindsey calling, and I just wanted to say that the Christmas card you folks made this year was perhaps the handsomest one I have ever seen—certainly in a long time. I just wanted to compliment you on it. That’s all.” 

I will miss him and his ability to “see” us and the ease in which he let us “in.” 

***

After publishing this personal essay on Substack, I decided to share it with both new and old friends via text messaging in addition to my Instagram accounts. And although I felt totally awkward and weird about it, many of the recipients responded with such gracious and kind messages and thanked me for letting them “in” to this part of me. This part of me that I have concealed for years because I knew that by sharing my little brother’s story that that would mean that what happened really happened, and I couldn’t handle reliving the horror, the tragedy, the pain, and/or the grief.

I mean what nut-job voluntarily puts themselves back in the fire? 

Their messages were a dopamine hit that lasted for days and days. Unlike the dopamine taps from a “liked” photo on Instagram, their outpouring of love and encouragement was like a slow, warming simmer that I felt to my core. 

And so, it’s through this vulnerable sharing, this telling of our stories, this act of letting others “in,” that I deduce is how we fight the “loneliness epidemic” and also how we can live a life that deserves fond remembrance and sincere celebration by the people we let “in” up until the bitter end.

Our society has gone through the inconceivable in recent years (COVID, Trump, Roe v. Wade, Black Lives Matter, mass shootings, foreign wars, genocide, etc.), and as a result, we have become a closed entity. Openness, or vulnerability, has become a relic of the past, and I’m ready to hail it back.

I encourage you, dear Reader, to explore the notion of being vulnerable—not only to those who are in your “inner circle,” but to those who are not: those with whom you interact with daily, those with whom you may not think you’d have any connection due to age, race, gender, socioeconomic status—whatever. You may be pleasantly surprised by the relationships that are born.

Without question, to live is to suffer. However, the questions that I’m most interested in answering are:

• How can I find joy in the little moments, in the big moments, and in the moments in between?

• How do we let others “in” to both the shiny and new parts of us AND the shattered and old pieces?

It’s going to take a lot of courage, a fair amount of being comfortable with the uncomfortable, and an abundance of faith, but I think we can do it.